The Chocolate Lovers' Diet (13 page)

‘Richard,’ Addison said warmly. ‘How’s it hanging?’ He held out his hand.

Her brother, somewhat reluctantly, took it.

‘What happened to the face?’

‘A misunderstanding,’ Richard said tightly.

‘Autumn seems to think you’re running with some heavy people.’

Richard glared at her. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘We can help you,’ Addison said gently. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’

‘I’m not one of your sink-estate druggies,’ Rich scoffed. ‘Do you think I’m going to come and make pretty things with glass to save my soul?’

‘There are other things we can do,’ Addison continued calmly. ‘Other programmes.’

‘Keep your charity for these no-hopers.’ He flicked a thumb in the direction of Fraser and Tasmin. Autumn wanted to curl up and die at her brother’s bad manners. ‘I’ll see you later, Autumn,’ he said, and went to stride out of the door.

Her heart shot to her mouth and, as he grabbed the handle, a voice from somewhere inside her said, ‘No.’

Richard spun round.

‘You can’t stay with me,’ she continued. There was no way that she wanted to go back to sleepless nights, worrying where her brother was or, when he did eventually turn up, wondering who he was going to bring back to the apartment. ‘It’s too stressful for me.’

Her brother glared at her boyfriend. ‘I know what this is about,’ he said. ‘You’re choosing
him
over me.’

‘That’s not true at all, Richard,’ she said. ‘What I’m doing is finally giving you back responsibility for your own life.’ She thought back to what Addison had said about her own behaviour facilitating her brother’s addiction, and prayed that this was the right thing to do. This was the first time that she’d ever said no to Richard and it didn’t sit comfortably with her. The words rushed out now that she’d started. ‘I can’t always be there to pick up the pieces for you.’

Richard’s face turned thunderous. ‘Right,’ he said crisply. ‘I know exactly where I stand.’ He stormed out of the door and slammed it forcefully behind him. The glass shattered and crashed to the floor.

All eyes in the workroom went to the pile of fallout.

Autumn tried a tired smile. ‘Looks like I’m not going to pick up the pieces for Richard by picking up
these
pieces.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Addison said kindly. ‘Go to the staff room and I’ll join you in a minute. Put the kettle on. You look like you could do with a cup of tea.’

And some recuperative chocolate, Autumn thought.

‘We’ll help, mate.’ Fraser came forward to join Addison in clearing away the broken glass.

‘Thank you,’ Autumn said tearfully.

Addison took her hand. ‘Richard will be all right, you know.’ His voice was sure, comforting. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘Did I?’ she said. ‘I can only hope so.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
have to look for another job. As soon as I’ve got a minute to spare then I’m going to phone up the agency and ask them to move me as soon as possible. Which could be tricky as I think I’ve been banned from working in a large range of offices throughout London due to my track record as a less than perfect employee.

Targa is, currently, not a healthy place to work. My sometime yoga teacher – Persephone – would tell me that the bad vibes will be messing with my karma or something, and I’m sure she’d be right. You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife. My stomach is ragged with nerves. I would have to stand on my head for a very long time to counteract the bad effects if Persephone had her way.

Crush has been whisking past my desk all morning at a furious pace, failing to make eye-contact and generally looking as if he’d like to murder me in a slow and very horrible way. I really want to talk to him about what happened last night, but he’s clearly not ready yet to open the channels of communication, so I’m sitting here feeling pathetically useless.

To protect myself from his harmful death-ray glances
and to pass a certain amount of time, I’ve constructed a wall between me and the rest of the office with Mars Bars, Snickers and Double Deckers. They let me have two boxes of each at bulk discount price in the canteen here when they heard of my plight. If I hunker down low to my desk, I can remain completely shielded behind my barricade. All I have to do is resist the temptation to eat my way through it. Mmm. Though surely my safety wouldn’t be too compromised if one measly Mars Bar went missing? I’m sure it would actually help to strengthen my immune system. A bar of chocolate has more protein than a banana and that has to be good, right? Perhaps some protein would help to build up my courage to tackle Crush head on.

I’m just starting to rip the wrapper off one when I see that Aiden Holby is heading my way. His face is set with grim determination and a black frown is settled on his brow. It’s supposed to make him look fierce, but all it does is make him look cute. At this moment, I think I love him more than ever. I slip the chocolate surreptitiously into my desk drawer and try to pretend that I’m working – an art that I have practised extensively and have still failed to master.

Crush stops in front of my desk. His pose is Alpha male aggressive.

‘Hi,’ I say meekly.

With one sweep of his arm, Crush knocks my carefully constructed chocolate wall to the floor. So, this is war.

‘Do you think you could prepare these figures for me, Ms Lombard?’
Ms Lombard?
I think that’s taking it a bit far.

‘Yes,
Mr Holby
,’ I reply. ‘When would you like them for?’

‘I need them for the sales meeting this afternoon.’

‘I’ll start them immediately. Once I’ve picked up all my chocolate off the floor.’

I think I see him flush a bit. But only a little bit.

‘You can have one of my Mars Bars,’ I tell him with an uncertain smile. ‘If you like.’

Crush hesitates slightly.

‘As a peace offering,’ I say.

He straightens up. ‘No, thank you.’ Even the offer of a Mars Bar can’t break the ice here. That’s bad.

‘Aiden . . .’ I say softly.

‘Lucy,’ he interjects. ‘I think it would be better for everyone concerned if you asked your agency to find you another job.’

‘One where you don’t have to breathe the same oxygen as me?’

‘Preferably.’

‘I still love you,’ I tell him, swallowing the lump that comes to my throat. ‘But if you think it’s best that I go, then I will.’

‘Fine.’ He goes to turn on his heel.

‘But I just want to say one other thing.’

I see him weaken for a moment and then he says, ‘I think we’ve said enough.’ And he walks away from my desk.

‘Loving someone doesn’t mean that you only care for them when you feel like it,’ I shout after him. ‘It means that you forgive them when they mess up.’

His stride breaks and, for a brief moment, he stops and
my heart has a little flutter of hope. But then, without looking back, he continues towards his office.

‘Bugger,’ I mutter to myself. Then I notice that everyone in the department has stopped working and is staring at me. ‘What?’ I shout.

People cower at their desks.

‘Just so that you know,’ I bellow across the room, ‘I’ve cocked everything up again. Does anyone want to make an issue of it?’

Heads are lowered to paperwork and computer screens. With a sigh, I start the onerous task of picking up the pieces of my scattered chocolate wall which might as well be a metaphor for my life.

Chapter Twenty-Six

P
honing the agency was a complete waste of time. They told me that they have no other jobs for me, but I’m sure they were lying. Perhaps businesses have one of those alerts on me like they do in pubs to prevent undesirables. A Lucy Lombard Alert. All the people whose businesses I’ve trashed in the past, they’ve all phoned each other to put my name on a blacklist somewhere. I’m sure of it.

I take the Tube home, heavy of heart, feeling that I’m trapped for ever at Targa like some unfortunate genie in a bottle, unable to escape unless someone gives me a kindly rub. If anyone has inspiration about what I should do with my life, I wish they’d tell me.

It’s raining and it’s miserable. My ropey old umbrella makes a pitiful shelter and keeps threatening to blow inside out. The greyness of my life is reflected perfectly by the weather. To top it all, Marcus is leaning against the wall in the street opposite my flat when I get home. He doesn’t have an umbrella and he’s very wet. My ex-fiancé has been stationed out there every night since our Christmas close encounter of the carnal kind and since I’ve been refusing to answer his phone calls. As he sees me, he raises his hand
in a wave and starts to cross the road. ‘Lucy,’ he calls out. But the traffic thwarts his plan to reach me and I dart inside my front door.

When I’m inside, I shake the rain off my coat and throw my sodden umbrella to the floor. Sneaking up to the window, I check outside and, sure enough, Marcus has returned to his station and is still leaning against the wall. I watch him for a moment, shivering against the cold and I reluctantly admire his staying power. Would Crush have stood out there in the pouring rain for me night after night? I don’t know, if you want the truth.

Running a hot bath, I whack in a ton of vanilla-scented bath soak and lower myself in. My skin is still silky soft from my Melted spa treatments, but I feel that all other benefits have dissipated far too quickly since my return home. I let the scalding water soothe my cold bones. Inhaling the vanilla scent, I try to let my mind go blank. Normally, when I want my mind to do something useful – like thinking – it’s steadfastly blank. Now, when I’d welcome a bit of empty space, it’s whirring.

I think all is lost with Crush. Look how many times I’ve taken Marcus back after various misdemeanours. I didn’t give up on our relationship after one paltry mistake. Surely that’s what love is all about? You take the rough with the smooth. I think of Marcus standing out there in the pouring rain. At what point should forgiveness end and the heart harden so that self-preservation can kick in? Perhaps it’s different for everyone.

I towel myself dry and slip on my old tracky bottoms and sweatshirt. Before I head into the kitchen to find
something for dinner, I take another peek out of the window. The rain is now horizontal. It’s bouncing back off the pavements. The grids are all overflowing and water is running in torrents along the kerbside. Though my window is blurry with raindrops, I can see that Marcus is still outside. How can I let him stay out there in this? Why doesn’t he just give up and go home?

Finding my mobile phone, I call Marcus’s number.

‘Hi,’ he says, and his voice doesn’t sound weary as I expect it to. It sounds bright and full of hope. I can hear the rain beating down on him.

‘Go home,’ I say.

‘I can’t.’ The brightness and the hope have gone. ‘I love you. I just want to be near you. I’ll stay out here as long as it takes.’

What can I say to that? ‘You can come in for dinner,’ I say. ‘But it will be something crap because I haven’t been shopping.’

‘I don’t care,’ Marcus says. This time, there’s a crack in his voice.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A
moment later, Marcus is at my door. ‘Don’t drip on my carpet.’ I try to sound stern, but how can I? Look at him – he’s a complete mess. Is this what I’ve reduced him to? Rivulets of water are running from his hair and down his face. There’s a waterfall at the end of his jacket. He’s dripping on my carpet, despite my warning.

‘You can go and hop in the bath,’ I tell him. ‘Try to get warmed up.’ I’m hoping that my boiler will just about run to two baths in quick succession. Normally, it has to be given a while to think about it.

‘Thanks, Lucy.’ He sounds ridiculously grateful even through his chattering teeth.

‘There are a few bits of your clothes still in my wardrobe. I’ll dig them out for you.’

I help him to ease out of his jacket. His fingers are blue.

‘You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death of cold,’ I admonish him. ‘What a stupid thing to do on a night like this. I’m not worth it, Marcus.’

He stills my hands and takes them in his. Those baby-blue eyes meet mine. ‘I happen to think that you are.’

I pull away from him. ‘Get in the bath before hypothermia sets in.’

Obediently, he heads to the bathroom.

In my bedroom, I ferret through the wardrobe. There are some of Marcus’s jeans and a couple of T-shirts. I don’t know why, but I hold one of the T-shirts to my cheek. It still holds the scent of Marcus’s aftershave and my heart contracts painfully – even though the real deal is probably at this very moment getting into my tub. There’s also a sweater that I bought him years ago for Valentine’s Day which he’s never worn. Well, he can start now.

There are even pants and socks in the back of my drawer and I wonder why I’ve never summoned up the energy to take them to the charity shop. I leave the clothes out on the bed for him and go through to the kitchen. In the cupboard I find pasta shells and a tin of crushed tomatoes. Italian it is, then. The fridge contains some celery that’s not too bendy and a nub of rock-hard Parmesan cheese that’s more rind than anything else. It’s past its sell-by date, but these things are never accurate, are they? And cheese doesn’t go out of date anyway, does it? I’m pleased to see that what I lack in wholesome and nutritious food, I make up for by having a great stash of chocolate. There’s a box of Clive’s very finest jewels from Chocolate Heaven nestling there, waiting for Mummy. At least I’m always certain of a great dessert. If Marcus is good, I might even share them with him.

I chop up the vaguely floppy celery and fling it into the pan with the tomatoes. The pasta goes on to boil.

My unexpected guest appears at the kitchen door. He’s
wearing just a towel, slung low on his hips. There’s an attractive flush to his face and his hair is washed and tousled rather than plastered flat to his head. It takes me back to the night we spent together and I
so
don’t want to go there.

‘Something smells good,’ he says.

I think Marcus must be desperate.

‘Pasta and a tin of tomatoes,’ I tell him. ‘My speciality.’