I miss being loved.
In one of my self-help books, there’s a long list of Dos and Don’ts. Turns out I’ve already done all the Don’ts with James: Don’t call him. Don’t see him. Don’t self-destruct. Don’t compound your problems by messing up at work. Don’t date on the rebound. Don’t park outside his house (okay, I made Pete do that one, but that’s probably even worse). Don’t lie in bed for two weeks with dirty hair on dirty sheets. Don’t eat puddings out of the bin.
I think often of that day James and I went to the Tate. I live in that day. Not because of the sex, not because of the cake James bought me. But because of the way I felt en route to meet him – my best self, full of joy, full of hope.
I go to my wardrobe and look at the white cotton sundress I wore. It wouldn’t fit me now, I’m sure. I take it out and hold it up to the light. There are still tiny sparkles of silver glitter caught up in the hem. I take a Fletchers plastic bag from my kitchen and shove the dress into the bag, along with the purple dress I wore on our first date, the red sundress I wore the day James drove to Sheffield to win me back, and the jeans I wore the last night I saw James and shagged him in his car. Oxfam can have the lot, as long as they promise not to put any of it on display in the window.
Within a week of being back at work, I figure it’s time to find new employment for two reasons.
Firstly, I need a job where eating multiple free meals a day is not an option. The weight has been creeping up ever since I picked myself up from Laura’s hall floor. My trousers tell me I’ve put on a dress size. I tell my trousers to stop talking to me.
I am now a massive size 12. Two years ago, I’d have been happy being a 12. But six months ago, I was an 8. Size 12 means James was right and I can’t let him be right. I need to do something drastic, and soon.
Yesterday I gatecrashed two Phase 4 meetings before noon: Halloween Potato Snacking and Moultry Newness. (Moultry – Devron’s joint venture between our meat and poultry departments.) In the Moultry Newness, I almost spat in the cup for the first time in my career after eating a mouthful of chicken stuffed with pork belly and brie. Trust me, those textures in combo do not a happy three-way make.
Secondly, I need a new job because I have way too much time to fill. I am not exactly employee of the month and Devron has avoided handing me back any real responsibility. I have large chunks of the day where I sit at my desk, taking handfuls of wasabi peas from a large jar: Russian roulette for the nose, little balls of self-harm, the masochist’s best friend. I sit, I eat, and I continue to cyberstalk Noushka’s every move. Unwise.
Today I’m suffering from a particularly virulent attack of the Googles. Noushka’s been twittering like a songbird in the last few weeks. ‘In Sardinia,’ ‘In the penthouse at The Mercer,’ ‘In the presidential suite at the Burj Al Arab’. James swore he’d never go to Dubai.
Any day now I’m going to have to stop stalking her.
I decide to google something more constructive. I type various loser combinations that my IT department will no doubt have a field day over: ‘instantly thin + fat-farms + spanx’; ‘when will it ever end + lunch-break liposuction’; and finally ‘get sane in 24 hours’.
Up pops ‘Dr Dannika’s Guide to Getting Your Life Back’. Sounds promising; well, more so than a teabag.
‘I’m Dr Donna Dannika and I believe in TOUGH LOVE. In the twenty-three years I’ve been helping clients, many of them truly damaged along life’s highways, the one thing I have seen, time and time again, is that women will put up with a whole WORLD of bullcrap, just for the sake of a relationship.’
Even though her name sounds like a drunken Irish jig, I like her already.
‘Let me tell you: no man in the WORLD is worth losing your self-respect over. Heck, no man in the world is worth losing a night’s sleep over.
I love and respect men. But that’s because I LOVE AND RESPECT ME MORE.
My husband Kevan has brought me breakfast in bed every morning for the last twenty-one years. Am I the most beautiful woman in the world? To Kevan, yes. Because true beauty comes from SELF-BELIEF. Every day, while Kevan is flipping my pancakes, I say to myself Donna – YOU ARE AWESOME. I LOVE you, Donna. I VALUE you, Donna. You are UNIQUE.
Say it loud now. Say it: I am AWESOME.’
Eddie’s at lunch. I look over the top of my screen to check if Lisa has her headphones on. Yes. I should try it. And I get as far as saying ‘I am …’ when a message pops up on screen.
From Noushka’s Twitter-alert.
The worst three words in the English language: Noushka is engaged!
The thing I fear most has happened. He’s committed: just not to me. She won. She’s better than me. I hate her. Please let me stop hating her. She has come to represent everything that isn’t good enough about me in human form.
Except that when I cross-reference to her blog I see the man in the pictures is not tall and dark, with a big nose and a beautiful smile. He is short and dark and middle-Eastern, and the two of them look very happy together.
And for the first time in a long time I feel almost okay.
Not because James is now free.
But because I am.
Time for a celebration.
I ask Lisa if she has a spare cigarette.
‘I thought you’d given up,’ she says.
‘Uh-huh, just the one.’
‘I’ll join you.’
It’s hot outside, the middle of May. How did that happen?
‘So, where have you been for a month?’ says Lisa, lighting my fag.
‘Having a mini nervous breakdown and waiting for my anti-depressants to kick in,’ I say, smiling nervously.
‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Which ones?’
‘Citalopram.’
‘20mg?’
‘Bingo.’
She high-fives me.
‘How long have you been on them?’ I say.
‘Two and a half years.’ She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘So, is this all about that guy you were involved with?’ she says.
I nod. I explain the three-second version: girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl loses mind.
‘What did you do when you found the Russian in his house?’ she says.
‘Lay on the bathroom floor. Binge ate. Cried.’
‘But what did you do to him?’
I never really thought about revenge; revenge for what? Yes, he lied to me. I lied to myself – I pretended that everything was okay, when part of me knew it wasn’t. He didn’t love me enough. Along the way, I feel like he pulled my legs off one by one, like a fly under glass. But I flew under that glass, and I stayed under it. I could have gotten out with a few legs left. Instead I waited until I was just a dot.
‘Didn’t you stick his CD collection on eBay?’
Not a huge market for heavily played Dido …
‘I gave all Greg’s favourite clothes to Oxfam,’ she says.
‘I gave all my favourite clothes to Oxfam …’
That’s the thing. I don’t think James meant to hurt me. In fact, I’ve hurt me more than he ever did.
‘And, I had sex with Greg’s best friend. And I emailed all Greg’s staff, telling them how I’d once found him wanking off to a picture of Margaret Thatcher.’
‘Did it help?’ I say.
‘For twelve minutes. The only thing that helps is time.’
‘How much time?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ she says.
They say the best revenge is living well.
I suspect that doesn’t encompass sitting in a meeting with Devron and Tom, arguing about the packaging of Fat Bird! custard.
‘Right, we need some fresh, original ideas,’ says Devron.
‘I was reading in Marketing Week about Gü’s new range, packaging’s wicked,’ says Tom.
‘Great, get that in and see if we can do a me-too.’
‘Sorry, Devron, I thought you said original?’ I say.
‘And aren’t you going to Paris with Apple
tree for your inspiration trip?’ says Devron.
‘… Yeah, in a few weeks. Why?’
‘With Will Slater?
‘And …?’
‘Right – you can nick some ideas from the French. And pick Will’s brains too, he’s smart, for a supplier.’
‘I thought you wanted something fresh?’ Not stolen.
‘Julie’s working on illustrations for the labels, of three cute little fat birds. I told her to do a redhead, a blond and a brunette, Mandy’s idea actually …’
‘Devron, you aren’t seriously still thinking of calling it Fat Bird?’
‘Here we go, Germaine Greer …’ he says, rolling his eyes at Tom.
‘The research says Fat Bird! has huge recall,’ says Tom.
‘So would Shithead Custard, Tom, it’s an awful name.’
‘Sophie!’ says Devron.
‘Sorry. But I think Fat Bird is offensive. And derivative and stupid and unappealing.’
‘Your opinion goes against the research,’ says Devron.
‘You, your girlfriend and Tom? That’s research, is it?’ I say.
‘JFDI,’ says Tom.
I know I’ve only been back a week from my extended trip to La La Land, but I really think I need another holiday.
I return to my desk, click back on Google and take my credit card out of my wallet.
That night James calls.
How funny that he should call on the same day Noushka announces her engagement. No such thing as a coincidence, isn’t that what Freud says? Maybe he’s following me following her on Twitter and knows that I know.
Lord no. Men don’t sink to the depths that women do; not men like James.
When I see his number come up, my heart leaps to my collarbone. God, how I wish my body would obey Laura’s mind. Stay cool. Turn my back.
I pick up on the fourth ring.
‘We should meet,’ he says. There is a thin but definite layer of sadness to his voice, like the crispy edge on a chocolate mini egg.
‘Why should we meet?’
‘I think we have some unfinished business,’ he says, ever the romantic.
‘Do we?’
‘Soph. I know you think there was something going on between me and her …’ He can’t even bring himself to say her name. She must have wounded him.
‘She’s irrelevant,’ I say. She always was; she was a symptom, not the cause.
‘Yes. Well, anyway, I’d like to make dinner for you next week.’
‘Bad timing,’ I say. ‘I’ve just booked flights an hour ago, I’m off this Sunday.’
‘Where to?’
‘Italy.’ Sounds a tad cooler than ‘a fat farm in Italy for women with eroded self-esteem’.
‘When are you back?’
‘Next weekend.’
‘Okay, the following Monday.’
‘Busy.’
‘Tuesday.’
‘No.’
‘Wednesday.’
‘In Paris with a supplier on Wednesday.’
‘Thursday.’
This is why James is so good at making money. If he senses the slightest opportunity, he’ll pounce.
If this goes to Round Three, he thinks he’s going to win. But I’ve finally figured out the way he plays. And I know exactly how I can win.
‘A week on Thursday,’ I say. ‘But I’m not coming to your house. I’ll text you where on the day.’
Icing
1. noun – a sugar preparation, the finishing touch to a cake or biscuit
2. noun – an unexpected bonus
I have a mountain to climb: literal not metaphorical. Or ‘una montagna,’ as the locals call it. The old lady who runs this farmhouse claims it’s merely a large hill: ‘una alta collina’. Trust me, it is not una alta collina. But either way, we’re not climbing it till day five, and it’s only day one.
It feels like I’ve been here a very long time already.
Boot camp.
So not my idea of fun. And that’s exactly why I’m doing it: push myself out of the comfort zone. Get fit, get strong and get over it.
To clarify: this isn’t soft bathrobes, massages, five light meals a day. No, this is sweat. And right here’s where you start paying. In cash. Lots of cash, for 12-hours-a-day cardio, taught by two ex-SAS tough nuts: Big Tony and Grant. No fluff, no frills. Oh, and no food.
When we arrived around lunchtime we were weighed. Ten minutes later we were fed two oatcakes and half a beaker of vegetable stock: a ‘halfway stage’ in getting our stomachs used to smaller portions. Halfway? No way.
You want more masochism? Okay! Did I mention we’re in Italy? Home of cannoli and cannelloni, focaccia, mozzarella, gelato, mascarpone. Where tomatoes actually taste like tomatoes. Not that we’re allowed tomatoes. Too much sugar, apparently. Tomatoes are ‘bad’.
Also ‘bad’: carbs (not true), caffeine (fuck right off) dairy (), booze.
Our daily treat: a 1-inch square of dark chocolate.
Our time is cut up into neat little squares too. One hour PT. Twenty minutes press-ups. Two minutes to fill water bottles. They never tell you what’s coming up till the end of the ordeal you’re currently on. That’s intended to keep you focussed on your abs or your lats. Stay in the now! Just as well – if I knew what was going to be forced upon me with more than a minute’s notice, I’d think of forty-three different excuses why I couldn’t do it.
My fellow inmates: Jojo (Go-Go) – already a tri-athlete, feels she must tri-harder; Sephonie – Fulham’s very own Paris Hilton; Mary – overweight, kind, 48; Hildegunn – likes the outdoors.
I’m lying in bed at the end of day one. I’m sharing a room with Mary; we were the last two to book. (Along with Ton of Fun Tom telling me to ‘Just Fucking Do It’, my tipping point was when my size 12 black cords started slicing into the top of my hips.) When I told Laura I was going to boot camp, she pointed out that I’d spent all of last year being bullied by a man about my weight, now I’m paying to have two men do the same?
After lunch, and I mean five minutes after, we were made to hike up a very steep hill, twice. It was extremely warm, and although we were barked at to ‘hydrate’, I don’t think Mary drank enough water. She’s looking peaky now.
After the hike we had twenty minutes of Swim Sprint. Hideous.
‘Count your lengths today, then we’ll do swim test on the last day and you all have to beat your scores,’ says Big Tony.
Go-Go claps with delight.
Then we had ‘dinner’ (two bites of chicken stew, seven green beans), and I had my first tantrum. I asked Big Tony for more vegetables. He explained the ‘regime’ was strictly calorie controlled. I explained that I knew more about nutrition than he did, as it’s what I do for a living, and that it was extremely bad for a body to eat so few calories while expending so many. He told me to stop arguing and drink a glass of water, and that if I really wanted, I could have a slice of lemon in it.
I’m glad he didn’t give us more food: five minutes after putting down our forks we were made to sprint up and down the netball court for an hour.
So now Mary and I are in our twin beds. I’m feeling angry that this place costs £200 a night. Mary is feeling sick.
Mary is now being sick. Mary is projectile vomiting, and I am running around like a lunatic, trying to find a bin for her to yak in, and eventually I find one but she has unfortunately puked all over my bed, her bed, our floor, her hair and my trainers.
‘How could you puke up so much food? We only ate three mouthfuls,’ I say after I’ve put her in the shower and helped her clean herself up.
‘I’m so so sorry,’ she says.
‘Don’t apologise. They should moderate the course based on people’s fitness.’
I call Big Tony and ask him to arrange for our bedroom to be cleaned, but of course the maid only comes in the morning, so Mary and I sleep in the lounge on two lumpy old sofas. ‘You pushed her too hard,’ I say to Big Tony.
‘It’s the body’s natural
reaction to a jump start, she’ll be fine in the morning.’
Day 2. Boot camp. Fall In.
Mary has been taken to the local hospital, suffering from severe dehydration. According to Big Tony, Mary’s ‘incident’ has nothing whatsoever to do with the exercise she did, nor the food she did or did not eat – she was just a bit hot in the sun. If she’s gone, can I have her chocolate rations, please?
‘Girls, dehydration is a very serious problem,’ says Big Tony. ‘Make sure you keep your water bottles filled. Signs of dehydration include dry lips, headache, dark urine, the inability to produce tears.’
Inability to produce tears: I want me some of that.
And then there were four. Four makes ‘falling in’ easier. Before each session, Big Tony screams ‘Fall in’, and we have to race to stand in front of him in two rows of two, like trained dogs at the world’s most boring dog show.
We were meant to fall in at 6.30am today, but Sephonie shows up late in her D&G tracksuit, and Big Tony makes us all do twenty press-ups to underline the importance of punctuality. We’re a team. If one person fucks up, we all pay.
Then we do an hour of cardio, then we climb another bloody big hill, and now it’s netball!
I was never sporty at school. In games class, Gaby Adler and I tried to out-gross each other in our excuses to Mr Harcourt, gym teacher, and later convicted paedo. We moved through ‘lady problems’ to ‘irritating itches’ to ‘severe seepage’. After Gaby claimed a full-on fistula, he hung his head in defeat and told us not to bother showing up again. Instead we spent Wednesday afternoons tarring our 14-year-old lungs with Silk Cut in McDonalds. Happy days.
But within a few minutes of playing netball I get in to it. Team games are fun! You have to use your brain a bit, you almost forget you’re doing exercise! I’m paired with Hildegunn and we’re doing pretty well until Go-Go throws Sephonie the ball, I leap to intercept, and Sephonie pushes me over, hard.
I pick myself up from the gravel and laugh it off. But my left knee is throbbing and swollen, and my right knee is grazed quite deeply.
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