The Serial Dieter (The Serial Series Book 2)

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I let them pass as I continue to make a fuss of Elliott who seems keen to get away and keep going. I whisper a ‘be careful’ to him as I let him go and thankfully he trots along in the middle of the grass rather than near either side.

  My heart’s still thumping and I wonder if I’m ready to be a mother.

  Would it be like this every second of every day?

  Probably.

  Chapter 37 – The Bluebells And Carrot Cake

  Still dry, Elliott and I enter the Bluebells Tearooms… not Café as I’d previously thought. ‘Tearooms’ sounds much more charming, quaint, British, and the atmosphere of a friend’s conservatory hits me as soon as we pass the entrance. Except this conservatory is packed.

  I look around very unsubtly and thankfully there’s no sign of the couple we’d passed up on the hill. Elliott had bolted down the steps even quicker than he’d sprinted up, and I cursed myself as I clung onto the rail that I’d not put him on his lead as he could have gone straight into the car park. The risk of him pulling me over was one I would have taken but I’d not needed it as there, good as the proverbial precious gem, he was sitting – yes, sitting, at the bottom of the steps, head tilted as if exposing his collar and tag for my taking. I’d often love to know what goes through his head.

  It’s probably cake. It’s what’s going through mine as I look at the array. There’s no queue but plenty of chat going on behind me. There’s a party of cyclists who have pushed some of the tables together and are catching up like they’ve not seen each other for years. The noise blurs and there’s nothing that can really be distinguished but I’m more of a people watcher than listener but if I am actually going to write a novel…

  “The carrot cake please. And do you do flavoured teas?”

  The jolly middle-aged-looking lady behind the counter smiles and points to a white wooden unit with shelves of glass containers packed with curious-looking teabags, each container with the name of the blend on the front. I get as far as gingerbread and stop. “The gingerbread one please.”

  I pay with a fiver and say to keep the change. I feel a bit silly as it’s only a few pence so won’t make anyone rich but I’ll leave a tip on my table when I’ve finished. The tea will be almost calorieless but the carrot cake with its thick fondant and cute tiny carrot top certainly won’t be, and it’s not practical to count as my ‘dish’. On reflection, this cake wasn’t the smartest of moves. I’d gone for it as a belated breakfast but it’ll fill me up too much to enjoy something that’s less than 500 calories but healthier. Carrots are one of the five a day but I don’t think this is what the nutritionists had in mind.

  The slice is sitting on top of a napkin so I can wrap it up. I’m not sure why cafés do that because it makes the napkin grubby, albeit with food. Nothing against this café, sorry tearooms, but a general moan. Not like me, I know. I laugh then look up. Nope, no one’s paying me any attention.

  Izzy was under instruction, from herself probably rather than William – I don’t think he would have been bothered – not to reveal who she was but I think I’m okay doing that with this project if I need to. I did with Bhu in the K2 and he was only happy to help. Eateries tend to want to bend over backwards like a Chinese contortionist, especially if they know they’re under review. It’s not like that now really, it’s about what you can get for your calories, but positive commentary – it’s not fair to pick – about the place makes it more interesting, like a three-dimensional Trip Advisor rating, and certainly won’t hurt the establishments.

  I head back to the counter after tying Elliott to the table leg with strict instructions not to move – I hope so or it’ll cause a scene like a tablecloth / laid table scenario magic trick gone wrong disaster.

  “Is everything all right?” the same lady asks.

  “Oh yes. Thank you. Delicious,” I say but feel a fraud as I’ve not taken a bite yet, only a sip at the too-hot tea that smells divine. “I’m doing a project at work and wondered what you could recommend as a main dish that’s less than 500 calories. I don’t suppose you have a list.”

  She frowns. I’m not sure whether it’s the mention of a project or the list. “Not really but our chef could tell you. I can send her over, if you don’t mind waiting, only she’s a bit busy at the moment with a party…” The lady points to the conjoined tables and the rabble in full flow.

  “That would be great. Thank you so much.”

  “What is it exactly that you want to know?”

  “Just what I could eat that could be classed as a main dish, one course is fine, not a whole meal, for under 500 calories.”

  The woman nods, makes a note, and takes it out to the kitchen. I hear murmurings behind me as I walk back to my table.

  I decide it could be a while so I make do with my tea, which is scrummy if not a little too hot still, and tiny bites of carrot cake. I want to devour the whole thing but do get more of a flavour when eating smaller portions – a not-so-well-known fact when it comes to feeling fuller quicker. We should chew our food at least a dozen times and take twenty minutes minimum for each meal. I’ve said that a few times in my columns but it’s been a while so worth mentioning again, perhaps in the article I do for my visit here. I dig out my notebook and am jotting when I feel someone looming.

  A younger lady – I’m rubbish at ages but nearer mine – is standing a couple of feet away wearing all whites and an expectant smile. “My colleague,” she says without turning or pointing, “said you’d like some advice.”

  “Please,” I say and open my notebook. I repeat my request and this lady sits opposite me.

  “An open sandwich is probably your best bet.” She offers me a small plate with a single sausage and points towards Elliott.

  “Ooh, thank you. That’s brilliant. Isn’t it, Elliott?” I look down and he’s drooling. Ordinarily, I’d have broken up the sausage into pieces, either with my fingers or my mouth, but I’m here for a reason and the lady’s waiting so give it to him whole. Ordinarily, he would have eaten it whole… and he does. I shake my head and return my attention to the ‘chef’ waiting patiently.

  She then goes on to describe the most popular version of the open sandwich and I jot all the ingredients onto my pad. She had me at salmon, and the array of seafood she lists makes my stomach growl. “Could I have one of those?” I ask and she smiles.

  “Of course,” she says and returns to the kitchen.

  With Elliott still attached to the table, the sausage a distant memory, I go to the counter, explain what I’ve ordered and pay. It doesn’t matter that I still have most of the carrot cake as that’ll do for afternoon tea, that’s cake and a cup of tea, not lunch, dinner or supper-type tea. I, as a journalist, appreciate how confusing the English language can be, not only in my country but especially overseas. Dinner, tea, supper. Decisions, decisions.

  I take my change, not wishing to offend with what would be an even smaller tip, say ‘Thank you’, and return to my table. Elliott, good as the proverbial pot at the end of a rainbow, is simultaneously sitting, wagging his tail and licking his lips. “If you’re good,” I say as I sit, “you’ll get a bit of fish.”

  He barks.

  “Shhh!”

  He barks again.

  I scan the room but no one is looking at us. I suppose with so many visiting dogs, they get their fair share of barking.

  Elliott opens his mouth to bark again but I do an ‘uh uh’, replicating Cesar Milan’s instructions that always work for the dogs he’s in charge of training. The dog whisperer I am not… as Elliott barks again. I look at my carrot cake and give in. I lean forward in Elliott’s direction and he leans back. “You are very naughty.” Thankfully he doesn’t bark again but wags his tail and licks his lips, far enough away from my face to not make contact.

  “You…” He puffs. “Can have a tiny bit of cake.” I emphasise the tiny. “But no barking.” He sort of nods and I turn back to my table. I trim off the smaller end of the cake with the fork, pick half the piece
with my fingers and rotate back to Elliott, feeling like a crane driver on a building site.

  I’ve just returned my attention back to my table when my open sandwich appears. It’s every bit as lovely as its description. I can feel my eyes widen. “That looks delicious.” I instinctively wipe the sides of my mouth, hoping that I’m not drooling like Elliott. If I were, at least I’d be less obvious but I can’t feel anything.

  “Thank you,” the original lady says. “Enjoy.”

  I know I will and I do. After me taking a discreet photograph so I don’t forget what it looks like, Elliott gets his promised bit of salmon, there’s plenty to go around, and I’m stuffed by the time I’ve finished, the tea being the perfect temperature by the time that too disappears. I go to leave a two-pound coin on the small plate that had housed the sausage but millimetres away from making contact, I retract it, realising that it would then be covered in sausage matter, or the liquid from the skin at the very least. So I leave the coin on the table where it will be perfectly clean, the whole tearooms themselves pristine.

  I didn’t ask which one of the three ladies – the third I’d not spoken to but would at least smile at and mouth a ‘thank you’ on the way out – was the owner, and on reflection I don’t know whether I should have done, not to ask permission to write my article but at least to explain but hopefully what I said to the first lady about the ‘project’ will suffice. I’ll bring them a copy, I decide as I release Elliott from the table’s grip.

  I don’t get to do the smile and ‘thank you’ at the third lady as she’s busy with the cyclists so I look around for her other two colleagues. Sadly, they’re equally engrossed and I decide that standing there like the proverbial lemon, waiting for one of them, would not only make me feel daft but look daft too so I make a quiet but hasty escape.

  Chapter 38 – Two And The Same

  Elliott hops into the car with no hesitation. I realise that we’ll be too early for my aunt and uncle if we return to their house now. There’s plenty of time left on the parking ticket so we could do another round of the reservoir and the weather’s improved but I decide we’ll find somewhere else. I’m fairly familiar with the area. The options are turn left for Mead’s Farm (more tea and cake) or right for Ivinghoe and its common. Ooh, there’s the Beacon. A perfect hike to walk off my lunch. Brunch. Sigh.

  So right it is and I wave at Brookmead School as we come into Ivinghoe village. I didn’t go there, to Brookmead, but they hold a yearly ‘BeaconLit’ literary festival on the middle Saturday of every July and it’s one of my favourite events. I make a mental note to see who’s on this year but I’ll go regardless. Izzy’s a big reader and I remember that we’ve never been together. I don’t know why but she always seems to be doing something else. With ten weeks’ notice, or thereabouts, she might just be free.

  I get a whiff of spices from the Haldi Indian restaurant opposite the school but choose to ignore it as I’m not hungry enough to be tempted although it reminds me to pop in sometime, if I get the opportunity over the four weeks I’m staying here, to see if they could do anything that fits the clichéd under-500-calorie bill.

  My car complains partway up the hill so I go down a gear. It’s not that steep but with my attention elsewhere, bad girl, I’ve let the revs drop. Or I assume that’s what I’ve done. Cars get me from A to B, are warm, play good music – Heart FM usually – and look nice; that’s as technical as I get with them.

  I pay more attention as we climb, in the car rather than on foot, the road alongside Ivinghoe Beacon and nip into a space near the entrance of the car park. It’s only the second of May so the schools aren’t off until the end of the month, although everyone has next Monday off for May Day bank holiday, just as well we’re not here then. That makes me wonder what I will be doing. Not as many places will be open and the ones that are will be busier. Never mind, it’s a few days away. Anyway, I’ll hopefully be at Duncan’s.

  There’s an ice cream van between the Beacon and the car park and even if I hadn’t eaten I don’t think I would have had one. For water and milk, they’re surprisingly calorific so I tend to avoid them unless it’s really warm. Which today it is not. It’s still not as overcast as earlier but being that much higher, it’s particularly windy and I wonder how much business the man in the van is getting.

  There’s no queue and I can see through the hatch that he’s sitting on top of the fridge tapping on his mobile and laughing. As I go to open the back door of my car, I imagine the man sharing an animal video on Facebook or reacting to a really bad joke. That thought reminds me of Alexa which in turn reminds me of Duncan and I feel a little sad. Only a little as I’ll see him in… I look at my watch… forty-eight, fifty-three hours or thereabouts.

  I decide to give him a call but there’s barely any signal. I shouldn’t be surprised but I am. And disappointed. To take my mind off everything, I whistle for Elliott to jump out of the car but he’s already done so, lead still attached which is half strangling him. “Sorry, mate.” After checking there are no other cars nearby, I lean down to release him. He seems to know better than to run off so stops at my feet. “Good boy.” I clip on his expandable lead. He can be let loose completely once we’re out of the car park and onto the grass but at least he has semi-freedom before then.

  It turns out to be a fairly solitary walk, only a Dalmatian and Yorkshire Terrier and their respective owners to nod to (in my case) and sniff (in Elliott’s) on the way out and no one on the way back. We both seem a little despondent when we reach my car and Elliott makes a very half-hearted leap onto the back seat and doesn’t complain at me switching leads.

  The ice cream man is still on his mobile as I take to my seat, and turn on the engine and heater. The wind has got to me a little and I don’t feel like driving until my feet are warmer.

  While it’s still fresh in my brain, I call Duncan but it goes through to answerphone. You know what to do, is his simple directive and I do, so leave a chirpy message, helped by a semi-forced smile on my face. He has a longer, much more professional, message on his work phone but I don’t like to disturb him on that. If he were free, he’d answer his mobile and I know he’ll get back to me when he has time. Still feeling in the need to speak to someone, I ring Izzy.

  “Hey, you. How’s Hemel?”

  “Hi. Good thanks.” Then a thought dawns. “Are you free on… two seconds.”

  “O… kay.”

  I check the date of the middle Saturday in July on my phone’s calendar then put the phone back to my ear. “The thirteenth of July?” I hear a few clicks as she looks something up on her phone, the calendar too presumably. I’m tempted to tell her why but decide not to in case she’d not want to go, but why wouldn’t she? She loves books.

  “Yep. Anything special?”

  “Yes,” I say then change the subject. “Have you heard from Duncan today?” I’m not sure why I asked that because if he’d not contacted me then there’d be no reason for him to contact her, unless it was to speak to William and then Duncan would call directly. It was the only alternative I could think of. “A literary festival,” I blurt.

  “Oh, okay. That’s the July thing?”

  I nod.

  “Donna?”

  “Sorry, yes.” I nod again albeit pointlessly as we’re only on a voice call and not FaceTiming.

  “You okay? Everything there okay?”

  “Yes, good thanks. Just been for a walk. Elliott’s here.”

  Izzy squeals and I hold the phone away for a second, allowing my ear to regain its senses. She’s even more mad about my aunt and uncle’s dog than I am, and that’s saying something. She’s always said how much she’d love a dog of her own and dotes on Buddy, Duncan’s beagle. Buddy’s far more sensible than Elliott but that’s not saying much at all. Like me, as I realise Izzy’s spoken again.

  “Sorry?”

  “What’s going on, Donna?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re away with the fairies.”


  I realise I am. I’d been trying to think about Duncan all the way round, over, the Beacon but my brain kept coming back to James. Or more accurately, James’s almond eyes. I turn round in my seat and there they are. Not James’s almond eyes but Elliott’s. I’d not realised they were that colour before, they’d always seemed darker but sure enough, they are one and the same. Two and the same. Four and the same. It’s scary. No, they’re not scary but what is, is me thinking of James so much.

  “Donna!”

  My phone’s away from my head as I’m still looking at Elliott but I return it to my ear and apologise. “Late night,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  Neither of us seems convinced.

  “Why did you ask about Duncan?” Izzy asks me and I shake my head.

  “I’ve just left a message.” It doesn’t really answer the question but I figure it’ll do. It’ll have to as I have no other explanation.

  “Going to have to go. Sorry, Donna.” Izzy sounds flustered as if someone’s beckoning her. William probably. Izzy, the ever professional. And I have to be.

  “Thanks, Izzy.”

  “For…”

  “Everything.”

  Izzy laughs, blows me a kiss and hangs up. I put my phone into a holder above the dashboard’s air vent, put on my seatbelt and head out of the car park. The car’s beyond toasty so I turn down the heater as I wait for a passing car. I look in the rear view mirror, having to crane my neck a little and smile at the sleeping – or pretending to be asleep – Elliott. Having Buddy is lovely. I do know how lucky I am to have him and Duncan, and wouldn’t do anything to ruin it but there’s a niggle at the back of my brain.

  I shake it away as we descend the hill and think to anyone looking, it must appear that I’m fighting off a wasp. Okay, perhaps not as dramatic as that but there’s no other human in the car with me. I could be head banging to some music except I’m going side to side rather than back and forth. Yes, I’m weird. I’m okay with that.