by Matt Dunn
‘Afternoon, boys,’ Wendy greets us with a smile, or rather, me with a smile and Dan with a scowl. ‘You’re later than usual today. What have you been up to?’
‘Shopping. For furniture.’
‘Oh,’ says Wendy, as Dan orders a plate of penne carbonara, and I settle for the relatively healthier chicken salad. ‘That sounds…exciting?’
As she takes our food order through to the kitchen, Dan and I go and find a table.
‘Thanks for your help earlier,’ I say, once we’re sat down.
‘Don’t mention it,’ replies Dan. ‘That was a nicely upholstered bit of stuff back there, I thought.’
I nod. ‘Yes. I particularly liked that sofa.’
Dan looks at me as if I’m daft in the head. ‘No. Susie.’
‘Ah. Of course. Are you going to go out with her?’
Dan sips his beer. ‘Probably. I like shop girls. Always keen to please. “The customer is always right”, and all that.’
I nod in the direction of the bar. ‘Doesn’t seem to apply where you and Wendy are concerned.’
‘Yeah. A tougher nut to crack entirely, that one. I think she might even, you know, play for the other team.’
‘Dan can’t you conceive that there are actually women on this planet who don’t fancy you?’
Dan looks at me strangely. ‘Are you serious?’
When Wendy comes over to deposit our cutlery, I stop her.
‘Wendy. Question for you.’
She eyes me suspiciously. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, we were talking about attraction, and Danny-boy here was telling me that most women he met fancied him.’
Wendy makes a face. ‘I don’t.’
‘That’s what I told him.’
Dan coughs. ‘Yes, but that’s probably because you bat for the other side.’
Wendy eyes the knife in her hand. ‘Oh, I see, you’re saying that because I don’t fancy you, I must be a lesbian.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ replies Dan, nervously.
I brace myself for the violence, or Dan’s wine ending up over his head, but instead, Wendy just calmly lays out Dan’s knife and fork in front of him.
‘You know,’ she says. ‘I’ve never had a lesbian experience. Never even so much as considered it, to be honest, and I can’t say that I find other women in the slightest bit attractive. But thinking about it now, I can honestly say that yes, if it was a choice between sleeping with Dan and a spot of…’
‘Carpet munching?’ suggests Dan, helpfully.
‘I’d probably choose the second option, in favour of the unpleasantness of Dan’s sweaty, short-lived thrusting.’
‘See,’ says Dan, a little less sure of himself now.
‘In fact,’ continues Wendy, a little too loud for his liking. ‘I can probably imagine what you’re like in bed. No, hang on. I don’t have to imagine, because my flatmate told me. Every little thing, actually. And when I say “little thing”, I mean “little thing”.’
As she pats him on the head before walking nonchalantly back to the bar, Dan’s face falls even further.
‘Uh-oh.’
‘What?’
‘Enemy at three o’clock.’
I look at my watch. ‘What are you talking about? What’s happening at three o’clock?’
‘No, dummy. Don’t look, but three o’clock as in over there.’
‘Where?’
He nods over my shoulder, and I instinctively look round at the corner table, where two girls have just sat down. The one on the left is looking over in our direction, and making what even from a distance I can tell are unfavourable comments about one, or perhaps both, of us. Although if I had to guess, I’d say they’d probably be about Dan.
‘Jesus, Edward. ‘What part of “don’t look” didn’t you understand?’
‘Who’s that? Or is it both of them?’
Dan ducks down and tries to hide behind me, despite the fact that he’s obviously already been spotted. ‘Bloody hell, Edward. I don’t think it’s such a good idea, you trying to lose all this weight. There’s not so much of you to hide behind now.’
‘What have you done this time? Or rather, who have you done?’
‘On the left. The one with the cigarette. Lynne. Met her last month at some party or other.’
‘And don’t tell me, you slept with her the once, and then just happened to “lose” her number?’
Dan stares at me for a second. ‘Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?’ He sits up straight, smiles over towards the two girls, then makes a face of surprised recognition.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, as he gets up and starts to walk over towards their table.
‘Salvage operation,’ he replies. ‘Watch and learn.’
There’s a brief, heated exchange. Thirty seconds later, he’s back with his tail between his legs.
‘Got any other great ideas?’
‘But…’
‘Well, keep them to yourself,’ he hisses, before heading off to the gents.
Once Wendy brings our food across, Lynne stands up and walks slowly over from her table. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, then taps the ash all over Dan’s lunch. I look at her in amazement as she repeats the process, smiles pleasantly at me, then goes back to her seat without a word.
When Dan comes bounding back from the toilet, he stares at the steaming plate of pasta in front of him.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Er…’ I look over to where Lynne is sitting, staring back at our table, daring me to tell. ‘I thought you might like some black pepper.’
Dan nods, tucking his serviette into his collar. ‘Good call. I’m starving.’
I watch, fascinated, as he jabs his fork into the food and mixes it round, the little black flecks of ash coating the pasta quills as he does so. He sticks a huge forkful into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully.
‘Mmm. This is great. You should try some. The bacon tastes really…’
‘Smoky?’
Dan nods appreciatively. ‘That’s the word. Help yourself.’
I shake my head, and take a mouthful of salad. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. Diet, and all that.’
As Dan munches away, much to Lynne’s consternation, the penne doesn’t drop. But I’m starting to realize something—that where women are concerned, perhaps the most important lesson I can learn from Dan is how not to be like him.
Tuesday 22nd February
8.19 p.m.
‘What’re you writing?’
‘Sam’s suggested I keep a diary.’
‘What—how often you masturbate? Is that part of her exercise programme too?’
‘Don’t be disgusting, Dan. A food diary. It’ll help me keep track of my eating habits. Make sure I’m following a healthy diet. Not snacking. That sort of thing.’
On Sam’s advice, I’ve done a sweep of my kitchen and thrown away everything ‘unhealthy’, or in my language, ‘tasty’. Also gone is all the bread, pasta, and even my favourite chocolate Hob-Nobs, which I’ve replaced with some rice cakes that have all the flavour and consistency of a beer mat. I’d probably get more nourishment from biting my lip, but drastic measures are called for, particularly given what the bathroom scales are telling me.
‘Oh. Right.’ Dan sits there silently for a few seconds, then peers at what I’m writing. ‘There’s two zeds in “pizza”.’
‘Can’t you take anything seriously?’
‘Not usually, nope.’
‘This all may be a big joke to you, Mister Genetically Modified, but it’s serious stuff for me.’
‘Sorry, mate. How is the old diet lark going?’
‘Well, I’m giving Atkins a try at the moment.’
‘Atkins?’
‘Yup. Which means I can have bacon and eggs for breakfast. Every day. This is a good thing, because I like bacon and eggs, and coincidentally, it’s about the only thing I know how to cook.’
‘And is it working?’ asks Dan.
‘Side effects?’
‘Flatulence and bad breath, apparently.’
Dan makes a face, and moves his chair away from mine. ‘Mate, some days your breath is like a chemical weapon anyway. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well, it’s not as if you’re going to be getting close enough to anyone for them to notice, is it?’
Monday 28th February
6.56 a.m.
I’m lying in my bed with the light off, watching the digital display on my clock radio slowly advance. When it reaches 7.00, I hit the ‘snooze’ button in an attempt to stop the ringing, before realizing that the noise is actually Sam at the front door.
I lie there, hoping she’ll go away, but after a further thirty seconds of determined ringing I hear my front door opening—I’d forgotten she had a key—followed by the sound of footsteps walking along the hallway towards my bedroom. When she knocks on my door, I pull the duvet cover over my head in an attempt to hide. Unfortunately, despite this professional camouflage attempt, Sam still manages to find me.
‘Come on, sleeping beauty,’ she says, trying to tug the duvet cover from my grasp. ‘Those inches won’t just lose themselves, you know.’
‘I’m tired. I thought we could give it a miss this morning.’
‘Oh no you don’t. It’s for your own good.’
I hang on for dear life, but unfortunately Sam has a better grip than I do, plus, of course, she’s a lot stronger. She whips the duvet cover off me, just at the very same moment that I remember I couldn’t find any clean boxer shorts yesterday so decided to sleep naked. I grab the nearest thing I can find to cover my predicament, which turns out to be a bad move, as it’s my clock radio, which is of course plugged into the wall, meaning I can’t move.
Sam looks at me mischievously. ‘Now you’re stuck.’
‘Go away. I’m not getting up.’
Sam reaches into her bag, and produces her Polaroid camera. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
She pops the flash up. ‘Nine, eight…’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Seven, six…’
‘Well at least have the decency to turn around, then.’
As Sam walks out of my bedroom, I drag myself out of bed, and pull on my workout gear. Two minutes later, I’m ready for her.
‘Good boy,’ she says, as I walk into the lounge. ‘These are the important days—where you really don’t want to do it. These are the ones that prove that you’re…’
‘All right, all right. Enough of the pop psychology. I’m up, aren’t I?’
‘Ooh! Get you! What side of the bed did you get out of this morning?’
‘Well, you should bloody well know,’ I reply, grumpily.
‘Edward, is something the matter?’
I slump against the wall. ‘It’s just…What’s it all for? I’m getting fitter, sure, and I can run further without feeling sick, but…’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t seem to be losing any weight.’
Sam adopts the tone of a schoolmistress. ‘Have you been getting on those scales again?’
I stare guiltily at my feet. ‘Might have been.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not how much you weigh. It’s how you look. And more importantly, how you feel about yourself.’
‘But I…’
‘Come here and take your sweatshirt off.’
‘What?’
‘Take your sweatshirt off. I want to prove something to you.’
I reluctantly pull my top off and drop it onto the sofa. ‘What?’
Sam pulls her camera out again, and snaps a quick photo.
‘Now, fetch me the one we took at the start,’ she orders.
I walk into the kitchen and remove it from the front of the fridge. ‘Here you go.’
Sam scrutinizes the two photos, and hands them to me with a smile. ‘Now, look at the two of them together.’
I hold the pictures up and peer at them, and then have to do a double take. The one of me today is starting at least to look like a shadow of my former self. They’re not quite before and after—more sort of a before and halfway through—but at least they’re the right way round this time.
‘But, the scales…I don’t understand.’
Sam smiles patiently. ‘What did I tell you when we started? Ignore what the scales say. The reason you haven’t lost much weight isn’t because you haven’t lost any fat. It’s because you’ve put on muscle at the same time. And muscle is heavier than fat. The important thing is your body shape. And looking at these…’ She takes another look at the photos. ‘It looks like old cuddly Teddy is on his way out for sure.’
‘But, even when I look in the mirror…’
‘That’s because all you see is the same thing, albeit slightly slimmer every day. You won’t notice a difference until you stop and look at it like this. And imagine what someone who hasn’t seen you for a while—say, for three months—will think…’ Sam leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is crystal clear.
I take the photos back from her and stare at them in disbelief. While I still have a spare tyre, at least it’s more low-profile compared to the over-inflated one in the original picture. And when I look closely at my arms and shoulders, is that a bit of definition I see?
Sam leads me through to my kitchen and sticks the two photos back on the fridge door, side by side.
‘There,’ she says. ‘Something to keep you motivated. And are your clothes feeling any looser?’
I peer down at the waistband of my jogging pants. There does seem to be slightly less straining going on.
‘A little. But I just put that down to them having stretched.’
Sam grabs me gently by the arm, and starts to lead me outside. ‘So, Edward,’ she says. ‘Shall we begin?’
I smile sheepishly back at her. ‘Let’s.’
And finally, as I follow Sam out into the morning air and down to the seafront, I feel like we’re really getting started.
7.45 a.m.
I don’t know if it’s what I’ve seen, or the effect of Sam’s motivational chat, but this morning is the best workout we’ve ever had. I manage to get further down the promenade than ever before until I feel like dying, and then even set a few personal bests in the gym. Sam starts humming the Rocky theme tune as I get a level up on the cross-trainer, and it’s all I can do not to high-five her as I step triumphantly off the machine. She leads me over to the stretch mats, and when she tells me what we’re doing next, I suddenly regret the fact that she saw me naked this morning.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said we’re going to do some ball work.’
‘Ah. Ball. Singular. I thought you said…never mind.’
Sam walks over to a cupboard in the gym and produces what looks like a space-hopper, minus the horns and inane face, which she bounces back over to me like an oversized basketball.
‘What on earth are we going to do with this?’
‘Sit on it.’
‘I only asked.’
‘No, I mean, sit on top of it, and I’ll show you.’
I perch on the ball and wobble unsteadily, nearly falling over backwards.
‘What’s the idea of this?’
‘Core stability,’ says Sam.
‘I didn’t know my core was unstable.’
Sam smiles patiently. ‘Get up and I’ll demonstrate.’
As I stand in front of her, she puts both hands on my shoulders and gives me a little shove. I nearly fall back onto the exercise mats.
‘Ouch. What was that for?’
‘Now you do the same to me. See if you can move me. In the physical sense, of course.’
This will be easy. I’m probably at least twice Sam’s weight. I put my hands on he
r shoulders and push, at first lightly, and then I put a little more beef behind it. But when it comes to it, despite pushing as hard as I can, I can’t even budge her.
Sam grins triumphantly. ‘Core stability. Like anything in life, you need a solid foundation.’
‘Is this another one of your training philosophies, or are you trying to lecture me about relationships again?’
‘I’ll let you work that one out.’
Sam directs me to sit back on the ball, and I just about manage to get my balance when she hands me a couple of five kilogram dumbbells. ‘Now, shoulder press. Twenty. If you can manage them.’
‘No problem.’ I’ve been lifting nearly twice as much recently, but when I first try and press the weight, I almost topple over again. ‘What the…’
Sam catches me. ‘Steady, Eddie. Take it slowly.’
What I thought would be easy turns out to be exactly the opposite. I just about manage the twenty, before Sam flips me over and tells me to rest my feet on the ball in the press-up position. If the previous set was difficult, then this is nearly impossible, and I complete about five before I slump on my face on the floor.
We progress through a series of sit-ups, squats against the wall, and back raises, until I collapse on the mat from exhaustion. And yet, it feels good. I feel like I can take what Sam throws at me, and give it a proper go. What’s more, I’m building a solid foundation.
And I’m starting to appreciate just how important that is.
Tuesday 1st March
7.54 p.m.
‘Universal Laser Correction?’
I’m round at Dan’s, leafing through a brochure he’s given me on a new laser eye surgery clinic that’s just opened up in Hove.
‘Don’t worry,’ he assures me. ‘It’s just like going to the dentist, really.’
‘Except the dentist can’t blind you. Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘What?’ says Dan. ‘You’ve got the chance to be free of those ridiculous glasses for ever and you’re worried about a little discomfort?’
‘And you’ve had it done yourself, have you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘So why should I?’
‘Have you never heard the phrase “Men who wear glasses get women with fat arses”?’