by Lucy Diamond
I got out of bed feeling thoroughly sick of myself. ‘Paul? Paul!’ I called, putting on my dressing gown and tying the belt. It only just did up around the middle these days. ‘Wait!’
He was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. ‘Sorry,’ I said, sliding my arms around him. ‘I know you were being nice. I’m just an ungrateful old bag.’
‘Garrrrhhh,’ he said through the toothpaste.
‘So how about I treat you to a DVD tonight instead of a Chinese?’ I went on. ‘You can choose. Even some godawful sci-fi thing if you want.’ I winked at him in the mirror and pinched his bum. ‘That’s how much I love you.’
He grinned and rinsed his mouth, then started singing ‘Eye of the Tiger’ at me, pretending to box an imaginary punch-bag.
I sighed. ‘Even Rocky,’ I said.
‘No, you pillock,’ he laughed, drying his face on the towel and rolling his eyes. ‘That was meant to be an impression of you at the gym, throwing mighty punches.’
I gave him a look. ‘I’ll be throwing mighty punches at you, if you don’t watch out,’ I warned him, but I was laughing too, especially when he skidded on the bath mat after an overenthusiastic right hook.
And so it was that, at five to four, I went back into the Leisure Complex of Doom. The very first person I saw as I waddled through the reception area was the nice girl who’d tried to comfort me in the cafe last week, the one I’d seen at FatBusters. I tried to shrink into the wall as best as an overweight person can, not wanting to be seen, but I needn’t have worried. This time she was the one with tears rolling down her face as she spoke into her phone. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Charlie,’ she was saying as she walked past me. ‘Oh, don’t! I’m sorry! Please—’
I hesitated, wondering whether to hang around in case she finished the call and needed a tissue (I owed her one after all), but she disappeared out of the main doors, still weeping. Oh dear. There was something about this place that reduced women to tears, clearly. I hoped I wouldn’t be leaving in a flood of sobs again.
I put my handbag in the locker and trudged towards the gym reception area, feeling queasy with nerves. I dreaded bumping into Jacob, especially as presumably he’d had a ticking off from his boss on my behalf. He wasn’t going to thank me for that, was he? He’d probably look at me with even more disdain, if that were possible, as if I was something disgusting he’d just found on the sole of his designer trainer …
‘Mrs Lawson?’ A friendly voice interrupted my train of thought.
I blinked and realized I’d reached the gym entrance. ‘Yes,’ I said hurriedly to the tall, dark-haired man who was smiling at me from behind the desk. ‘That’s me. Maddie.’
‘Hi, Maddie,’ said the man, holding out a hand. He was wearing a polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms, and had brown eyes and straight white teeth. ‘I’m Mike, manager of the gym. I’ve spoken to your mother, and gather you had rather an unpleasant time here last weekend.’
I nodded, embarrassment burning my cheeks as we shook hands. Oh God. Did we have to go over that again?
‘Well, I’m extremely sorry about that,’ he said, his eyes meeting mine. ‘Extremely sorry. We pride ourselves on our customer care, and it sounds as if you were badly let down.’ He turned sideways to where a doorway led into an office of some sort, and called to a girl with short blonde hair. ‘Catherine, could you hold the fort, please? I’m going to take Mrs Lawson into the interview room.’ He turned back to me. ‘We can talk in private there.’
Already it was so different. He was polite to me, respectful. He looked me in the eye, talked to me as a proper person rather than an embarrassment in Lycra and gleaming, barely-used trainers.
Back we went to the hateful room where Jacob had made me feel such a loser.
‘I want to start again, Maddie,’ Mike said, once the door was shut. ‘Not with the weighing and measuring,’ he added quickly as a look of horror appeared on my face. ‘I mean, your relationship with us. We failed you last time, and I promise that won’t happen again. We’re on the same side, you and I, we want the same things – which is for you to be happy and healthy, and to achieve your goals. Right?’
I nodded. ‘Right.’
‘So you tell me – what is it you want to get out of coming here? And, in an ideal situation, what do you hope for?’
I was on the verge of making a crack about hoping for global peace and an end to third-world poverty, but his brown eyes were so earnest, I didn’t have the heart. Instead, I found myself telling him about the school sports day, FatBusters, and my son not wanting me to die.
‘Good,’ he said, when I’d finally finished. ‘That’s excellent motivation to keep you on the straight and narrow from here on in. Regular exercise combined with your new diet will mean you see results in no time. But all in moderation, okay? I want you to take it slowly to begin with.’
I nodded, relieved that he didn’t want me to launch in at the deep end. Taking it slowly sounded much more my cup of Tetley.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘Let’s get cracking on your new programme. And I’m with you every step of the way, Maddie, just remember that.’
He was good at his job, Mike. He was polite, attentive and seemed to know intuitively when to push me and when to back off. After the first half-hour, I stopped feeling self-conscious about the way I looked, and just did what he told me, even when it involved rolling back and forth on a giant gym ball like an overgrown baby. He rolled around on one next to me to keep me company, chatting away about how this was strengthening my core muscles and doing wonders for my balance. I was red-faced and slightly breathless by this point, having done the warm-up on the bike, a ten-minute walk on the treadmill and a series of exercises on the scary-looking machines, but if he noticed I was knackered, he was nice enough not to let on.
After the longest ten minutes of my entire life on the cross-trainer, just as my thighs were starting to scream with agony and I was sweating so much I thought I might actually drown, he said (thank God) that that was enough for a first time. ‘You’ve done brilliantly,’ he said warmly. ‘Well done, Maddie.’
My legs were shaking as I stepped off the machine, but I was filled with a ridiculous burst of pride and pleasure at his words. I gulped back the water he gave me as if it was the best drink I’d ever had in my life.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked. ‘Apart from tired, I mean. How are you feeling in your head?’
I smiled at him, endorphins surging around my aching body and giving me a rush of sudden happiness. ‘I feel great,’ I said, surprised at my own words. I laughed. ‘I feel really great!’
And at that moment I thought to myself, Maybe I can do this after all.
Chapter Six
Punch
Jess
The South Beach diet, the cabbage soup diet, the GI diet, the Atkins diet … I’d tried them all in the last couple of years. I’d read the books, I’d bought the food, I’d looked at myself in the mirror and promised myself that this time would be different. This time I would have the will power to become slim and fabulous, the size ten I’d been back when I’d first met Charlie.
It never worked. Give it a few days of grapefruit or foul-smelling soup or cottage bloody cheese, and I was always despairing. I felt ill and tired, rather than glowing with health and radiance, miserable that I couldn’t have a glass of wine, and envious of colleagues stuffing themselves with carbohydrates. My stomach would be rumbling, my mind would be completely obsessed with bacon butties or cakes, and the diet, which had seemed so appealing and easy at first, now seemed like utter torture.
Then the chocolate craving would begin and, try as I might to block out the desire, I simply wasn’t able to think about anything else. Purple Cadbury’s wrappers would dance about in my brain, whispering to me all the way from the newsagent. Jess … Jess … Buy me, unwrap me, eat me … I am so delicious, you know you want me, Jess!
The problem was, by that point, I was so worn down by the constant
gnawing hunger I was no longer able to resist. I couldn’t tune out the voices, the cravings. I couldn’t say no.
And so, even though I knew I would hate myself later for it, I’d have to go out, drawn by my own pathetic greed, and buy a Crunchie or a Fruit & Nut or a Mars bar. Sometimes all three.
I’d be salivating as I handed over the money, already imagining unwrapping the shiny paper, raising the bar to my lips and letting my mouth close around its smooth, sweet chocolate coating. It was only then, when I bit into the delicious forbidden treat and the sugar orgasmed around my taste buds, that my heart slowed and I felt relaxed, flooded with relief. The world was good again. I could cope.
That feeling never lasted very long. Or rather, it lasted for as long as the chocolate bar did, which was generally under one minute. Then, hard on its heels, would come the crashing low of disappointment and self-recrimination. Why had I caved in? Why had I let myself down? I was never going to lose weight now, never. I was too weak, too spineless to resist the cravings. I would be a fat, miserable blimp for the rest of my life …
Oh well, I would say after a few hours of this. Never mind. I should have known I would fail. And anyway, what was so wrong with being fat? I didn’t care. It wasn’t a crime to be overweight, was it? I wasn’t hurting anybody or doing anything wrong.
At this point, I would stuff the diet books back onto the shelf where they sat with all the other self-help rejects, and I’d blot out the bad feelings of guilt with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.
And so I went on until the next diet, and the next plunge from the optimistic I can do it this time! to the inevitable I’m such a loser self-loathing.
It had become something of a pattern, a loop that I couldn’t escape from. So you can imagine I didn’t hold out an awful lot of hope for FatBusters. I was always rubbish at maths at school, and the thought of counting calories was enough to turn me cold. Plus I’d never been one for sticking at things, right from when I was eight and gave up ballet lessons after two weeks because my leotard was itchy. As with the diets, I started projects, but could never see them through. And the thing about dieting was that it seemed to take for ever to get results. I just didn’t know if I could keep on denying myself all my favourite treats for the sake of a measly pound here or an inch there.
Still, this time I had the ultimate motivation, didn’t I, what with the wedding looming. Like it or not, I was going to have to grit my teeth, stock up on cardboard-tasting rice cakes and ignore the chocolate bars in the newsagent. I really, really, really had to do it this—
‘Jess?’
I realized Phoebe was looking quizzically at me. It was Friday, and we were in the tiny staff room. I’d just eaten my packed lunch – tomato salad and some grapes – and still felt famished.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Only you keep sighing to yourself. What’s up?’
I put on my best smile. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’
She narrowed her eyes, not looking as if she believed me. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hey, did I mention my birthday drinks to you, by the way?’
‘No,’ I said, trying not to watch as she bit into a huge tuna baguette. I loved tuna mayonnaise. And bread. And butter (salted, preferably). And … Stop it, Jess.
‘Well,’ she said, finishing her mouthful, ‘it’s my birthday tomorrow, so I’m having a bit of a crawl. We’re starting off in the Star Bar for cocktails, then a few in the Slug and Lettuce, then off to Planet for a dance around our handbags. I know it’s short notice, but some of the girls from here are coming along – Maisie and Jasmine are up for it, if you fancy joining us as well?’
I’d been distracted by the mention of the Star Bar – wasn’t that a kind of chocolate bar from years ago? – and only managed to get out an ‘Umm …’ while I tried to think. I had a feeling Charlie was going out with his mates tomorrow night, leaving me alone in front of the telly.
‘Go on,’ Phoebe coaxed, licking a blob of tuna off her thumb. ‘It’ll be a laugh, a load of us girls out on the town.’ She glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t asked Louisa – you’ll be quite safe.’
I thought quickly. Booze was dead calorific, but I could have slimline tonic water all evening, couldn’t I? I didn’t have to be pissed to enjoy myself. And Phoebe was really nice – being out with her would be much more fun than sitting in watching Casualty or Big Brother on my own.
‘Yeah, great,’ I said, smiling at her for real now. ‘Thanks, Pheebs. I’ll be there.’
Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be quite as easy as that. ‘You’re going where?’ Charlie asked that evening when I told him about it.
I repeated what Phoebe had said. ‘The Star Bar and the Slug and Lettuce. And some club too, but I won’t go to that, I haven’t—’
I was about to say I didn’t have anything to wear, but Charlie interrupted. ‘Too right you won’t go,’ he said softly. ‘Or them other places. Full of sluts on the pull, they are. I’m not having you there, being leered at all night.’
I tried to protest but could already feel my spirits sinking. ‘No one will be leering at me, Charlie, it’s just a few birthday drinks with Phoebe—’
‘Right,’ he said, in that same soft, deadly voice. I dreaded that voice. I’d rather he shouted and punched the wall than spoke in that awful calm, quiet way. ‘That’s what you say now. But I know what you’re like. After two drinks you’ll be giggling and flirting with all the blokes. And before you know it—’
‘I won’t!’ I cried, wounded by the accusation. ‘I’m not even going to drink!’
‘And before you know it,’ he repeated, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘you’ll be on your back and opening your legs for one of them. So no, you’re not going.’
‘Charlie, please,’ I said. ‘I—’
But he got off the sofa and pushed past me, his face tight with hatred. ‘You disgust me,’ he said, and slammed the front door behind him.
I wrenched it open and ran out into the street in my bare feet. ‘Where are you going?’ I wailed. ‘Charlie, come back!’
But he was gone, arms swinging with annoyance as he stalked away. I hesitated, wondering whether to run after him, beg him to come back, promise I wouldn’t go to Phoebe’s do. Then I saw Mrs Stanley from number 87 watching me from her front window, and I slunk back into the house instead, all courage lost.
I was shaking as I closed the door. Shaking from head to toe and trying not to cry. My first thought was, He’s left me and now I’m never going to get married.
My second thought was, God, I really need something nice to eat.
A few years ago, back when I was living with the girls, everything would have been different. If any bloke had shouted at me or made me feel shit like that, I’d have immediately turned to my friends for hugs, comfort and long conversations about Why are men such bastards? and Do you think I should phone him?, swiftly followed by Whose turn is it to go to the off-licence anyway? before the usual conclusion: Oh, let’s watch Terms of Endearment and have a good cry again. I didn’t feel I could do that now. I was still friends with Gemma, Nat and Shelley, but I didn’t see them all that much any more. Charlie wasn’t keen on them, said they were a bad influence on me and that I shouldn’t waste my time hanging around with them now that I had him. I had the feeling they weren’t that keen on him either, the way they exchanged private glances whenever I mentioned his name. I’d never been the kind to dump my mates the second I got a new boyfriend, but he always kicked up such a fuss about me going to meet them that I’d let our friendship drift.
They didn’t know him like I did, that was the thing. Okay, so he had changed somewhat from the charmer he’d been when I first started seeing him, and yes, sometimes he could be bad-tempered, but what they didn’t know was that, at home, he could still be really lovely to me. Really soppy. He’d proposed, hadn’t he? Admittedly he’d been quite pissed, but he’d still collapsed onto one knee and said, ‘Will you marry me?
’ before passing out on the living room carpet.
Anyway, I loved him, no matter what they thought of him.
One night, when I’d actually made it to the pub with Shelley (Charlie was off on a stag weekend), we’d got quite tipsy together, and Shelley suddenly had this worryingly earnest look in her eyes. ‘Jess … Do you really want to marry Charlie? Do you really?’ she’d asked, gazing up at me, a hand on my arm.
I’d spluttered at the question. ‘Of course I do!’ I told her. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘It’s just …’ She’d pressed her lips together. ‘It’s just … I don’t know. You seem different these days. Quieter.’
I was on my fourth white wine and soda, so I wasn’t totally together, but I do remember trying to laugh and it not coming out properly. ‘Oh, I’m just older and wiser, that’s all,’ I said, flapping a hand like I didn’t have a care in the world. ‘I guess it’s just growing up, isn’t it? Can’t stay mad party animals for ever.’
She hadn’t seemed convinced. ‘Okay. Well … good,’ she’d said. ‘If you’re sure. But remember, we’re always here for you if you ever want a chat.’ She’d popped a handful of peanuts in her mouth and crunched them. ‘And it would be great if you could come out with me and the girls more often. We should have a proper night out soon, shouldn’t we, for old times’ sake.’
‘Yeah,’ I’d agreed enthusiastically. ‘Definitely. Want another drink?’
The night out hadn’t happened yet, although I kept meaning to sort something out. And even though the rest of that evening had seemed something of a blur by the next morning, Shelley’s question about marrying Charlie had stuck there in my mind, clear as anything.
Do you really want to marry Charlie? Do you really?
It annoyed me, actually. In fact, I decided, it was a damn cheek. Of course I wanted to marry Charlie! I mean, why wouldn’t I? He was gorgeous! He might be a bit moody sometimes, but there was nothing wrong with that. Half the time it was my fault anyway, saying the wrong thing or annoying him with my bad habits.