How To Lose Weight And Alienate People

CHAPTER NINE

Adele is home. I would know this even if her backpack wasn’t sitting in the corridor because I can smell something spicy wafting from the kitchen. She brings back some kind of pungent brew from each trip abroad and can’t wait to tell me the ludicrous myth behind its production, like it was originally ground from the bark of a hallowed oak tree and rubbed on the bleeding feet of Taoist monks during long pilgrimages. But no matter what the mystical back story to the leaves, the finished drink always tastes like piss with a hint of cinnamon.

I drop my keys in the goldfish bowl and creep into my bedroom to get undressed and hide the things I nabbed from Adele’s wardrobe this morning.

‘Vivian, is that you?’ she calls from the bathroom, in her resolutely middle-class Home Counties accent.

‘No, I’m a masked robber with a spare set of keys to the flat,’ I shout, clicking back into ‘me’ mode with ease. (Years of practice.) ‘I’m going to fleece the spare room first, then the lounge. Is that okay?’

‘Fine. Do your worst … as long as you don’t call it the lounge!’

I strip out of the Stella McCartney vest, chuck it under my duvet, kick off the sandals under the bed and manage to pull on Luke’s sweatshirt seconds before she appears in the doorway.

‘… or the living room,’ she says. ‘Repeat after me … sitting room.’

‘It’s been seventeen years, Dels. I think it’s about time you accepted I’m a bit common.’ I smile. ‘Wow, you look fantastic.’

I am not being sycophantic. She has got a post-vacation zing about her; the type that comes from two weeks spent at one with nature and yourself. She is refreshed. Personally, I have never quite grasped the concept of a health-boosting break. If your internal organs aren’t really feeling it, what’s the point? Once, as I was sunbathing on the final day of a heavy trip to Ibiza, Roger told me I looked like that Roswell alien laid out on the autopsy table …

Mind you, except when she’s sunk too much white wine, Adele always looks fresh and expensively demure. Today, her bouncy bracken-coloured curls are neatly held back with a beige silk scarf and she is wearing a white smock top with an ankle-length white tiered skirt. I think it’s all Anna Sui. It’s gypsy chic but done in an off-duty high-powered career-girl kind of way; a look that says more, ‘This cost me a fortune!’ as opposed to, ‘Can I read your fortune?’.

‘Ah, thanks,’ she says, pushing her scarf further back off her forehead. ‘I feel great. Nepal was amazing. Such an intriguing country and the people were so kind and generous.’

‘Good, good … but most importantly did you remember to get me some super-strength sleeping pills that have definitely not been authorised by any medical governing body, during your stopover in Bangkok?’ Adele always manages to get me the strongest downers without prescription in Thailand – presumably the Thai people need easy access to medication like that to help them zone out from the constant flow of gap-year students in Billabong T-shirts called Josh invading their homeland. I rub my hands together. ‘Please, tell me they’re as powerful as that batch you got me at Christmas? They could have felled an ox.’

She grimaces guiltily. ‘I didn’t get any. I’d planned to get them on the way back, but then … well, something happened. I got distracted and totally forg—’

‘Dels! Nooo! I took the last one after going clubbing while you were away assuming you’d replenish my stock.’

‘You shouldn’t take downers after doing uppers, anyway, or vice versa,’ admonishes Adele. ‘You’re asking for a cardiac arrest. If it’s any consolation, I did get you some Napalese black tea. I’m brewing a batch on the stove. It’s good stuff – packed full of antioxidants. In the old days, the villagers in the foothills filled pouches of—’ But then she stops, distracted by something on the floor.

I follow her line of vision to the carpet where one of her gold sandals is sitting. It didn’t quite make it under the bed. Shit.

‘Sorry, Dels, I really needed a pair of smart-ish summer shoes f—’

‘Don’t panic.’ She smiles. ‘Anything else you took whilst I was away? Confess now and we’ll leave it at that. Call it a flatmate amnesty.’

I peer at her suspiciously. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘No repercussions?’

‘You have my word. I won’t even confiscate any of my Aveda products from the shower as punishment, so you won’t have to use your decoy bottles of Pantene.’ She carries on smiling. ‘I do know they are a decoy, by the way.’

Nervously, I peel back my duvet to reveal her Stella McCartney top. ‘It still had the price tag in it.’

‘Again, it’s not an issue,’ she says breezily. ‘Just get it dry-cleaned.’

‘Dels, have you lost the plot? You hate it when I stea … borrow without asking.’ I grab the vest and show her the loose threads. ‘Look, it’s snagged, beyond repair probably, and you haven’t even worn it yet.’ Something else odd occurs to me. ‘Hang on a sec, you haven’t even mentioned Luke’s music equipment littered around the lounge.’

‘Sitting room. Personally, I don’t think he’s left enough. I was hoping to come back and find it rigged up to rival Madison Square Garden.’ She carries on grinning at me as she curls a tendril of hair round her finger.

I step closer to her. ‘And you haven’t told me off for filling the bathroom bin with latex gloves.’ I use them for tanning. Adele always moans that it makes her feel like she is living with a full-timer carer.

‘Sod all of that, Vivian.’ Her eyes are glassy. ‘Something incredible has happened. It’s actually happened …’

‘It has?’

She nods and my chest clenches. Obviously, her membership has been accepted for Shoreditch House. Before mine. For years, she never saw the point in shelling out for any other private clubs as she always came down to Burn’s for free. But just before she met James, Adele panicked that she wasn’t casting her net wide enough to meet Mr Right and filed requests to all the other leading clubs in town.

‘I can’t believe it. But it’s only been six months.’

‘Just over. I know. Crazy, isn’t it?’ She grins, her eyes filling up even more.

‘Congratulations, Dels …’ I reply, stoically, as I try to blank out the image of her plonked on a sunlounger by Shoreditch House’s famous rooftop pool, caipirinha in one hand, Factor-30 suncream in the other. ‘Perfect timing too, now that summer has arrived.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs. ‘I’ll never have enough time to organise it for this summer. We’ll aim for December at the earliest. Hopefully it will snow. How fab would it be to have a white wedding?’

I cock my head at her. ‘Eh? Who’s getting married?’

‘Earth calling Vivian!’ She shakes her head. ‘Have you not heard anything I’ve said? It’s me. I am getting married. Me! Well, me and James.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Getting married. James asked me to marry him!’

‘Christ! That is such fantastic news! I thought that you had got your … Oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought.’ I rush over to hug her. ‘Dels, that is so amazing. You must be so pleased and …’

‘Shocked, yes. Very. It’s still sinking in.’ She steps back and looks at me. ‘I am engaged, Vivian. Engaged! Can you believe it? After the quagmire of relationship sewage that I’ve waded through – the crap excuses, the cheating turds, the full-of-shit arses on dating websites – I never thought anyone would propose to me.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith. I always knew someone would.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘That is such a whopping lie.’

‘Yeah, I did. Actually, I thought it might happen last year, with oh, you know, that guy who got so pissed during dinner at your parents’ house, your mum came down in the morning and found him asleep in the dog basket. What was he called? He actually sounded as if he could be a dog … ha! Was it Spike?’

‘Rex,’ she says, sounding less amused. ‘Anyway, look at the ring. The ring! My ring!’ She thrusts her left hand about a millimetre away from my face. ‘Look, look, look at it!’

‘I’m looking. I’m looking! That is some rock, Dels. So how did James propose? Did he get down on one knee?’

‘Eventually. But there was a bit of a build-up.’ She grins. ‘He asked me on the final leg of our trek through the Himalayas. Funny thing was I had been in a strop with him that day, because after breakfast he pelted off at a fast pace and left me with the dawdlers. But as dusk came and the peak came into view I could see everyone in the front pack holding up a massive sign with the lyrics of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” followed by MARRY ME, ADELE!’ Then as I made my final climb to the top, James got in position and everyone serenaded me with the whole song. How romantic is that? No prizes for guessing what retro classic I’m walking up the aisle to.’

‘“Smack My Bitch Up” by The Prodigy?’

She punches me in the shoulder a little harder than is necessary. ‘I’m obviously having “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.’

‘I was only mucking about. Come here, you …’ I give her another hug. ‘Congratulations, Dels, you’re getting married!’

‘Yes, I am. I am engaged. I am going to get … maaaaaaaaaarried!’ she screeches, directly into my left ear. ‘Married. Married. Me? Me! Getting MARRIEEEEEEEEEED!’

I jump back. ‘Ouch, volume!’

‘Eek, sorry …’ Her eyes glaze over as she reties her scarf. ‘I guess it’s still sinking in.’

‘Of course, it is. We should go out and celebrate.’

She fans her cheeks with her hands, and watches as her ring glints in the light. ‘Not tonight, James and I are having supper with my parents … to tell them our news. We need to visit James’ foster family too, but they live in Leeds.’ She says this as if it would be more difficult to arrange a couple of days in the North of England than one of her month-long treks across another continent. ‘We’ll have to get something in the diary soon. God, there is so much to organise …’

As Adele chatters away I am distracted by Monday appearing in the doorway. He stares at me in utter bewilderment. Clearly, having heard me get home ten minutes ago he is now wondering why the hell I am not preparing his tea. If he owned a wristwatch he would be tapping it with a single claw. I tell Adele to come and talk to me in the kitchen.

She pads after me. ‘Anyway, if we’re aiming for a Christmas do, I’ll need to step on the gas to arrange everything in time. Twenty-four weeks is nothing.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dels. Bob Geldof organised Live Aid in less than that. At least you won’t have the added hassle of trying to perfect the most ambitious international satellite television link-up ever for a global audience of four hundred million.’

‘Very funny. I’m certainly going to need to be focused,’ she says, pouring herself a mug of her stinky brew. ‘On the plane yesterday, I had already come up with the idea of a winter wonderland theme … possibly at Burn’s … Luke could DJ … but we’d also have world music to encapsulate mine and James’ love of travelling … and possibly some sort of tribal entertainment. That was before the cabin crew had finished their safety demonstration. We hadn’t even taken off!’ She giggles, but a little uneasily. ‘Joking aside, Vivian, do you think ethnic drumming whilst canapés are being served is too much?’

I laugh and suck in a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’d be very careful with bongos, Dels. They really are the Nicki Minaj of the percussion world – quite fun for five minutes but they’ll do your head in any longer than that.’ I get a serving of organic goose and venison chunks in gravy out of the cupboard.

‘Ha! Okay, no bongos.’

‘Or children,’ I add. ‘Too distracting, noisy, messy, demanding and unpredictable.’

‘And an added expense.’ Adele nods. ‘Thank you, Vivian. That’s exactly the sort of solid advice I will be needing from my chief – and only – bridesmaid.’

I stop peeling open the sachet. From between my legs, Monday looks up at me and mews, his face a picture of panic and confusion. I stare at the slimy cat food for a few seconds then return to removing the foil and scraping the contents into his bowl. I don’t put it down on the floor, though, because then I will have to turn round and react to what Adele has just said.

‘You heard right, by the way,’ she says. ‘I did just ask you to be my bridesmaid. Well, I-asked-you-slash-told-you.’

I half twist round. ‘Oh, Dels, that’s so …’

‘So?’

Monday mews again. I put his food down on the floor and immediately his distress signal turns into a joyous high-pitched chirrup, all his years of experience informing him how tremendous the next few minutes are going to be. I stand up and turn to face Adele properly. She smiles at me.

‘It’s all right, Vivian. I know what you’re thinking, and quite rightly so. You’re thinking I’ve gone back on that deal we loosely made …’

‘Erm, I think you’ll find we shook on it. We said that—’

‘I know what we said,’ she interrupts. ‘We said that after the age of twenty-nine, if either of us got married we would never do all that following-each-other-up-the-aisle, telling-each-other-what-to-wear nonsense, because being a bridesmaid …’ I wince as she says the word again, ‘… in your thirties is a bit embarrassing.’

‘A bit? Dels, they’ve even made a blockbuster movie about how embarrassing it is since we had that conversation. The agreement was that we help each other organise everything; hen do, dress, venue, etc., but we’re not officially one of them. I’ll do anything else you want me to that wasn’t on that list too – within reason. I’ll even do a reading from the Bible.’

‘Don’t be silly, you don’t believe in God.’

‘Neither do you and you’re the one wanting to get married in a church.’

She giggles. (I don’t.) ‘That’s not the point, Vivian. Look, I didn’t realise I was going to feel this way, but now I am actually going to be a bride, I want to do things the right way on my big day. All my other close girlfriends are married so they aren’t allowed to be bridesmaids. You aren’t so you are.’

With that she puts one foot firmly in that metaphorical stirrup, ready to mount the moral high horse I can tell she will be riding right up until the big day. Why can’t people get married properly, like Penelope Cruz did in Blow? Off the cuff (and off her head) in Vegas wearing a purple jumpsuit. I had expected more from Adele, but like a shocking number of females who have made a point of swerving dry customs their entire lives she has turned into Anne of Green Gables now she has got a wedding to organise.

‘Fine, I’ll do it. But you better make sure this is the one and only time …’ I smile back at her as I sit down. ‘And you can forget about me wearing anything ten swatches in front of or behind “dusky peach” in the fabric sample flip book.’

She bursts out laughing and idly picks up the pepper grinder from where it is still lying on its side from, er, last night. I watch Monday as he finishes his meal, licks his whiskers, does a few feline press-ups and strolls out of the kitchen without thanking anyone. When I turn back to Adele she has stopped laughing. Her eyes have gone watery again.

‘Stop that.’ I tut at her. ‘You’re not allowed to cry today, or this week, or this month. You’ve shed enough tears over the years. In fact, I am going to lay down a non-negotiable rule now. You are not allowed to blub for your entire engagem—’

‘Stop! Stop being so lovely, Vivian. Look …’ She stares into her tea. ‘There’s something else that I … I don’t know how to tell you. I’ve been dreading this moment so much.’ She stops to take a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m going to come straight out with it. God. Oh God. Oh God …’

‘Oh God, what?’

Another deep breath. ‘The thing is, I … well, we … as, in James and I … we’ve had a lot to talk about since he …’ She flashes her ring hand at me. ‘And moving forward, we’ve decided to use his place as our base whilst we look for a, er, forever home. Or, at least what I hope will be our forever home … as long as I don’t make a total mess of this relationship like I have done all the others … I mean, he could cheat on me or turn about to be a …’

‘Compulsive liar?’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Christ, remember that one? The psycho you met in that wine bar who told you he was a professional polo coach, and then freaked out when you organised a date horse riding in Hyde Park. Now, what was he called?’

‘I never got to find out his real name, did I?’ she says, slightly boot-faced again at the mention of a previous amour. ‘But listen, about the flat …’

I reach across the table to her. ‘It’s fine. I know what you’re going to say; I need to find someone to move in. Don’t worry, it won’t be too hard. Dane could be up for it. He mentioned the lease on his place is com—’

‘Vivian! Let me finish. Look, I’m sorry, so sorry … but you’re going to have to move out. I’m selling up.’

‘Selling?’

She nods solemnly. ‘It’s time.’

‘When are you going to put it on the market?’ I really don’t like the way she is forced to take yet another deep breath as I ask this. This one is more of a desperate gulp for air.

‘When the work has been completed. To get the best price I need to install another bathroom so there is one for each bedroom. It’s what young professionals expect … so I’m getting a wet room installed.’

‘Where?’

‘Your clothes cupboard. I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on the builders, but you won’t be able to stay in your room with all the work going on.’

‘How long have I got?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Three weeks? Christ, Dels, I’ve spent less time getting ready to go out on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Trust me, I feel awful about the timescale, but the builders who did such a good job of installing the kitchen here and doing my place over in the Docklands had a cancellation, so I wanted to book them in.’

She pulls off her scarf and hangs her face in her hands. When she looks up, I can see a tear is about to slip over the edge of the lower lid under her right eye. I get up and put my arm round her, fully aware that she needs to remember this day as the one she threw her happy news out to the world … not the one I threw Himalayan tea over her.

‘Dels! Remember the rule. No tears.’

‘I feel dreadful for doing this to you.’

I squeeze her tighter. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m extremely resilient. And besides, being made homeless is not the worst thing that can happen to a girl at thirty-four years and three hundred and sixty-four days old.’

She wipes her nose. ‘It isn’t?’

‘Nah …’

‘W-what is?’

‘Being made a fucking bridesmaid.’

‘Vivian!’

CHAPTER TEN

When Luke realises who has buzzed the bell, he flings open the door, picks me up, swings me round, then snogs me for more than a minute.

I untangle myself from his arms. ‘I see you haven’t got round to reading that treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen manual I ordered for you.’ I bend down and pick up the squashy bag I have brought with me containing his laptop, magazines, cables and sweatshirt, as well as the grooming tools I will need in the morning. ‘Adele got back and was being narky about your stuff littering up the lounge so I thought I would bring some of it over.’

‘Ha!’ he laughs, straight at me. ‘I see someone else hasn’t got round to reading the manual I ordered for her on coming up with decent excuses to cover up for the fact that she really wants to spend time with me. Besides, I think we both know that if I was that into you, I would have got rid of these by now.’

He points at the trousers he is wearing. They are my most hated item of all his clothes: knackered army-surplus combats that have a side pocket long and wide enough to hold a family-sized tube of Pringles. Today a red tube is peeking out. Paprika.

‘Yeah, but—’

He interrupts me. ‘The “yeah” is all I need.’ With that he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, leans down to grab the bag and carries me down the corridor. ‘So, how did the audition go?’

‘I won’t get the part,’ I say with absolute certainty.

‘You reckon? I’m sure you were m—’

‘Stop!’ I reach down and wallop him on his concrete-hard backside. ‘Don’t even try to make me feel better.’

‘Okay, okay. I’m saying nada.’

He kicks open the kitchen door and plonks me down on the floor. The room is a tip. The sink is full of dirty crockery, the bin is overflowing with empty takeaway cartons, the floor is littered with cardboard pizza boxes and all the surfaces are covered in a thick film of biscuit crumbs. It’s like a Disneyland for real mice.

‘Christ, Luke …’

He shakes his head at me. ‘Don’t give me grief. I try to keep it clean but you know what Wozza is like having his mates over the whole time to party. It’s like living within the eye of a storm. I haven’t been around the past few weeks to contain things, have I? Let’s get out of here and grab some dinner.’

‘It’s Friday … eating is cheating. Besides, we’re having dinner tomorrow.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Having dinner on consecutive nights is a crazy Aussie thing, isn’t it? You only have it once a week in the UK.’

‘Exactly,’ I say, pleased he is making a joke. ‘Besides, I had something earlier.’

‘Earlier today, or earlier in the month?’

‘Don’t nag, I had a proper meal.’

‘A proper meal from whose point of view? An adult human or a baby marmoset?’

Now I can tell he isn’t joking, and I am not particularly amused either. The anti-congratulatory way in which he refers to my neatly calculated portion control pisses me off. On The City, Allie Crandell’s boyfriend never said anything about her weight, despite her being so waifish she often wafted into scenes like an apparition. I did eat tonight. I had an Atkins bar. Then I did an hour of Jillian Michaels – Body Revolution. Then I had a vanilla Skinny Cow ice-cream.

‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about, anyway,’ continues Luke, shrugging. ‘There’s nothing of you. Put on a few kilos and there’d be more of you to do bad things to, which could only be a good thing. Guys like something to grip onto.’

I nod as if I am taking on board what he is saying. I am not. He’s speaking like a larger lady who is trying to convince herself that she is happy with her size. Next he’ll tell me that Beyoncé is ‘bootylicious’ (read: bottom heavy) or that Jennifer Hudson looked better with ‘more junk in the trunk’ (she didn’t) or that Christina Hendricks’s curves are ‘old Hollywood’ (i.e., not so helpful when getting roles in this century). But I don’t bother repeating any of this. I can feel them – the thoughts from earlier – lining up, ready to start running through my head again.