How To Lose Weight And Alienate People

OLLIE QUAIN lives in London. She has worked for Ministry of Sound, The O2, a load of fashion mags and also done a bit of telly. She is a fan of techno, Jason Orange from Take That, Citalopram, white leather and black liquorice. She hopes for global harmony, but wishes one of her exes wasn’t so annoyingly fit. She loves her cat, Eddie—even when he sneezes in her face—and hates writing about herself in the third person. How to Lose Weight and Alienate People is her first novel … the second is on its way. Follow her on Twitter @olliequain.

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Mummy Q.

She is the best.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My biggest thank you goes to Ben Mason, fabulously dynamic boss of Fox Mason Literary Agency, who has made it possible for me to be a) an actual writer and b) able to shout, ‘Well, my agent says …’ loudly (and a lot) in public places. In addition, a waggy tail of gratitude to Silvio, his equally nimble canine cohort.

Next up, I am hugely appreciative to publishing wonder woman Donna Hillyer and her crack team at Harlequin. (That’s ‘crack’ in the expertly insightful and brilliantly motivated sense, not the junkie one. Obvs.) The peeps at Cherish PR have been absolutely splendid too.

Then there’s my brother, David. He’s ace and my life has been made infinitely better by having him (and occasionally his cheque book/PIN number) in it for all these years.

As well, shout-outs must go to my oldest buddies, who I will obviously disregard entirely as soon as I am summoned to Los Angeles for discussion of movie and/or TV serialisation rights of my novel. They are: Sean ‘Barbara Jean’ Varley and The Drag Queen Massive (Faris, Otto, Mazza’n’Rosie); my USofA family, Scott, Val, Noah, Alex and Jack Sapot; Suzette ‘The Schnitzelator’ Allcorn; my gurrrrrrrrrrls, Hugh McPhillips’n’John Tippens; Anoushka ‘Wheely’ Healy; Felix Bowers-Brown (fancy an international mini-break?!); the West London legend that is Misty Gale; Sandra ‘Crofty’ Carter; and The Carlisle-Griffiths unit, Fi, David and Ruby … and of course, at numero uno, Martyn Fitzgerald—my worst friend in the best possible way.

I’d also like to give maje props to Ben Raworth, Rob Fitzpatrick, Annabel Brog and Grub Smith (although the latter will be appalled at the expression ‘maje props’), who all inspired me to do a book, like, totes way back, innit.

On a more superficial note, my Dior Homme grey beanie hat is doffed to the peeps I rely upon to keep me clinging on to 2007. They are: Pete and Nathan at boxcleversports.com (big upz da lunchtime krew!); Dr John Quinn at Quinn Clinics—’cos who actually needs to frown?; my DC10 Ibiza amigos; the gang at Aveda Notting Hill; and supersnapper Darren Orbell.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Endpages

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

I am aware that learning my lines on the loo is not the classiest way to prepare for an audition, but it works for me. The gentle trickle of a cistern filling up, the hypnotic whirring of an AC unit in the background; it helps me concentrate. I often imagine what other actresses get up to in the toilet. I picture them:

a.) Sticking Post-it notes on the shoots in W magazine they would like their stylist to draw inspiration from.

b.) Tweeting a supposedly self-deprecating, goofy ‘selfie’ in which they actually look fabulous.

c.) Plotting how to raise awareness of their worthiness and humanity by raising awareness of worthy humanitarian causes.

d.) Using their visit as me-me-me-time to consider their brand extension. Maybe – right now – somewhere in the Hamptons in a WASP-y ‘new minimalist’-style bathroom, Gwyneth Paltrow is coming up with a low-GI (but highly condescending) spelt-based agave-nectar-infused muffin recipe for her latest cookbook.

I doubt I will ever get to confirm d.), though, as Gwynnie and I don’t mix in the same circles. Unlike her, I am not a super-successful thespian with my fingers in other financially rewarding (gluten-free) pies. I am a hostess at a private members’ club in central London called Burn’s. I act when given the opportunity but I am certainly not at risk of suffering from ‘exhaustion’ due to a relentless schedule of back-to-back projects. My own fault – I have some focusing issues – but honestly, I am not desperate to become a huge star. Besides, I don’t do ‘selfies’ and I reckon I’d struggle with the worthy humanitarian angle.

I leave the loo and head for a meeting with Roger, my boss. It still feels weird calling him this because over a decade ago we started out as waiting staff together. We always used to request the same shifts so we had the same hours off to party and go on the pull. We went for the same type of guy, too: those with directional haircuts and an enticing after-the-club-shuts attraction at their apartment, like an ice box full of premium vodka or tandem-functioning disco lights and surround sound. But then Roger met Pete and our late nights out together? They petered out.

‘Hi, Rog,’ I say, loitering outside his open office door.

He looks up from his desk. ‘Come in, Vivian. I saw you in that advert for the Sofa World Spring Clear Out! last night. To be fair, you made that cream leather recliner look very tempting indeed. The way you flopped down on to it in your sensible office separates without spilling a drop from your glass of vin rouge – I was absolutely convinced you’d been grafting at work all day … not a look of yours I’m particularly familiar with.’

We both laugh as I enter the room. Like the rest of Burn’s it is painted in an understated off-white Farrow & Ball paint and the furniture is a mixture of ultra-contemporary pieces and perfectly worn classics. Ten years ago, when the club first opened, this schizophrenic new-meets-old look was reasonably fresh. Now you can’t move in London’s hospitality industry without tripping over an angular chrome footstool and landing on a tattered leather sofa.

‘Anything exciting?’ he asks, pointing in the direction of the manuscript I am holding.

‘Surf Shack. The audition is tomorrow. It’s a new kids’ show for a late-afternoon slot, so even if I get the role and deliver a performance with Tilda Swinton-esque intensity, it’ll probably only be seen by some homework-dodging ten-year-old in between mouthfuls of reconstituted poultry “nibblets” and ketchup.’ I pass Roger the script and sit down on the Eames office chair in front of his antique desk.

He flips open the first page and reads out loud. ‘“CHARACTER: DEBBIE. Debbie is a neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother. She takes echinacea, spinning classes and life very seriously. In the scene below (taken from Episode 1) Debbie is nagging her daughter to do her homework instead of hanging out at the local water sports club, the eponymous Surf Shack.’” Roger gasps sarcastically. ‘Ooh, nail-biting stuff. I’m already envisioning an end-of-series drowning or a story line involving a stranded dolphin. It’s got Emmy Award written all over it.’

I yawn and rub my eyes. ‘Did you actually want to see me about something to do with Burn’s, Rog? Or did you just want to remind me how insignificant my contribution is to global entertainment?’

‘Both really.’ He grins at me. ‘This morning, Fiona on the board told me she still hasn’t found a suitable candidate to take over my role as Head of Staff when I get made General Manager in six weeks. You’re easily the most experienced person on the floor, so I’m pretty sure if you made yourself available she’d give you the position. Shall I lie and tell her how industrious you are?’

I take a good two seconds to consider the offer. I covered for Roger once before – when he had his wisdom teeth removed – and found myself having to do some work. ‘Thanks, Rog, but nah.’

‘But nah? Is that it?’ He gives a deflating lilo of a sigh. ‘Think about this seriously, Vivian, it’s obvious you need some motivation. If you had some extra duties it would inspire you to take more of an interest in how Burn’s operates. You’d be organising all the private functions, doing the rosters, liaising with the committee over membership, structuring and monitoring the deliveries …’

I zone out temporarily at this point as I notice a glass jar of truffles on Roger’s desk. Each chocolate is individually wrapped in yellow metallic paper. I think of Keira Knightley wrapped in gold lamé at the second Pirates of the Caribbean première. A classic noughties’ moment. Bitchy bloggers accused her of appearing ‘emaciated’. I think the intention was more …

‘You’d be silly not to consider it,’ Roger is saying. ‘You would even have this office all to yourself …’

… ethereal.

‘And you would finally be part of the management. It’s your chance to stop winging it, Vivian.’

I re-engage. ‘Newsflash, Rog … most of the staff at Burn’s are “winging it”. None of us grew up with a burning ambition to provide mouthy media executives with Long Island ice teas and fresh towels. It’s just a means to an end until we get into our chosen career.’ This is true. Amongst the ‘floor’ team are various hopeful thespians, writers, fashionistas and musicians. When clearing up at night, you can guarantee someone will break Fame!-like into an impromptu song-and-dance routine using their mop as a microphone.

‘Look …’ Roger sighs again. ‘I really do not mean this in a patronising way …’

‘Which means it will sound exactly that.’

He laughs. ‘Okay, fair enough … it might do. The thing is, you’re not in your twenties any more. There comes a time in life when you have to accept the reality of your situation and simply make the best of it. I’d say you are unequivocally at that point, Vivian, given you are thirty-five years old.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, I’m thirty-four.’

‘Thirty-five on Saturday; and since that is only two days away it’s time for you to create a more secure life for yourself. Because, face facts, this,’ he taps my script, ‘is not exactly lining the coffers and it’s showing no signs of doing so in the near future. At this rate your breakthrough lead role is going to be the sequel to Driving Miss Daisy. Question: do you know what a PEP, ISA or Tessa is?’

‘The more precocious characters from a Dickens novel?’ I joke, but I shift a little irritably in my seat. I don’t want a conversation about the future. I’m not done with the present. The only time span I am totally done with is the past, but I am not going to talk about that either.

‘I’m only saying this because I’m your mate, and I understand your situ,’ explains Roger. ‘I used to be a hot mess too, but I had to change when things got serious with Pete …’ He glances fondly at the framed picture of his husband – a garland of flowers round his neck on their honeymoon in Hawaii – that takes pride of place on the desk. ‘Because he had this crazy idea about wanting us to have security.’ Roger looks back up at me and grimaces. ‘But guess what? Earning then saving can be fun. Having a few quid in the bank means that should you ever want to shake things up a little and do something out of the ordinary – just for you – it’s possible.’

‘Rog! Are you suggesting I might want to go and find myself? Ha! Count me out. I’ve seen Eat Pray Love … What a load of bollocks. Trust me, any woman who spends six months scoffing pasta, pizza and traditionally manufactured Italian ice-cream, then another six months in an ashram thinking about the amount of white flour, wheat and trans-fats she has consumed would end up in a mental institution. Not Bali.’

He tuts. ‘There’s more to life than getting trashed in London every weekend, Vivian.’

‘I know. That’s why God invented budget airlines … so that from the beginning of May to mid-October for less than the price of a round of drinks in one of our capital’s leading nightspots we can go and get trashed in Ibiza instead.’

‘Does that mean you’re going there again this summer?’

Depressingly I can’t, as I am the poorest I have ever been. I don’t know where my money goes. Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly where it goes: nights out, minicabs on the aforementioned nights out, St Tropez (the tanning mousse not the luxury French seaside resort), Grey Goose vodka (the lowest carbohydrate content of all the brands but the most expensive) and ASOS. I am addicted. It’s the crack pipe of the online fashion world. Every time I enter my three-digit security code I tell myself that it is my last hit but two days later I’ll find myself buying another load of basic vests and skinny-leg trousers … in the style of Tyler Momsen. I am too embarrassed to tell Roger the truth, though, so I blame him.

‘I won’t be heading to the White Isle this year, actually. Since my once reliably up-for-it GBF won his man but lost his sense of adventure,’ I fix him with a pointed look, ‘I haven’t made any plans. I’m assuming you and Pete are already booked into a four-hundred-euro-a-night boutique hotel in Mykonos.’

‘Turkey, actually. Greece is too much of a cliché.’ He smiles at me. ‘Seriously, at least take Fiona’s number and have a chat with her.’

I get out my absolutely knackered old Nokia from my back pocket to show willing. Roger laughs loudly when he sees it.

‘Piss off, Rog, I will get round to upgrading at some point.’

‘Vivian, since you last mentioned you were going to do that, London has bid for the Olympic Games, won the honour to stage them, built the Olympic Park, staged the event and the athletes are now in training for 2016. But if you do, obviously get the new iPhone. It’s genius, I can’t live witho …’

I zone out again and get up from the desk, taking one last glance at the truffles. Ethereal. Ethereal.

Roger cocks his head at me. ‘Vivian? I was saying I’ll text you her number.’

‘Ace. You do that …’ I tell him. ‘Now, can you quit with the concern and return to your usual light bitching – you’re freaking me out.’

He repositions his Joe 90 spectacles and glances down again at my manuscript for Surf Shack. ‘A neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother’, eh? Well,’ he grins, ‘you’ll have to dig deep on the maternal angle. But other than that, you should be fine.’

It’s only early evening but the atmosphere in Burn’s is what British Vogue once described as ‘expensively buzzy’. For many of our members – now that summer is here – Thursday marks the end of their working week. Tomorrow they’ll either head off to a music festival with VIP laminates dangling round their necks or jet off on a European city mini-break. Those with kids will jump into their 4x4s and motor down to the West Country for a relaxing weekend at their second home – usually some sort of traditional fishing cottage, which thanks to a chi-chi interior designer (based in Hampstead, naturally) is now free of any sense of sea-faring tradition bar a Cath Kidston table cloth bearing an anchor motif.

In addition to the restaurant there are four other floors at Burn’s. It’s a similar layout to Shoreditch House – our main competitor – except they have a rooftop pool. Our basement has a cinema, the top floor has a spa and a gym, the first floor has a cocktail bar and alcoves for private dining, whilst the second floor is used as a lounge area. This can be used for business meetings, reading the papers, playing games … whatever. Some members spend all day and all evening here until 2 a.m. when Roger has to ask them to leave so we can close. These die-hards always look panicked when they get booted out, as if the prospect of fending for themselves for the next five hours (until we re-open at 7 a.m. for breakfast) without instant access to Molton Brown toiletries, a decent Caesar Salad and an antique backgammon board is really quite daunting. My job is to flit unobtrusively between all these floors making sure that everything is running smoothly and that all members are happy. They usually are, but today, one of them looks even happier.

‘Oi, Vivian! Over ‘ere a sec, sweet’eart.’ The genuine cockney bark of Clint Parks resonates around the restaurant. The letter ‘h’ has no place in his vocabulary.

I wind my way through the tables and give him a kiss on the cheek. As always, he smells of Envy by Gucci and over excitement. ‘How are you, Clint? I haven’t seen you for a few days.’

‘I’ve been in Tenerife on a nice little freebie, as it ‘appens … judging some beauty contest for a chain of ‘otels. Naturally, I made sure the fittest bird came second so I could cheer ‘er up in my suite afterwards.’ Everyone at the table giggles. Clearly, they aren’t picturing Clint hammering away at some desperate wannabe with vacant eyes.

As the loud, crass, womanising gossip columnist for News Today, you would have thought that Clint is exactly the kind of punter who would have his application for membership at a swish private club like Burn’s revoked as soon as it came before the selection committee, but actually he and his friends are just the kind of punters we need. It’s simple. Clint and his mates rack up huge bills on booze, then go to the toilet to rack up huge lines of cocaine and then they return to the bar to rack up even bigger bills on booze. If we turned him away he would only go to any of the other members’ clubs in London, then Burn’s would miss out on his custom and all the free promotion we get from being mentioned repeatedly in Clint’s Big Column.

He can be a handful, but I like Clint. Without him I wouldn’t have my job at Burn’s, and he’s saved me from being sacked a number of times. (‘If you tell ‘er to ‘oppit, I’m ‘opping off to Shoreditch ‘ouse.’) When I first met him I had left drama college and was working in a scuzzy basement wine bar. We were open from 5 p.m. until My Boss Was Drunk Enough to Ignore All Laws Concerning Sexual Harassment in the Workplace and Would Start Pestering Me to Sleep With Him. Clint bowled in one night, celebrating his first major splash as a junior reporter: revealing the three married Premiership soccer stars behind a series of roasting orgies. He got so plastered he left without his laptop; it contained all his leads and contacts. I made him sweat a couple of days then called him at News Today saying I had found the computer. He immediately asked what he could do for me in return. I told him I was desperate for a new job; somewhere with a bit more pizzazz and finite working hours. Clint had the answer; he had just been asked to become a member at a brand-new private club in West London. He put a word in for me and I was hired instantly. So, I slept with my boss one (more) time, then handed him my resignation.

‘So, ‘ere’s the score, Vivian … we need some of that quality Krug. Something very special indeed ‘as ‘appened.’ Clint rolls up the sleeves on his jacket – a pale blue silk bomber with the word ‘Parksie’ emblazoned on the back in diamanté studs. ‘The wife’s only got a bleedin’ bun in the oven. She’s preggers!’

‘Wow,’ I say.

After this initial response, I have time to practise my ‘I’m thrilled for you’ face, as one of his cronies – a depth-free harridan called Sophie Carnegie-Hunt, who runs Get On It! (a celebrity management and promotions company) – returns from the loo. As usual she is wearing a hat tipped at a jaunty angle and a guitar band gig T-shirt. That’s her thing. Today it’s a woven tweed shooting cap with a top from the Strokes Is This It? tour. She sits down without acknowledging me and rubs Clint’s back in that overly earnest way induced by a recently ingested substantial line of coke.

‘You really bloody deserve this blessing, angel.’ She nods. ‘You’ll be a bloody amaaaaaaaaaa-zing father. My daddy is a bloody amazing man … genuinely philanthropic. I think I got the desire to nurture and support people from him.’

Clint rolls his eyes at the rest of the table. ‘That’ll be the nurture and support our Sophs offers at a standard rate of thirty per cent of all future earnings, eh?’ They all laugh and he turns back to me. ‘She’s right, though. With me as a dad, Junior will want for nothing …’

‘Except maybe regular visits from Social Services.’ I smile at Clint. He snorts loudly and winks at me. ‘Anyway, let me get that champagne sorted. You wanted the Krug Grand Cuvée?’

‘That’s the one. Three bottles to get us going. Bung ‘em on my tab.’ No one else at the table gives me another option for payment. ‘Right, I’m off to the khazi.’ He pulls away from Sophie’s hand, which is still pawing his back. ‘Oi, Sophs, you got my nonsense?’

She passes him her handbag. ‘In there somewhere, angel.’

I pretend not to notice, but the truth is none of the staff at Burn’s would ever stop anyone from doing drugs. The police never come in anyway. Years back, they did show a bit of interest after Sadie Frost’s sproglet was reported to have found an ecstasy pill to nibble on in another leading members’ club, but these days serious knife crime quite rightly takes up more of their time than preventing go-getting career professionals from bellowing self-aggrandising crap at one another for hours on end.

Clint heads off upstairs. Our members tend to eschew the lavatories on the restaurant level for coke snorting as the futuristic egg-shaped toilet bowls jut out of the cubicle wall. There is no visible cistern or anywhere to get a purchase on, unless you use the loo seat … which they would consider using a bit … well, druggie. So they go upstairs. There, the roomy art deco influenced unisex conveniences have the required air of decadence and purpose. In fact, they may as well have been designed in consultation with regular visitors to The Priory or Promises. Every surface in the loo is mirrored, including a heavy back shelf – which is also under-lit, so every last grain of gak can be accounted for.