The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  “She needs immediate medical attention. If we don’t get her to the hospital now she could die.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Autumn. Don’t lay that one on me.”

  “I’m trying to help you, Rich.”

  “You could drive her.”

  “I haven’t driven in ten years. More. This isn’t the time to start again.”

  “Shit,” Rich said. “If someone sees you they might be able to trace the car anyway.”

  “What exactly have you been doing, Rich?”

  “Let’s get her into a cab,” he said, avoiding the question. “We can drop her right at the door.” Her brother was sweating profusely. He pulled a crumpled T-shirt over his head. “Trust me, it’s the right thing to do. You have to protect me.”

  “Get her dressed,” Autumn said, and she went into the bathroom. She ran cold water onto a flannel and took it back to Rosie.

  The girl was now sitting on the edge of the bed, propped against the pillows, and her brother had somehow managed to put her back into her little flirty skirt. He was currently fastening up her blouse. Autumn was relieved to see that some color had come back into her cheeks. She wiped round the girl’s face with the cold flannel and her eyes flickered to life. “Good girl, Rosie,” Autumn said, cupping the young woman’s elfin face in her hands. “Stay with us. We’re going to take you to the hospital.”

  Rosie murmured a reply but it was unintelligible. Her brother paced the floor. “Help me to get her downstairs,” Autumn instructed.

  “I’ll carry her,” Richard said. He was suddenly a lot more sober and coherent. He swept Rosie into his arms and Autumn led the way as he staggered behind her.

  “Wait here while I hail a cab,” Autumn said. She thought that if they stood there with a sick-looking woman who couldn’t even stand up, then it was highly likely that most cabs would drive by. Against the odds, it was only moments before one pulled up next to her and Autumn opened the door. “Can I go to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, please?” she shouted to the cab driver, then she waved to Rich who came out with Rosie in his arms.

  “She doesn’t look too good,” the cab driver noted.

  “She isn’t,” Autumn said. “She’s had way too much to drink.” She shot Rich an accusatory look. “We need to get there as soon as we can.”

  “You young people love your binge drinking,” the driver observed with a shake of his head. Nevertheless, he put his foot down and minutes later they pulled up outside the hospital.

  “Take her in while I pay the driver,” Autumn instructed.

  Richard hoisted Rosie over his arm while he took her to the door and set her down. The girl’s legs buckled beneath her, but she managed to stay upright. “You’ll be fine now,” he said, holding onto her hands and trying to make contact with her flickering eyes. “Tell them what you’ve taken, but don’t say where you got it from if they ask.” He eased her toward the door. “There’s a good girl, Rosie.”

  Her eyes focused briefly and she said hoarsely, “It’s Daisy.” Rich let go of her and she stumbled and weaved her way into the hospital.

  Autumn came up behind him. “You haven’t just left her alone like that?” she said. “We’ve got to make sure she’s okay.”

  She went to push past him into the hospital reception, but Richard held her arms. “She’s fine,” her brother said. His voice was strained with anxiety. “She can walk and she was just talking to me. In fact, she probably doesn’t even need to be here. We caught her just at the right time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Her brother avoided her eyes.

  “My God,” Autumn gasped. “You’ve been in this situation before.”

  “She said she was a regular user,” her brother whined. “Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she took too much. Maybe the booze didn’t agree with her.”

  “And maybe you’re lucky she didn’t die in your bed!” Autumn said.

  Richard hung his head.

  “Don’t ever put me in this situation again, Rich,” she said sharply. “You have no idea how badly I feel about doing this. If anything happens to that girl, I’ll never be able to live with myself.” It was terrifying to think that if she hadn’t followed her instincts and had gone instead to have dinner with Addison, this girl might not have made it. Christ, couldn’t she leave Richard alone for a minute without him doing something stupid?

  “I’ll call her later,” he said sulkily. “Make sure she’s all right.”

  “You’re all heart.” At this moment she couldn’t even believe that they were related to each other—their principles were so entirely different. And in trying to protect her brother, she had compromised herself.

  “Can we go home now?” Richard asked dolefully. “I’ll hail a cab.”

  It had started to rain and the day was chilly and gray. It suited Autumn’s mood. “You can walk,” she said. “It will do you good.” All she wanted to do was get home and eat lots and lots of chocolate, and she didn’t give a fig what her brother thought about that.

  Chapter Thirty

  I’M LEAPING AROUND THE LIVING room with Davina McCall. She seems to be making a better fist of it than I am, but then she’s probably being paid a squillion pounds to feature in her own exercise DVD, whereas I am not. I’m doing this under the utmost sufferance. The amount of chocolate I’ve consumed recently is beginning to settle on my hips and that is not a good look. This morning, the waistband on my skirt nearly garroted me. Why is it that weight never settles on my boobs, where I could do with a bit of extra help? Why are calories preprogrammed to go straight to the lower half of your body?

  I could do all of these exercise classes at my gym, but I find the place so demoralizing that I can’t bear it. All the women who do the classes there can keep up with the instructors and I can’t. I so don’t get my money’s worth out of that place. My reasoning is, if I do all of these exercise DVDs at home then I can eventually get in shape enough to risk a class at the gym. Seems fair to me. I have an extensive selection to choose from. I can Pump It Up! with the sickeningly fit women from the Eric Prydz music video—which, if you ask me, is more porn than Pilates and the most depressing exercise workout known to man. They are all so athletic and lithe I’m sure it has the reverse effect on my psyche. Why bother to do any exercise at all if you don’t have a hope in hell of ever looking like that? Poor mortals like me can only get halfway through all those pelvic thrustings. I’m in severe danger of dislocating both of my hips every time I try it. Anyway, their leg warmers are so eighties. When I get fed up with them—and it doesn’t take long—I can also salsa with Angela Griffin—“How I danced away two stone in just two months!” Of course you did, dear. I can do the Ultimate Challenge, Ultimate Results pain fest with Nell McAndrew. Or I can pretend I’m punching Marcus’s lights out and do my Tae Bo with Billy Blanks’s DVD—Get Fit, Lose Weight, Have Fun, Be Strong. Build the body of a heavyweight boxer.

  See, Davina? When I get sick of you, I can just move on. I can throw you in the cupboard and pick out another one. If only it were so easy with boyfriends. … Uh-oh. This is the fat-burning section, and this is the bit that kills me the most. I’m glad that the hairdressing salon beneath my flat has closed for the night as it must sound like there’s a herd of elephants dancing on the ceiling. I thump around doing my star jumps, my knee lifts and my lunges, huffing and puffing, red in the face and sweating. My hair is plastered flat to my forehead and, frankly, I have damp patches in places that you don’t want damp patches. This is why I prefer yoga. It may not be so good for burning up the calories, but you don’t get yourself all worked up into a lather either. There’s a certain serenity about it. I already know that, come tomorrow morning, I won’t be able to move my thighs, they’ll be so tender. I stop to have a quick, restorative bite of Twix to keep my energy up.

  “Come on!” Davina urges me from the screen. “Just eight more! Eight … Seven …”

  Smug bitch. I hate all her slick black exercise gear—particula
rly when all I have is ratty old track bottoms and a cast-off T-shirt with a Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia stain forming an attractive pattern down the front. I huff and puff a bit more. I bet they recorded this DVD over the course of several days so that she only had to do five minutes at a time and, here she is, pretending that she’s struggling along with the rest of us. There’s not a hair out of place and that sheen of perspiration on her brow has probably just been sprayed on by her personal assistant. She’s not fit—she’s got a damn good editor, that’s all. Call me a jealous old tart, because I’d actually like to be Davina—rich, successful, not too shabby in the looks department and able to do sixteen sit-ups without going purple. I finish the last bite of Twix. Still, at least, Davina is the shape of a real woman—as am I—and isn’t one of these stick-thin, lollipop heads whose BMI is more akin to a shoe size. I really hate those.

  In the middle of all this torture, my doorbell rings. “Get lost,” I gasp at the door. It will be someone trying to sell me cheap double glazing, cheap gas, cheap electricity or one of those cheap restaurant loyalty cards. I don’t need any of them. I need nothing in my life but chocolate. The doorbell rings again. No one of any note ever visits me, so there’s really no point in me even opening it.

  Then Davina decides to increase the speed of the fat-burning section, punishing me further, and I decide that it might be a good idea to have a quick breather after all. I take my bottle of water and glug some down as I go to the door in the vain hope that I might be able to speak to my caller. When I open the door, Marcus is standing there. If I wasn’t speechless from exercising, I’d be speechless anyway. He’s leaning on the door frame, looking very cute and not a little repentant. His brown eyes are limpid pools of sorrow.

  “Hi, Lucy,” he says.

  “Hi.” No other words will come out. I pant attractively at him.

  “I thought we could talk,” he says. “You haven’t returned my calls, so I decided to pop round.”

  “I’m busy, Marcus.” We both take in my appearance. It doesn’t compare well to the immaculately groomed and petite Joanne who is my current love rival.

  “It looks like hard work,” my ex-boyfriend says.

  “I’m trying to keep fit.”

  “Very admirable.” Marcus purses his lips at me in a pitiful manner. “Have you eaten?”

  Before I can think of a lie, I shake my head and say, “No.” One measly Twix hardly counts as eating.

  “You could let me buy you Chinese and apologize for my appalling behavior.”

  I could. But wouldn’t that get me back on the same old treadmill that I’ve spent so long trying to get off? I sigh in lieu of an answer.

  “Why don’t I come in and wait for you while you jump in the shower?”

  Is he saying that I smell? I try to sniff surreptitiously at my underarms while my insecurities go into overdrive.

  Marcus smiles widely at me. “What do you say?”

  I’m not strong enough to fight this on my own. I am a feeble bar of Dairy Milk to Marcus’s searing blowtorch charm. Less than five minutes and I’m already melting. I can hardly stand the thought of Marcus sitting around in my living room while I’m naked and wet in the shower in the next room, so I say, “Go down to the Lotus Blossom.” I sound weary. We’ve eaten there many times before. I used to think of it as “our place.” “I’ll come down in a few minutes.”

  Reluctantly, Marcus eases himself away from my door. “Don’t be long, Lucy. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Have we? When he’s gone, I lean against the door myself for a minute. Should I phone the Chocolate Lovers’ Club for some backup? None of the girls live near Camden and, if my usual track record is anything to go by, I’ll be in bed playing hide the sausage with Marcus before they even arrive. No. I have to do this alone. I have to be strong. I do not have to sleep with Marcus. I do not have to let him sweet-talk his way back into my life. If I had any sense, I’d carry on bouncing around like a demented loony with good old Davina McCall and leave Marcus waiting, all alone, in the restaurant. If I had any sense. That’s what I’d do.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  MARCUS IS ALREADY SITTING AT a table drinking a Tsingtao beer when I arrive at the Lotus Blossom twenty minutes later. I join him and order a beer for myself. Why not just replace all of those calories I tried so hard to work off in one fell swoop? The restaurant is busy and we’re seated near the window, squashed in between another couple who seem to be arguing and two blowsy middle-aged women laughing raucously. This cannot, in any way, compete with my wonderful, grown-up, sophisticated date with Jacob Lawson at the Savoy Hotel and I take some small comfort in that fact.

  I ran round the shower in a frenzy after Marcus left, but I’ve deliberately downplayed my appearance. I forced myself not to glam up for him. He doesn’t deserve it, I tell myself. The hair is still damp—no styling products have graced it. I’ve gone for the natural look and a cursory flick of mascara is all that adorns my eyelashes. I’m in my old jeans and I’ve just pulled on a plain black jumper. I hope he appreciates how little effort I’ve made for him.

  “You look great,” Marcus says huskily.

  Damn. The funny thing is, whenever I used to go out with Marcus, I never felt that I looked good enough for him. Now I just don’t care. Not really. Well, not very much.

  “Shall we order?” he says. “Do you want your usual?”

  I’m annoyed that he thinks he knows what my “usual” is and also that I’m so predictable. “That’s fine,” I say, and wait to see what he requests.

  “I’ll have satay beef and the lady will have chicken chow mein. And we’ll have some special fried rice and some prawn crackers.”

  Bum. It’s probably fair to say that I might have ordered that. Marcus smiles at me. He’s really on his best behavior tonight and I wonder why he can’t be like this all of the time. One of those heaters with candles in them is plonked on the table between us.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” Marcus says.

  “I’ve been thinking about you too,” I reply. “I do hope that we haven’t been thinking the same things.”

  My ex-boyfriend has the courtesy to look suitably mortified. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

  He’s right. I do.

  “I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t serious with Jo.”

  “But it was serious enough to discard our relationship for it?”

  “That was the only night we spent together,” he continues. “That fateful night.” He looks like he might laugh ruefully about it, but my warning gaze tells him that I still don’t find this funny. “We haven’t seen each other since.”

  “Whose idea was it, Marcus? Did she dump you, or did you dump her? From where I was standing, it looked like I was the one you were in a rush to get rid of.”

  He takes my hand. His fingers feel like those of a stranger. Are these the same hands that not much more than a week ago could bring my body to the very heights of ecstasy? Now I don’t know whether I ever want them near me again.

  “I can’t believe I behaved like that,” he says.

  But the sad and awful thing is that I can believe it. I can believe it all too well.

  “We ended it by mutual agreement,” he says.

  “How jolly civilized.”

  The waiter brings us our food and we busy ourselves with dishing it out. I could go on forever like this with Marcus. We always seem so happy and then, out of the blue, as soon as some woman bats her pretty eyelashes at him he forgets all about me and love and commitment, and goes chasing after her. In the meantime I sit around on the sidelines, licking my wounds and waiting until he comes back. He’s so handsome and he’s great fun when he wants to be, but this could be my pattern for the rest of my life if I allow it to be. I can’t even summon up the necessary energy to find out how this particular fling started.

  “I only want you, Lucy,” he says. “You know that.”

  “You know,” I tell him flatly,
“I don’t. How would I know that when all of your actions tell me otherwise?”

  “If you want commitment then I can do that.”

  If I want commitment. When was that ever in doubt? “What if one day when I’m older and grayer and it isn’t so easy to pick up the shattered pieces of my life, what if you still can’t say no to other women? What if you do find one that you like better? What happens to me then?”

  “That won’t be the case.” Sincerity positively shines out from his eyes. “It would never be the case.”

  How I would love to believe all of his sugar-coated lies. Usually the food is good here, but my chow mein tastes bland and loaded with MSG. It’s weighing heavily in my stomach, just as Marcus’s spiel is weighing heavily on my heart. This week has shown me that I can actually feel better about myself when I’m without Marcus than when I’m with him.

  “You had your revenge.” Marcus smiles good-naturedly.

  I wanted him to be spitting blood, not sitting there taking it on the chin, but then I wonder if he’s identified the origin of the whiff that by now must be permeating his flat. How on earth can I drop the question casually into the conversation? Smelled any rancid prawns recently, Marcus?

  “We can go over old ground,” he says, “but what I’d rather do is forget all about it. Move on.”

  “I have forgotten about it. I have moved on.” The surprise registers on Marcus’s face. I push my unfinished meal to one side. It was a mistake to come here. It was a mistake to listen to what Marcus had to say.

  I sit back in my chair. “I’m seeing someone else now. Someone who treats me like a princess.” I think back to my night with Jacob. He was lovely. Polite. Presentable. Romantic. He wants to see me again. Since our chocolate evening, he’s texted me a dozen times a day. Nothing slushy, but perky messages that have warmed my heart. We’ve got a date arranged for Monday night—a poetry reading at a new bookstore. I look at Marcus. Is he really any great shakes? Would he even think to arrange fab dates like that for me? Would we be sitting in a cheap Chinese restaurant in Camden if he truly wanted to win my heart back? Shouldn’t he have made more effort? One bunch of roses and a bit of chicken chow mein and he thinks that’s enough to make up for his betrayal? I can’t help feeling that he’s complacent about my love.