by Rob Grant
'I know, but--'
'But, Jesus. Yeah, I know.'
'How much weight?'
Seth shrugged. 'They're just concerned that people don't want to be told what to eat by a guy who's blatantly overweight. Just a few pounds, I suppose. A couple of stone. Four or five stone, that's all. I mean, Brian Turner isn't exactly Jennifer Aniston, is he?'
'Five stone?'
'Five stone, tops.' Seth nodded. 'Maybe six.'
'Do you know how hard that would be? Do you know how long it would take?'
'It's not going to be easy, Gren. But I don't see what else we can do. We're going to hit the same brick wall wherever we go.'
'What about the two fat ladies? They were fat.'
'That was then. That was a different time. This is now. Fat's not cuddly any more.'
'I mean, I am on a diet. I'm doing that GI nonsense. It's not been going too well recently, what with one thing and another, but ... six stone?'
'Possibly seven. I think we need to go more drastic than the GI diet.'
'Drastic? How drastic?'
'Well, liposuction, that kind of thing.'
'Liposuction? I tell you, Seth, I've seen that operation. It's a fucking nightmare. They treat you like a slab of meat. They ram this giant prong in you like they're cutting up a beached whale. And it lays you low. And it hurts. And you don't lose all that much weight anyway. Plus it leaves a scar.'
'Well, there's other types of surgery. They can remove part of your bowels... I know, you're pulling a face, I wouldn't fancy it either, but we have to explore all our options.'
All our options. It wasn't the agent going under the knife, was it? Or did he have to lose ten per cent of his own bowels as part of their contract?
'Or...' Seth toyed with his drink swizzle. 'There's stomach stapling.'
'Stomach stapling?'
'It does get results. Six, seven months, you'd be back in shape.'
Stomach stapling. Grenville's staples. 'I have thought about it, Seth. I've thought about it long and hard. I don't know if I can face it.'
'Well, think about it some more, will you? It does seem to be about our best option. I've got another client, swears by it. Turned Sharon Osborne's career around.'
Grenville stared into his own drink. He snorted a laugh. 'You know, it used to be people wanted their chefs fat. You've heard of Brillat-Savarin, the great French epicure? He would always check out the kitchens before he ate, and if the chef was too skinny, he'd walk right out of the restaurant.'
'Like I said, Gren. Different times. Shall we eat?'
Seth got up and headed out towards the restaurant. Grenville hauled his life-sapping succubus out of his chair and followed his agent out without enthusiasm. One of the chefs scurried past him towards the kitchen with a hot dish. You could have threaded the skinny bastard through a needle. Different times, indeed.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It took for absolute ever to get rid of Mum. She kept having second thoughts, not to mention third, fourth and fifth thoughts; then she had to go over every nanosecond of Hayleigh's routine with Dad, down to the finest minutiae, which had produced, incredibly, a ten-page printout from her laptop, and then she went over it again. Then she made him swear all kinds of holy oaths that he would not deviate from the routine by a single letter, and all the time Dad was reassuring her and urging her to be gone, almost as much as Hayleigh was, inside her head. Finally, with a weary sigh, she shucked on her coat and slumped out of the room, Jonny buzzing excitedly around her like the planes at the end of King Kong.
She looked like a nervous wreck, the woman. Hayleigh had no idea why. Dad smiled broadly at her. 'Looks like it's just you and me now, honeybun. What d'you want to do? Oh, wait...' He consulted his list then looked at the clock. 'You've had dinner, right?'
Hayleigh nodded.
'Fancy a DVD? I got a couple of crackers from Blockbuster. We can play them on the laptop.'
Hayleigh shook her head. She needed Dad to get as bored as possible, which shouldn't be too difficult.
'Sure? I've got Jack Black's new one.'
Hayleigh shook her head again.
'Tell you what. I'll put it on. You don't have to watch it if you don't want. You can read or whatever.'
Damn. It would be hard not to watch a Jack Black movie. It would be harder still not to laugh.
Dad slipped the DVD out of its cover. 'Hayleigh...' The chirpiness had gone from his voice now. 'I wish you'd start talking to us. For your mother's sake, at least. It's breaking her heart.'
Hayleigh shrugged. Then she licked her lips and said, 'OK.'
Dad froze, bent over the laptop. 'Excuse me?'
Hayleigh shrugged again. 'Fine, I'll talk.'
'Seriously?'
'Whatever.'
'Can I hug you?'
'No.'
'Can I call Mum and tell her?'
'No.'
'Please, Hayleigh. It'll make her day. It'll make her year.'
'Only if she promises not to come back tonight.'
'Absolutely.' He took out his mobile feverishly.
'You can't use that in here.'
'Oh, right.' He looked around and found the phone on the wall. 'Can we use this one?'
'It's internal.'
'Damn!'
'There's a payphone down the corridor.'
'Great. Have I got any change? Yes. Right. D'you mind if I leave you for a couple of seconds?'
'Whatever.'
And he dashed out of the room like a dog after a bicycle made of sausages.
Well, that had been even easier than she could possibly have imagined. She released the brake on her wheelchair and rolled towards the door. She was just trying to work out the geometry of how she might peek down the corridor without her leg girder poking out of the door, which involved some fairly convoluted manoeuvring, when Dad dashed back in again.
'She's going to want to speak to you.'
'God! I'll talk to her tomorrow.'
'Promise?'
'Cross my heart,' Hayleigh smiled wickedly, 'and hope to die.'
'All righty.' And he dashed off again, then dashed right back. 'Are you sure I can't hug you?'
'I'm absolutely certain.'
'Fine.' And he was gone.
Hayleigh counted to twenty, then wheeled around again and peeked out backwards. Dad was at the payphone. It wasn't ideally placed for her purposes -- he had a clear view right down the corridor -- but it would have to do.
Hayleigh set off in search of a knife.
She didn't hurry. Even though there was a good chance Mum would do her nut when she realised Dad had left his post to call her and send him racing back in again, she kept it cool. Hurrying around, looking like you're somewhere you're not supposed to be, that just attracts the wrong kind of attention. You just move confidently, and if you're looking for something, you do it so it doesn't look like you're looking.
She wheeled past an orderly's trolley and stole a glance. As far as she could tell, it was just cleaning stuff. There might be bleach on there, and bleach was pretty poisonous, wasn't it? But it didn't matter, because just as Hayleigh wheeled by, the orderly herself popped out of the door. She recognised Hayleigh, and looked surprised to see her on her own and out of her room. 'Are you OK?' she asked, suspicious.
Hayleigh gave her a what's-your-problem-you-loony look and nodded. She could feel the orderly's eyes burning into her back as she wheeled on, but she didn't look round, just kept on going.
There were surprisingly few unguarded trays of miscellaneous surgical equipment lying around. None, in fact. Didn't they ever do any operations in this hospital? There was a door to what looked like it might be a storeroom of some kind, but when she cautiously paused to try the handle it was locked. Not necessarily a bad thing: if they locked it, there might be a cornucopia of dangerous stuff in there. Apart from the locked possible storeroom, she exhausted the options on this particular corridor very quickly.
Of course! They didn't do any op
erations on this floor. She had to go to another department. Surgical or Accident and Emergency, for instance. Now she had a choice: try to get to the lift, and explore another floor, and risk Dad finding her absent and raising all kinds of hullabaloo and perhaps even tracking her down, which would result in interrogations, and a security clampdown, possibly even the dreaded Return of the Mummy, or going straight back to her room right away, and live to die another day.
She decided to go back. There was even a possibility she might not even have been missed. But that was not to be.
Dad was standing in the doorway to her room looking round frantically as she turned the corridor towards him.
'Hayleigh! For God's sake! Where have you been?'
She brazened it out. 'Loo.' She said it matter-of-factly, as if going to the toilet alone was the most normal thing in the world. Which, of course, it was for everyone else over the age of three.
It worked. Dad looked confused. He looked around for his instructions. 'But I thought...'
Hayleigh pressed home her initiative. 'Did you get through to Mum?'
And right away, he let the whole escape-attempt business drop, just like that. Mum would have smelled a rat, and she would have questioned Hayleigh like Jack Bauer in 24 for hours on end until she'd winkled out the truth. But Dad just let it go. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. 'Yes. You should have heard her. Honestly. She was crying buckets. She had to pull the car over. I think she'll sleep well tonight, I really do. Are you sure you don't want to call her tonight? It would mean the world to her.'
'Tomorrow,' was all that Hayleigh said.
So, in one easy, bold assault, she had broken through the walls of her prison. She could now expect to make unaccompanied trips to the loo more or less at will.
Dads. Bless. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
THIRTY-NINE
Grenville studied the menu without enthusiasm. The food at the Century was good, and under normal conditions, diets permitting, he would have loved to try the veal and kidney pudding with sweetbreads, but it would hardly be politic to be ordering suet pastry in light of the circumstances -- stomach stapling? Jesus -- and, though he had a fondness for offal, all that talk about bowel surgery had put him right off internal organs all together. He opted for a salad, which was a wretched thing to do in a restaurant where there were skilled hands in the kitchen, but what choice did he have?
Seth, the thoughtless swine, ordered the veal and kidney pudding and a glass of wine. Grenville opted, naturally, for water. What a good boy. Grenville shook his head and, not even realising he was speaking out loud said: 'Bowel surgery?'
'There is another alternative.' Seth pulled an A4 envelope from his briefcase.
What was this now? Was there something beyond stomach stapling and bowel removal? Some new technique that was even more drastic? Bombardment by gamma rays that melted body fat, perhaps?
Seth handed him the envelope, smiling. 'You know I always save the best till last.'
'What is this?'
'You've heard of these "Well Farms" the Government's opening?'
'Yes, of course.'
'They're looking for high-profile celebrities to be part of the initial intake. Quite smart, really. It would be perfect for you.'
'What's in it for me?'
'You mean besides the thanks of a grateful nation?'
'Besides that, yes.'
'Some good positive publicity -- which, let's face it, you could use right now -- the opportunity to lose a lot of weight and get fit and healthy, plus a regular newspaper column.'
'Come again?'
'That's right. A dieter's diary. Pretty good money, too. Again, not a king's ransom, but it'll get you by. It's not as though you can actually spend money in those places, anyway.'
Grenville grinned. 'You're a sneaky bastard. Bowel removal. Bloody hell, you had me going there.'
'No, honestly -- I was serious. It's something to bear in mind if all else fails. But this is certainly a more palatable option, wouldn't you say?'
'It's brilliant. Lose weight, get fit and get paid for doing it. What could be better?'
'My thoughts exactly.'
'So, how long would I have to stay?'
'Well, that's sort of up to you. Until you hit your target weight, in an ideal world.'
'But Seth -- that would be months and months. Possibly over a year.'
'But you'd walk out to fame and fortune, my boy. Your own show, book deals, your own range of cookery utensils, a supermarket ad deal, even. The world would be yours for the taking. Plus, you'll be in the best shape of your life.'
Grenville thumbed through the brochure. 'It looks a bit Spartan, Seth. Is there a VIP bit?'
'I don't think so. I could speak to them about that.'
'I mean, these are dormitories. It'll be like Tom Brown's Schooldays for fat men. I'd want my own room, at least.'
'I'll have a word. But my instinct is, they'll want you to slum it with the general population. Your experience will have to be the same as everyone else's if you're going to give a public account of it. Just think of it as if you're a contestant on Big Brother. Or, in your case, Very Big Brother.'
Another fat remark. Grenville didn't even bother feigning a smile. 'Hmmm. What if I hate it?'
'I wouldn't hate it, if I were you, Grenville. That would put a real spanner in the works. They're not going to sit back and let you trash-talk people out of taking up their initiative, are they? They'd kick you out quicker than boiled asparagus. If I were you, I would find it a thoroughly salubrious and uplifting experience.'
'Can I sleep on it?'
'Of course. But don't take too long. The launch is coming up, and they want firm commitments before the end of the week. Personally, I don't see how you can turn it down.'
'No. I don't think I will. It's just... it's a pretty big commitment, that's all.'
'Of course it is. Just be sure you make the right decision.'
Grenville nodded.
Seth reached into his briefcase again. 'There is just one more piece of business I'd like to get out of the way before the food arrives.' He produced another envelope and handed it to Grenville. 'I've asked around, and this is supposed to be a really good course.'
Grenville slid out yet another brochure. This one was extolling the virtues of a Roth Anger Management seminar.
'There's one starting Friday,' Seth said. 'Three days. You should think about it.'
And that was all that was said on the subject. Which was lucky, because otherwise Grenville might have rolled up the brochure and shoved it unceremoniously up Seth's backside and blown the 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' up his rectum in double time.
The meal was taken up with gossip and chat, with Grenville looking enviously at Seth's food while he munched his way joylessly through the vegetation on his own plate. By the time it was over, Gren had made his decision: he would be a Well Farm inductee. The economics of it were irresistible. He could even rent out his flat for the duration. He wouldn't have to buy another car right away, either. It was a win-win situation. In any case, what were his alternatives? Go back, cap in hand, and beg his ex-wife for a job in his own restaurant? His own restaurant, where the cuckolding git of a Frog wine waiter would technically be in charge of him? Seth congratulated him on his wisdom, paid the bill and left.
When he'd gone, Grenville ordered the veal and kidney pudding for himself. It was truly delicious. A triumph. And then -- why not? He was about to embark on a regime of deprivation for untold months -- when he finished it, he ordered another one.
FORTY
The insides of Hayleigh's cheeks were very sore indeed. They had watched the Jack Black movie, and, while it wasn't his best by a long chalk, it was pretty damned funny, and so she'd had to keep biting her cheeks to stop herself laughing out loud. It was particularly hard when Dad went into one of his legendary howling fits, literally throwing himself about on the sofa, pounding it with his fists with tears in his eyes and laughing directly at her, challeng
ing her not to join in. She had actually started shaking a bit at that point and had to turn away and pretend to drink some poison water.
The movie was over now, mercifully, and it was just after half-past nine, which was fully thirty minutes after the designated time in the Wonderland schedule for Hayleigh to lie in bed and pretend to go to sleep. Madness. Dad had popped the DVD back in its cover and was looking around for the Obergruppenfuhrer's list.
Time to make the move.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Hayleigh started wheeling herself towards the door.
'Hang on,' Dad was saying. 'Where's the list?'
The list was down the back of sofa, where Hayleigh had stuffed it when Inspector Clouseau here had gone on his own toilet stop. It wasn't going to stay hidden for ever, because she'd had to leave some of it poking out so it looked like it might have worked its way down there accidentally. But she'd reckoned it might buy her a little time, and she was right. She carried on wheeling.
'Hang about.' Dad was lifting up the cushions. He'd find it in a second. 'Where are you going?'
'Loo.'
'Well, I'll come with you.'
'Dad, I'm perfectly capable--'
'I'm coming with you, and that's that.' And he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and took over.
This was not going according to plan. 'Dad, please, this is embarrassing.'
'Sorry, mate,' he said in a terrible cod cockney that made Dick Van Dyke's attempts in Mary Poppins sound like pure genius. 'More'n my job's worth.' And then, to show off the mighty extent of his full repertoire of uselessness, had a go at Leslie Howard as Sir Percy Blakeney from the Scarlet Pimpernel, one of their favourite 'together' movies: 'Now, milady, whither the salle de bain?'
Slight problem, here. The loos were just by the payphone. Dad had, of course, seen Hayleigh returning from her pretend visit from the opposite direction. She pointed towards the payphone and hoped he wouldn't notice. He did.
'Hang on. I thought they were the other way?'
'They have them at both ends of the ward,' Hayleigh lied, praying he wouldn't check that out. He seemed placated.