The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  I conduct a continuing battle with myself not to blossom into the more rotund side of chubby. I’m short, a natural blonde and not too much of a heifer considering my addiction—although I probably would be described as “ample” or “curvaceous” should I ever find myself the subject of a tabloid scandal. Luscious Lucy or Juicy Lucy would be my red-top moniker. I’ll stop short of Lardy Lucy.

  I used to have ambitions, but I’m not sure that I do anymore. I only know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life filing papers and fetching coffee for people who don’t even bother to get to know me because I’m not going to be around for long enough. After all these years, I’m still mired in student debt, but one day I’ll stop spending all my money on excess calories and start saving up for sensibledom. Even though I’m tipping the scales at the wrong side of thirty, I’m very comfortable with it.

  I’m neither a sad single nor a smug married. I have a permanent boyfriend—sometimes. Marcus Canning is the man who adores me and wants to marry me. Eventually. We’ve been together for five years and he’s currently edging further toward a “commitment,” which is a good thing.

  As I get nearer to the health club my heart starts to sink. I do yoga to help reduce my stress levels, but I’m not sure that it works as I invariably lie there, fists curled into tense balls, thinking, Get a move on! when everyone else is seemingly lying contentedly on the floor listening to some kind of twinkly birdsong and the droning low-level voice of our teacher, Persephone. I also struggle to get my knees to comply with the leg-mangling Lotus, and my Half-Plough position is distinctly halfhearted. My dedication to my spiritual side also means that I don’t usually see Marcus on Tuesdays.

  Occasionally Marcus calls me and begs me not to pursue my quest to get fit and lures me round to his place instead by offering copious amounts of chocolate and large quantities of red wine. Call me weak, but I always capitulate—even though I sometimes try to make a fuss about not going. Marcus rarely buys into my reluctance as he knows that he can twist me round his little finger. Besides, a glass of wine is good for the heart. Though I’m not sure about the other four that invariably get necked as well. Two squares of dark chocolate a day are also beneficial for your health. They boost your levels of endorphins and antioxidants, and that has to be good. How often are scientists wrong? Huh? So, actually, by staying in and drinking wine and eating chocs, I’m probably doing myself a lot more good than risking injury in my yoga class. And, let’s face it, whether it’s a scientific fact or not, booze and a box of chocs will always win over health and hatha yoga for the majority of people, and I’m no exception.

  My boyfriend knows that I can’t resist the lure of chocolates, or him. But, despite me staring at my phone for lengthy periods throughout the day and willing him to save me from torture by the Triangle pose, Marcus hasn’t called at all. I phoned him a few times—about ten times or so—but then I thought I was obsessing. And, anyway, each time his mobile went straight to voicemail.

  I unwrap the Toffee Crisp from my emergency stash in my handbag and tuck into it. Exercising on an empty stomach—even yoga—always makes me feel faint. Frankly, I’m a recent convert to the delights of pure plantation chocolate. I adore chocolate in all its many forms, but my current passion is couture chocolates made with the selected beans from single plantations all around the world—Trinidad, Tobago, Ecuador, Venezuela, New Guinea. Exotic locations, all of them. They are—out and out—the best type of chocolate. In my humble opinion. The Jimmy Choos of the chocolate world. Though truffles are a fierce competitor. (Strictly speaking, truffles are confectionary as opposed to chocolates, but I feel that’s making me sound like a chocolate anorak.)

  So as not to appear a chocolate snob, I also shove in Mars Bars, Snickers and Double Deckers as if they’re going out of fashion. Like the best, I was brought up on a diet of Cadbury and Nestlé, with Milky Bars and Curly Wurlys being particular favorites—and both of which I’m sure have grown considerably smaller with the passing of the years. Walnut Whips are a bit of a disappointment these days too. They’re not like they used to be. Doesn’t stop me from eating them, of course—call it product research.

  Hastily munching the last bit of my Toffee Crisp as I swing through the doors, I offer a cheery, “Hello,” to the receptionist, a young slip of a thing called Becky who looks as if the temptation of chocolate never darkens her doorstep, and breeze through to get changed.

  “Oh, Lucy,” she shouts after me. “The yoga class is canceled tonight. Persephone’s put her back out.”

  That’s not a very good advertisement for yoga, is it? “Damn,” I say. “I was so looking forward to getting all my knots unkinked.” Call me a liar— see if I care.

  “You could squeeze into the FitBall class instead,” Becky suggests. “Or there’s always the gym.”

  Both of which sound too much like hard work. I like yoga because you can pretend to be working hard while actually doing very little. If you stop jogging in an aerobics class, everyone knows. Fall asleep in yoga and everyone just thinks you’re great at meditating. “Maybe I’ll give it a miss tonight,” I say, as if I’m disappointed. Cobblers to the Cobbler position, I think with a surge of glee. I make my voice fill with empathy. “I do hope Persephone’s okay.”

  “She should be back in a few days.”

  So, now what? I could shoot off to the Space Bar and join the guys for a drink. The offer of chocolate vodka is very appealing. The thought of a little socializing with Crush isn’t deeply repellent either, but then I’d have to listen to a whole litany of yoga-type jokes from him and the other reps. Maybe Crush would try to get me drunk and maybe—-just maybe—I might try to seduce him. Can’t go there. Targa is very keen on team-bonding exercises, and sometimes they involve alcohol and invariably end in shame, sackings and sexual harassment lawsuits. I’d have to face Crush in the office tomorrow and am also full-time girlfriend of wonderful man already.

  Alternatively, Marcus’s place isn’t too far from here. I could jump on the Tube again and go to give my man a lovely surprise. Weighing up the possibilities, I decide I should definitely run to the warmth of Marcus’s arms. Much more sensible. The thought of seeing my dearly beloved puts a spring in my step again and I decide that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  Chapter Four

  MARCUS HAS A GREAT FLAT on the top floor of one of those grand Georgian buildings in a really trendy area of London. He only bought it last year and that worried me slightly as I had hoped that we’d move in together when Marcus outgrew the place he was sharing with three other guys, but he said that he didn’t feel ready for that. He did, however, give me my own key, which I always think is a crucial extension of trust in a relationship. Besides, he assured me, this flat would be a good investment for our future. When we do live together—which I’m sure we will one day—then Marcus will have accumulated some equity in this property and we can use that as a deposit for our own home. Marcus is very good with investment planning. Like Chan-tal’s husband, he works in a terribly high-paid job in the City and is a complete workaholic. His job is his life. And me, of course.

  Marcus is beautiful. He’s a blond bombshell and I feel so lucky to have a boyfriend like him. Sometimes, when I’m feeling a bit insecure, I can’t help but think that really he’s out of my league. For a girl who grew up with the nickname Chubby Cheeks, it always feels strange, having a boyfriend like Marcus. He only has to walk into a room and all female heads swivel in his direction—sometimes male ones too. My looks are of the more ordinary variety—not too shabby, but put it this way: I’m never going to be talent-spotted in the street by the Elite Agency looking for a more mature and fatter brand of model.

  Marcus and I met in a bookshop, which I always think sounds terribly romantic. I was buying a copy of Pride and Prejudice to replace my much-thumbed one, and he was buying a copy of Crap Towns:The 50 Worst Places to Live in the UK. It was love at first sight. Well, for me, at least. Marcus asked for my phone number, but it took him ove
r a month to ring me, even though I willed him to do so, every day. He confessed later that he stumbled across it accidentally while flicking through the contacts list in his mobile phone, and that when he did find it, he’d forgotten whose number it was and just called it out of curiosity. I guess it was my lucky day.

  Putting my key in the lock, I call out as I do so, “Hi, honey, I’m home!” It’s our little joke.

  The fabulous scent of something spicy greets me. “Mmm.” I didn’t realize how hungry I was. All I’ve had to eat today is chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate—no change there, then. As I go into the living room, Marcus comes out of the kitchen. He’s wearing an apron and is brandishing a wooden spoon.

  “What are you doing here?” he says.

  “Is that the same as ‘Hello, darling, I love you’?” I say as I drop my gym bag on the floor and go over to kiss him. “That smells delicious.” I snake my arms around his waist and give him a squeeze. “I’m very impressed. You should do this more often. What’s cooking?”

  “Oh, not much,” he answers distractedly.

  “Mmm.” I trail one of my fingers along his spoon, scooping up some of the delicious sauce, and then lick my finger. “Is there enough for two?”

  “Yes. Just enough.”

  “Ooh, good.”

  He unpeels my arms from round his waist with his free hand. “Actually, I’m expecting someone.” And it wasn’t you, his tone says.

  “Oh?” Trying to hide my disappointment, I follow Marcus as he retreats into the kitchen. This is a great room, all stainless steel and frosted glass—just like my health club should be. Much too sophisticated for Marcus’s usual ready meals and takeaways. He has cupboards with nothing in them, lots of boy gadgets that he’s never used. I’m glad to see that he’s discovering the joys of cooking. While he fusses with dinner, I delve into the fridge. “Who?”

  “An old schoolfriend,” he says.

  “Mmm. My favorite.” Two small pots of dark chocolate mousse are sitting there, looking very alluring. “You made this all by yourself?”

  “Well …”

  “A man of hidden talents,” I tease him. “Any to spare?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” Marcus says.

  There’s also champagne chilling. A very nice bottle. “Is it someone special?”

  “No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Just a mate. No one you know. I thought Tuesday was your yoga night.”

  “Canceled,” I say, as I spy a bottle of red wine on the counter that’s already half drunk. “Teacher’s hurt her back.”

  “That’s not a great advert for yoga.”

  “That’s exactly what I said.” Sometimes Marcus and I are so in tune, I’m sure that we read each other’s thoughts.

  “Couldn’t you have done another class?”

  “Too tired,” I say. “Besides, I wanted to see you.” I lean my head on his shoulder as he stirs his sauce. My eyes rove over the kitchen counter to the open recipe book. “Moroccan chicken with olives. Wow. Chocolate mousse too? You’re pushing the boat out.”

  “I thought I’d make a bit of an effort. I like cooking.” The cookery book is one that I bought him for Christmas two years ago. How to Be Her Kitchen Love God. Funny that he’s never tried out any of the recipes on me.

  “What’s this?” I lift the lid on another pot.

  “Saffron-scented mashed potatoes,” he says, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Yum. That sounds glorious. I hope your friend isn’t a hamburger and chips chap.”

  He eases away from me again. “Let me just make a phone call, see if I can cancel.”

  “Don’t cancel on my behalf. I’d like to meet him. Are you sure there isn’t enough to go round? There looks to be plenty.” I’ll fight Marcus for the chocolate mousse.

  “It’d be better to do it another time.” Marcus picks up his phone and flicks up a number. “We’ll be joshing about old times. You’d be bored.”

  The bowl in which Marcus has made the chocolate mousse is discarded by the sink. Picking it up, I run my finger through the remains of the rich sauce and then stick it in my mouth, sucking greedily on the chocolate. This is good. I’d probably get my tongue in and lick the bowl out if I were alone, but I don’t want to appear too skanky “Are you saying that I’ll be in the way?”

  “Well …” Marcus says and then lets it hang in the air.

  “Okay.” I can’t help feeling a bit miserable that Marcus doesn’t want me around. He’s very funny about things like this. We hardly ever socialize with his friends or family. He prefers it to be just the two of us. I should like that, shouldn’t I? But sometimes it makes me feel as if he thinks I’m not good enough for him. Silly I know. Marcus tells me I’m a twit all the time. “I’ll only stay long enough to say hi and then I’ll disappear. I shouldn’t just have dropped in. I thought you’d be kicking around.”

  “Normally I am,” Marcus says. “But this has kind of been organized for a while.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested.” The phone continues to ring. “Voicemail,” he says with a tut. “Hi, this is Marcus. Can you call me back? Urgently. ”

  “You shouldn’t put it off I’ll go if you want me to.” I try not to sound petulant. “Can I do anything to help before I leave? Shall I set the table for you?”

  “It’s all done,” he says. “There’s really no need for you to hang around.”

  “Oh.” I haven’t even had a chance to pour myself a glass of wine yet. “Okay. There are a few bits in the bedroom that I want to take home to wash. I’ll go and get those then vamoose.”

  “Great.” Marcus gives me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe we can catch a film.”

  “That would be nice.” Even though we have to watch far too many movies starring Angelina Jolie.

  I leave the kitchen and go through to the bedroom. Wow. It looks as if Marcus has had a spring-clean in here. Everything’s spick-and-span. There are none of his clothes draped over the bed as there usually are. Even all the dirty washing is in the laundry basket. And there are candles everywhere. Lovely tall church candles in stainless-steel holders. Very classy. I root through the laundry basket and pull out my few bits and pieces.

  “The bedroom looks great,” I say when I return. “Love those candles. What on earth made you buy them?”

  Marcus flushes. For a straight guy he’s very into home furnishings—he just doesn’t like to admit it. His apartment is immaculate. There are expensive white leather sofas highlighted with red cushions, set perfectly on dark wood floors. His artwork is color coordinated and contemporary. “I was passing a shop the other day and saw them in the window,” he says. “I thought they’d look cool.”

  “They do,” I agree as I stuff my washing into the now groaning gym bag and heave it onto my shoulder. “Very romantic.” I put on my most seductive pout. “I can’t wait to try them out.”

  Then I notice that the dining-room table is set for two and that’s also looking rather romantic. There are even more candles and a small arrangement of red roses that Marcus has clearly picked up from another little shop. I can’t think of a time when he’s cooked me dinner that he’s ever put flowers on the table—not even on Valentine’s Day. Beside the roses there’s a small box of chocolates and I recognize the packaging so well. “You’ve been to Chocolate Heaven,” I say in surprise. Marcus never goes to Chocolate Heaven; he knows that’s my place, the place I go with my girls. Suddenly my heart is in my mouth.

  And that’s when the doorbell rings. Marcus freezes. As do I. “That must be your friend,” I somehow manage to say, even though my throat is trying to close.

  Marcus is clearly torn between remaining immobile and opening the door. The bell rings again.

  “Want me to get it?”

  “No,” he says. “No.”

  I stand, not knowing what to do while he slowly swings open the door. Not surprisingly, Marcus’s old schoolfriend is a petite
and extraordinarily pretty brunette. She steps into the apartment and kisses Marcus full on the lips. “Hello, darling,” she says.

  Marcus recoils slightly and casts a worried glance in my direction which his friend follows.

  “Hi,” I say, extending my hand as I try to force my face into a smile. She takes it. Her hand is cool and delicate, as slender as the rest of her. “I’m Lucy,” I continue brightly. “Marcus’s girlfriend.”

  Now it’s her turn to recoil.

  “This is my friend,Joanne,” Marcus says tightly.

  I look at my lover. “An old schoolfriend. That’s what you said, isn’t it?” I turn back to Joanne. “Which school did you go to with Marcus? Primary? Grammar? Or maybe it was the harsh school of life?”

  His old schoolfriend looks at him blankly. “I don’t know quite what’s going on here, Marcus,” she says. “But I don’t think that I want to be part of it.” She turns away from him, spinning on her heel toward the door.

  “Jo,” Marcus pleads as he catches her sleeve. “Don’t go.”

  And I think that’s my cue to leave. “Oh, Marcus,” I say sadly. “Do you have so little respect for me?”

  “I can explain,” he says, and I notice that he’s still looking at Jo rather than at me.

  “You’re welcome to stay and listen to it,” I say to Jo. “I’ll be the one to leave.” Marcus does nothing to stop me, so I hitch up my gym bag once more and move toward the door. “It’s been nice meeting you,” I say to Marcus’s new love. “You’ll enjoy your dinner. It smells wonderful. It even covers the smell of a rat. The chocolates are great, by the way. I hope you both choke on them.”

  Then I hold my head as high as I can while I walk away.

  Chapter Five

  MY FLAT IS LESS GLAMOROUS than Marcus’s—but it’s home. I live in Camden, in a teeny-tiny place above a hairdressing salon that was once run by my dearly departed mother, years ago, when she herself was a stylist. I call Mum “dearly departed” not because she’s dead, but because she’s moved to Spain. Mum—long since divorced from my fickle father—has remarried, an older and richer man, and now doesn’t work at all but spends all her time lounging around at their sumptuous villa on the Iberian peninsula and having her hair done by someone else. Frankly, I see so little of her these days that she might as well have croaked it. She still owns the Camden property and I stay here because she gives me a cheap deal on my rent and doesn’t stress too much if I accidentally forget to pay her sometimes. In return I don’t burn the place down or leave the bath overflowing like most tenants would.