The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2)

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I can’t remember what was between us earlier but the Z4 is now next door, being they’re the only two left.

  I laugh but I’m not surprised. Although he’s on a PA’s wage, he is, it turns out, the owner of the aforementioned Z4. And it’s barely a year old.

  On second viewing, I’m still a fan, although not a colour I would choose.

  “Urban green,” Nathan states, as if again reading my mind. “Not to everyone’s taste but I love it. Camouflages itself very well when I go for country jaunts.”

  Yes, I can imagine Nathan as a jaunting kind of person.

  My Swift looks quite large by comparison, albeit shorter. It’s technically a small car but one of the biggest, widest certainly, small cars on the market, or was in 2008. I fancy a Vauxhall Mokka and while that’s bigger, it’s only an inch wider. But that’s another story.

  We press our unlock buttons in unison and his sounds ‘exclusive’.

  “It’s been such fun, Donna,” Nathan says as he leans in to give me a peck on the cheek.

  “It really has. Thank you. I’m looking forward to next Monday already.”

  He tuts. “Don’t go wishing your time away.”

  He’s right. I’ve got another six days and however many hours, including two days with Duncan and some time with my mum. I hadn’t expected to be honoured with her presence for much of the duration and am all the more touched that Hazel had gone to the trouble of finding out and ensured I’m not lonely.

  I have a warm fuzzy feeling as Nathan and I part ways, and even the A41 is nice to me so I’m back in Tring in no time.

  Chapter 25 – Catching Up With Mum

  My mum’s smiling as I enter her hallway. I wait to be told her good news.

  “They loved it!” She claps and looks like me when I’ve had too much caffeine, which is very pre-Duncan Donna.

  “They loved…?”

  “The book!” Mum looks at me as if I’ve forgotten who she is, not where she’s been all afternoon and evening; with Aunt Jan and Uncle Pat, then book club. They like books, my aunt and uncle, but the club is really just my mum’s kind of thing. They’re more gardeners and historians. Monday mornings for Mum are a book and a bath… sometimes the same book she’s meeting about later in the day. ‘So it’s fresh in my mind,’ she says. Not that her mind is particularly ever stale.

  Most book clubs meet once a month so there’s plenty of time to read the whole thing but her group, of six at last count, mostly devour a book a day which makes once a week easy. Not that I imagine my mum being one of the ‘mostly’s because she’s always so busy doing other things. They therefore don’t pick massive tomes for their agreed choices, so those who don’t have so much time, can at least get the one done.

  “Tea?” she asks.

  “Mmm, please.”

  She flicks on the kettle which she normally only puts the exact amount of water into so she must have been (a) expecting me home and (b) expecting me to say yes. I am rather a creature of habit; never saying no to tea.

  “Have you eaten?” she asks.

  “I have. A really lovely Thai.”

  “Neck tie?”

  I stick out my tongue. “Thai, like Chinese but more flavoursome. No, that’s not fair, just different.”

  “Nice.”

  “You?”

  “Oh yes. Pat cooked us a lovely veggie pie before I went out.”

  “Nice.” My mum and I are like twins in lots of respects. She’s an inch and a bit taller – five feet four – but blonde too, although hers is a colourant, and bubbly. It’s lovely being ‘home’, my third home if mine’s technically first and Duncan’s second, but they’ve been reversed for this month. In theory I’m getting to spend more time with my mum than at my flat or Duncan’s house but most of that will be sleeping because she and I will probably be out most evenings.

  “So,” I continue as she puts our teas in front of us on the table, “remind me what you’re doing when.”

  She rolls her eyes, not in a rude way but as if to recall what she does actually do each day. “Book club Monday evening, as you know…”

  I had forgotten earlier.

  “Tuesday morning: Pilates. Can you get time off? Join me?”

  I shake my head. It’s not really my thing anyway. Should be as I am a health columnist after all.

  She shrugs and sighs. “Tuesday afternoon: the garden centre with Jan and Pat, so I’m home in the morning. Then in the evening it’s chess with Frankie then–”

  “Frank? You mean with his wife.”

  “Yes, Frankie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Frank’s wife is Francesca but everyone calls her Frankie.”

  “That’s not confusing at all.”

  My mum smiles again and continues. “Wednesday morning, your aunt and uncle and I go to Costa. It’s a shame you can’t join us. It’s really nice in there. Yes, there are babies squawking and children running around but they’re usually at the top end. And the babies are so cute…”

  Hint hint. It’s not like we’re not trying. “And in the afternoon?”

  “Home,” she says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and she couldn’t possibly be out doing something else like saving the planet for the WWF… or is that the wrestling organisation? That wouldn’t surprise me; she’s so fit these days. Fit as in… ew…

  “Wednesday evening is needlework. Guitar for beginners Thursday evenings, with Pilates again that morning, and your aunt and uncle in the afternoon, Beechwood or The Cog. We tend to alternate or vary depending upon how busy and if the schools are off or not. Pilates is such fun. Jan would love it but she says it’s not really her thing. Probably not. She’s the quiet one. You should meet Clandestine, our Pilates teacher. She’s such a hoot!” Mum rolls her eyes towards the ceiling again.

  She’d have to be fun if my mum thought so. She should meet Hazel. Or the three of them together. Maybe too much. Clandestine, pronounced, Clan-dess-teen, sounds very hippy, French perhaps, so probably the perfect person for Pilates.

  Hang on. Mum mentioned guitar. “Guitar? You’re learning to play the guitar?”

  Mum points upstairs to the front side of the house, the box room, her everything-hobby room.

  “Does someone called Greta go?”

  Mum purses her lips and looks serious. “Greta… Greta, Greta, Greta. Yes! Really sweet girl. German or something. Do you know her?”

  “A colleague. Yes, very sweet. Not German, I don’t think. Not pure enough.”

  My mum laughs, a dribble of tea leaking out of the left side of her mouth. She’s nothing if not class.

  “Do you think you might continue with it?” I ask as Mum retrieves the dribble with her right thumb. Yes, class personified.

  “Probably. I sound like a cat screeching at the moment – it’s only the second lesson – but so do most of the others. I think Greta’s been before though, somewhere else if not here, with Bernard, because she’s really good. She should be in intermediate but seems a bit lacking in confidence.”

  I laugh as Mum says ‘Bernard’. Her eyebrows are down to the tops of her glasses – we’re alike in that respect too – as she says it low voiced, baritone? I like him already.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, because the HR lady at work, Hazel, is interested.”

  “Sure. It’s a ten-week course but it’s revolving. Not revolving… evolving. What do I mean?”

  “Ongoing? Continuing, continual, continuous?”

  “Something like that. There’s a break of a week or two then it starts again until the longer holidays. Bernard’s said he’s happy for us to repeat the course, we don’t have to move to intermediate. I think that’s just him being nice. Not actually saying that we’re all so terrible that we’d have to stay in the beginners for the rest of our lives.”

  “It’s only week two.”

  “True.” Mum takes another sip of tea and swallows. “Nice. So you’re getting on okay in the new office.”


  “I am. They’re all lovely. Veronica’s a lot to live up to so it’s just as well I’m not replacing her.”

  “Maternity leave, wasn’t it?” She winks at me but I ignore the gesture and question.

  “You know I’m doing this thirty-one dishes in thirty-one days…”

  Mum nods.

  “Hazel, the HR Manager who’s interested in guitar, has arranged for her colleagues to accompany me each evening. She’s even set up a rota. Frank, Frankie’s wife… husband. Frank’s tomorrow night when you and Frankie are at chess.”

  “Bless him.”

  “I know. And going back to you… So we’re up to Thursday evening? Guitar.”

  She puts down her mug. “Friday mornings Dunsley Farm, you know, opposite Tesco.”

  “I do.”

  “Dunsley Farm, Tesco then home, probably a trip to the charity shops after lunch, or the hairdresser comes, and erm… what do I do Friday evenings?” She blushes. “Oh yes…”

  “And…”

  “Saturday is–”

  “Don’t change the subject, Mum. What do you do Friday evenings? Come on, spill.”

  “Okay.” She’d be no good as a spy; she folds too easily. “Bridge.”

  “You play bridge?” A WWF panda campaigner or wrestling participant, WWW, I’ve remembered, yes but not a bridge player. She’d always said it was too boring.

  “Saturday is–”

  “Mum.” I can always tell when she’s fibbing. The blush is still there.

  “O… kay. I see this guy called… Charles.”

  “Guy?”

  “Man.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixty-seven. A few months older than me. Why?”

  “That’s okay. Guys are usually younger than men.”

  “You think I’ve got a boy toy?”

  “You do have a new spring in your step, Mum, so I wouldn’t put it past you. Actually, wouldn’t put anything past you. WWF. WWW.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, nothing. Where did you meet… Charles?” If that’s even his name. It probably is Guy the guy, thirty-seven looking for a cougar. And with Pilates, my mum certainly is.

  “Crossing the bridge over the A41 to the park with Elliott.”

  Elliott is my aunt and uncle’s dog.

  “Like Heathcliff and Cathy. Star-crossed lovers,” I suggest, hinting at more information. It may not be subtle but I’m past that.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh?” I straighten a little then wiggle in my chair as if settling down to an epic.

  “He was walking in front of me. Short jacket so I could see his bum.”

  Sometimes my mum forgets that I’m her daughter and there are lines you don’t cross, and while ‘bum’ isn’t exactly one of those lines… I indicate for her to continue.

  “He pulled something out of his pocket – tissues, but I didn’t know at the time – and a clump of dog bags fell out. Clump. I like that word.”

  I smile. My mum’s a wordie too. Us and our onomatopes. Thank you, Noah Webster the lexicographer (1758–1843). And Wikipedia of course. “Go on.”

  Like me, my mum gets easily distracted. She’s staring at the Radio Times crossword. She and my aunt do it together but apart – if that makes sense – then compare whenever they see each other, which is almost every day at some point, for a cup of coffee and toasted teacake at the very least.

  “Mum.”

  She looks up. “Yes. Energy. Let me just write that down.” She jots ‘e n e r g y’ in the crossword then returns her attention to me. “Where was I?”

  What did I say about easily distracted?

  “Bridge. The non-game variety. Tissues. Dog bags.”

  “Oh yes. I was only a few feet away but sped up and returned them to him. I thought he was sexy from behind but corrr…” It’s like the room’s suddenly been engulfed in flames. This must be the real deal. But I get the sense there’s more to it. I look at her in a ‘what’s wrong with him’ kind of way.

  “He’s… er… married.”

  “Oh, Mum.”

  “Not happily.”

  “They never are.”

  “They live in separate bedrooms.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “He’s leaving her.”

  “Of course he is. Let me guess: his wife doesn’t understand him, she’s ill, or he just needs to wait until the children grow up, although he’s sixty-seven so grandchildren?”

  Mum shakes her head. “No, none of that. They don’t have children.”

  “Money then.”

  Mum shakes her head again. “Nope. No reason. They’re in the process of getting a divorce but she’s applying for jobs away from the area so they’re waiting to see what happens before they sell the house.”

  That sounds reasonable. My mum may be scatty but she has a good head on her shoulders. It’s been years since Dad died and why shouldn’t she be happy, just not with someone else’s husband. Pot. Kettle. Black. No, I don’t know yet if James is married but he seems too… awesome, not a word I use very often, to be single. It happens though. But I’m not. I feel so hypocritical. I say a weedy, “Okay.”

  “Another cuppa?” she asks and I look at the clock on the microwave. I have a perfectly good watch but the microwave’s in my eyeline so I go with that. It’s half past ten. Where’s the time gone?

  “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Hot water bottle?” My mum’s keen to please. Even if I were cold, it’s going to be May in an hour and a half, hopefully heralding stretches of nice weather. I shake my head. The duvet on the spare bed, my bed, is really thick so I know I won’t take long to warm.

  “But thanks.”

  I say goodnight and head to bed, my brain a whirr.

  Chapter 26 – Day One Official

  Tuesday 1st May

  “So this project you’re doing, Donna,” Mum says to me as she stirs a saucepan of porridge. It’s May and quite warm already but still we have porridge. It’s a regular ritual whenever I stay over, which isn’t as often since I met Duncan, but I can’t see it happening all month. Cheese on toast for lunch, not that we’re going to share any of those, but it’s what I have if I visit for the day. I can feel my mouth salivating.

  “Donna?”

  I look up from staring at one of the silver cupboard door handles, as my brain moves to thinking about her and Charles. “Yep.”

  “This project. Do you have it all planned?”

  “Not really. I have notes but…”

  “Do you not think you ought to? Write a list of what you’re going to be doing when. You’re normally so organised. Are you okay?” Her face creases. “Are you and Duncan okay? You seem distracted.”

  James. She’s not wrong. I smile. “Oh yes, just missing him.”

  She looks convinced. “Of course you are.”

  Can’t make babies when you’re here, I expect her to add but thankfully she doesn’t.

  It’s Tuesday, day one of my project, and the day when my mum has Pilates, the garden centre and chess. Knowing her, she’ll grill Frankie who would have grilled Frank about my first day. Mum and I didn’t talk that much about it last night and there isn’t really time now. I have to be at work in an hour and she’s no doubt got things to do before she meets up with Clan-dess-teen and all their lycra-clad cohorts. That I would like to see.

  “Thanks, Mum,” I say as she places a steaming bowl of semi-liquid nirvana in front of me. I know Nirvana’s a place (and a rock band) rather than a thing but porridge is truly heavenly. I’m used to the two-minute nuke from a sachet type, especially the golden syrup variety, but the start-from-scratch oat version is yummily gritty, like granary versus wholemeal bread, I suppose.

  “I’ll probably take Elliott out at some stage today. Your aunt’s got a commission for someone’s birthday. A couples of horses, skewbald and a grey. Very handsome pair.”

  I smile and recall a photo, taken years ago, of my aunt and her amazing paintings a
t an exhibition or sale. I’m not sure I ever knew which. Horses are her specialty, having been a groom for racing driver Stirling Moss’s sister, Pat, back in the fifties, I think. I’ve not been on a horse since a teenager but I’ve always been fond of them. My brain’s more on Elliott, although I desperately want to carry on the conversation of Charles, helpfully prompted by the mention of Elliott but my mum points at my bowl and says, “It’ll be getting cold and you have to be getting on.”

  That’s me told.

  As I drive to work, I can’t help but picture my mum on that bridge the day she met Charles. We’ve not talked about his dog, assuming he has one given what fell out of his bag. Charles is a very steadfast name but I can’t imagine him being like that. Not if he’s a patch on Mum.

  Elliott’s an eighteen-month-old cream-coloured cockerpoo but not quite. My aunt and uncle aren’t sure what he actually is but that’s what his birth certificate said so it’s all they have to go on. He’s mad, a bit too much really for them but they adore him and it’s reciprocated. He loves my mum especially because she’s equally mad, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she treats him like a baby when no one else is around.

  She takes him out when she’s available, sometimes with my uncle when my aunt’s busy. Needless to say there are loads of paintings of him – Elliott, not my uncle! – in different poses, many in the bedroom I use. Although it’s my room rather than my mum’s or the lounge or dining area, I think she has the pictures in the house for company. He’s certainly a character is our Elliott.