The Desperate Bride’s Diet Club

by Alison Sherlock

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Every bride dreams of looking beautiful on her wedding day. Doesn’t she?

  Violet doesn’t. She is dreading it. In fact she can’t think why Sebastian ever asked her to marry him. When they met, she was a size 14-16. Now she is size 20.

  How will she ever find a dress which doesn’t make her look ridiculous? And fat.

  Dieting club New You! promises the answers. But things just go from bad to worse. It is time for Violet to come up with some solutions of her own.

  About the Author

  Alison Sherlock enjoyed reading and writing stories from an early age. However, she assumed that being an author didn’t count as a proper job so when Alison grew up, she worked as a secretary, training administrator and answered an IT hotline. Once older and a bit wiser, she realised that she really had to write her novel. So she gave up office life to sit at home and panic at what she had done. To fund her dream, Alison became a cleaner, the experience of which she has used for her second novel. A chance meeting with a literary agent at Winchester Writers’ Conference set her on the road to publication. Alison lives in Surrey with her husband Dave and Harry, their daft golden retriever. This is her first book.

  You can follow her on twitter – @alisonsherlock – and facebook.

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful mum, Jean Sherlock. Forever missed, never forgotten.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks must go to my fantastic agent Judith Murdoch whose support and belief in my work has been invaluable. I couldn’t have got this far without her.

  A huge thank you to my wonderful editor Rosie de Courcy whose enthusiasm and vision was so important to this book. Thank you to all at Random House who have contributed to this book, especially Nicola Taplin for guiding me through the first book process with such patience!

  Thanks to everyone at the Romantic Novelists Association for their advice and wisdom – and for throwing wonderful parties!

  Thanks to all my friends, both old and new, for their endless support. Special thanks to Jo Botelle for bravely reading every story I have ever written and for two decades of friendship and cakes.

  Thanks to my lovely family for their encouragement over the long years to publication, especially my beloved Aunty Vera and my lovely sister Gill Collins for their constant strength and support.

  Thanks to my father Ray Sherlock for not trying to change my mind when I said I wanted to write a novel. Your encouragement has brought me to this amazing place in my life.

  Thanks to Ross, Lee and Cara Maidens for letting me into your lives and bringing me so much happiness. I hope you all know how much you mean to me. And for Kelly and Sian Maidens for their friendship.

  Finally, thanks to my husband Dave for encouraging me to keep writing, even when times were tough. For believing in me. For everything, including bringing Harry into our lives!

  Chapter One

  HELL HATH NO fury like a woman without chocolate cake.

  And not just any cake. Marks & Spencer’s Double Chocolate Gateau. Chocolate sponge filled with chocolate cream, topped with soft chocolate icing and smothered in chocolate shavings. That would stem the tears and stop the pain. It would help. It had always helped.

  And Violet Saunders had to have it. Right now.

  She rushed through the aisles, the tears beginning to crust on her cheeks from the cold air in the food hall. She cannoned into people, stepping on their feet, and elbowed them out of the way. Violet didn’t care. She just wanted her cake.

  She crashed to a halt in the bakery aisle. Standing in front of her was one of the most handsome men that Violet had ever seen.

  But it wasn’t his rugged face that made her pulse race as she stared up at him. Nor the broad shoulders, tapering down to long legs. Even his wavy black hair didn’t make her fingers itch to run through it.

  Violet wasn’t interested in the handsome man at all. She was only concerned about his hands, which were holding the boxed double chocolate gateau. She glanced away to the empty shelf and then back to the stranger’s hands. There were no double chocolate cakes left. None except the one in the hands of the man in front of her.

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  ‘That’s mine,’ Violet blurted out, ignoring the inner mortification at her words.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Finders keepers.’

  Then he broke into a smile. And the edge of sanity that she had been teetering on gave way.

  ‘Mine!’ Violet wailed into his face, before snatching the cake box out of his hands and running off to the far end of the shop without looking back. She threw her money at the cashier and rushed out.

  She kept going, not caring about the spring rain that soaked her as she ran. It was a dark, dismal day and suited her mood perfectly. Finally she reached the car park and rushed blindly across, not caring about the cars that had to brake hard to miss her.

  She found her car, slid behind the wheel and put the keys in the ignition. The car started with a vroom but Violet wasn’t going anywhere. She needed her fix.

  Violet tore open the box and grabbed a lump of chocolate cake with her hands before cramming it into her mouth. Sweet, wonderful, comforting chocolate. The tears had begun again. But the salty taste didn’t diminish the chocolate. In a funny way, it made the cake taste even better.

  She snatched at another piece of cake and then another. Shoving it into her mouth, she could feel her pulse starting to slow, the hurt beginning to heal.

  Two-thirds of the way through the cake, she became aware that someone was standing next to the car. A traffic warden was staring in at Violet through the wi
ndscreen, his mouth wide open. If that was an invitation to share the cake with him, he was going to be unlucky.

  Violet quickly threw the car into gear and sped out of the car park. At every red traffic light and roundabout, she stuffed more cake into her mouth. Every last crumb, every glorious piece of icing. More and more until there was no cake left.

  She parked the car outside her house and stumbled up the front path, clutching the empty cake box in her hands. Once through the door, she shut it behind her and slid down the wall in the hallway. Sitting on the floor, she realised her whole body was shaking. With a sob, Violet remembered the traffic warden’s horrified face. And the man in the food hall whose cake she had stolen. Violet began to cry again.

  The phone rang on the little table nearby, making her jump. But she didn’t move. She stayed on the floor, the despair welling inside.

  The phone rang six times before the answerphone clicked on. She knew it would be Sebastian. ‘Violet? Are you there? Pick up if you are.’ A little sigh whilst he paused. ‘Look, I told you that girl didn’t mean anything. I was drunk and so was she. I’m not proud of myself. You’ve got to believe me. She’s an idiot. She’s nothing. Call me, OK?’

  The phone clicked off, leaving only silence. Violet’s sugar rush quickly turned to nausea and she realised she was going to be sick. She grabbed the radiator and hauled herself to a standing position.

  She was about to stagger upstairs to the bathroom when she caught her reflection in the small hallway mirror. The nausea died in her throat as she watched herself take a deep breath.

  Violet looked a mess. She had smears of chocolate across her face and down her shirt. The shirt was missing a button, having given way against the strain of cleavage. She was already a size twenty. Was she now going up to a size twenty-two? Her blue eyes were red and wild-looking. Her long, black hair was lank and greasy, flopping against her fat cheeks and thankfully covering up the rest of her pale face.

  She was disgusting. Ugly. Fat. Horrible. She watched her reflection as a new tear trickled down her cheek. It was her fault that Sebastian had slept with someone else. Why wouldn’t he? Just look at her.

  Violet shook her head at her twin in the mirror. Did she really want to go through life feeling like this? She’d had twenty-nine years so far but enough was enough. She knew she was lucky Sebastian still wanted her. That anyone wanted her. She had to lose weight. Otherwise she would lose Sebastian for good.

  She loved him so much. Her life was empty without him. She had nothing else to love, nothing but him. When he took her in his arms, she was safe. Whatever he had done, whatever he was, she was his girl and that was all she had to hold on to.

  Violet hung her head in misery. The abandoned cake box caught her eye. Serves twelve, it said on the cover. Twelve normal people or one fat porker like me, she thought.

  She leant down and picked up the box, as well as the post that lay on the doormat. It was all junk including a flimsy bit of pink paper. But she stared at it and let everything else fall back to the floor.

  ‘A New You!’ screamed the words on the leaflet. ‘Join Us! Lose Weight! Get Fit!’ It was an advert for some kind of diet club, which would be held the following Tuesday at a nearby church hall.

  A New You! That was exactly what Violet needed. A brand-new me, she thought.

  Because the old one was dying inside.

  Chapter Two

  MAGGIE WALSH PUT the plate and knife in the dishwasher. Then she shoved the five empty crisp packets as far down the kitchen bin as possible so that they were hidden under more healthy debris. Like the melon that had gone off. Ditto the shrivelled grapes.

  She rubbed her back as she straightened up, feeling older than her fifty-one years. A quick glance at her reflection in the back door told her that she looked older too. That new haircut hadn’t helped. Her blond shoulder-length hair had been cut way too short and her waves had sprung into tight curls around her ears.

  Maggie turned towards the kitchen counter to switch off the radio but her hand hovered over the switch as a new song came on. It was an old favourite, Tavares singing ‘Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel’.

  Maggie allowed herself a little giggle and kicked off her slippers. She began to shuffle around the kitchen floor, her pop socks slipping on the laminated wood. She huffed and puffed as she tried to keep her samba dancing in time to the beat. But it was no good. After only half a minute, she came to an abrupt halt, holding on to the side of the sink as she fought for breath.

  ‘Heaven’s missing a bloody lard arse,’ she panted, feeling her pulse racing.

  She staggered into the lounge to find her slippers. She was retrieving one from next to the sideboard when a photograph caught her eye. It was Maggie and Gordon, her husband, quickstepping around the dance floor.

  Maggie picked up the frame and peered at the faded photograph. When had it been taken? Sometime in the early eighties? They looked to be in their early twenties, sparkling under the lights in the dancing outfits that his mother had made for them. That red dress was one of her favourites.

  Maggie looked closer. Had she ever really been that slim? It was hard to imagine now, especially wearing a dress with only thin straps over the shoulders. She needed a bra made out of scaffolding these days to hold up her heavy chest. She was wearing heels too, something that Maggie hadn’t done in many years. Maintaining the heavy load on spindly heels put just too much pressure on her knees and ankles.

  She and Gordon must have been so fit as well, dancing twice a week. No wonder they looked happy. Of course, this was before marriage, mortgage and a daughter. It all seemed a very long time ago.

  She trudged up the stairs to fetch a pile of ironing and had a sudden thought. She went into the spare bedroom and rummaged around in the suitcases that were hidden in the wardrobe. A couple were empty, well used on many sunny holidays. But it was the old battered brown case at the back that she was interested in.

  She finally found the handle and pulled hard. The case came free and she dumped it on the bed, out of breath from the exertion. Then she opened up the case. There were pamphlets from various dance competitions. Gordon’s velvet jacket and frilly shirt. A lace shawl. Gordon’s trousers. A net underskirt …

  At the very bottom lay her red dress. As she pulled it out, she caught a faint trace of perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. The embroidered crystals sparkled in the morning light against the deep red of the silk skirt. It was as beautiful as she remembered.

  The rest of her dresses were up in the loft, buried under the Christmas decorations and boxes of old toys and rubbish. But she hadn’t had the heart to send her favourite dancing dress into the oblivion of the attic.

  Maggie held it up against her in front of the full-length mirror. For a second, she allowed herself to be back on the dance floor, Gordon leading her round and around. She clutched hold of the dress, swaying from side to side.

  Then reality came into focus. She looked more like an aged Shirley Temple with those curls. And as for the rest of her – she was enormous. At some point her boobs and stomach had merged into one big, jellified mass. She couldn’t possibly get the dress on now. It was about a third of the size she was these days. It probably wouldn’t get past her knees.

  Maggie shook her head as she put the dress back in the case, firmly closing the lid and shutting both it and the memories deep at the back of the wardrobe. She knew it was her own fault. She’d gained weight with her pregnancy and had never lost it. In fact, the weight had increased year by year. Each new season, she found her clothes from the year before were a little tighter, not quite so comfortable to wear. But instead of doing something about her growing weight, Maggie just bought new clothes instead.

  She picked up the ironing and went back downstairs. She knew Gordon didn’t realise how she felt about her middle-aged spread. He had always maintained that she was gorgeous. And after twenty-five years of marriage, she believed him. Sort of.

  ‘I like my woman to have a bit of
meat on her bones,’ was Gordon’s favourite saying. Trouble was, she had a sackload of potatoes and Yorkshire puddings to go with all that meat.

  Maggie hadn’t felt gorgeous for a very long time. She was fat and bored, with herself and with her life. It really wasn’t fair. Gordon’s belly was busting out of his trousers yet he seemed to be convinced that he was fine.

  Maggie trudged into the lounge and stood next to the ironing board, sighing at the huge mound of clothes next to her. Most of them were Lucy’s. She didn’t know how long her daughter wore them for. Was it possible that she changed her outfits between meals?

  Maggie sighed and picked up yet another Primark top. She caught sight of the label and felt sad. ‘Size 16–18’, she read. Lucy had inherited her parents’ fat genes. But at least Maggie knew that her daughter was happy with her size.

  Maggie was miserable and didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  Lucy Walsh panicked when she saw the group of girls at the end of the street. It would be too obvious to cross to the other side of the road so she had to carry on along the same pavement.

  She wished it had carried on raining, then she could have hidden underneath her umbrella. But the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Besides, she knew no umbrella would cover her enormous stomach and bottom.

  She tried to maintain a sense of fashion, despite her size, which was currently a generous size sixteen – or a size eighteen if nobody was looking. A long black jumper, which she had modified with shoulder pads and fake rhinestones, hung down beyond her thighs, which were encased in black leggings. She hated her Ugg boots but couldn’t get any knee-length boots to fit over her calves. An oversized black Puffa jacket completed the look.

  Lucy knew it would have looked great on Kate Moss but felt as if she was wearing a duvet and hence seemed even bigger.

  Everything was black. Lucy’s clothes were always black. She knew it made her look like a Goth but she hoped they might make her disappear altogether – because then nobody would see the size she really was. And if she couldn’t be seen, then they couldn’t say anything about her, to her. She never wanted to draw attention to herself.