Weightless (3 page)

Most of my other clients were easy compared
to Kate. Mrs. Clements was starting to control her diabetes with
the meal plan we devised together. Wheat-intolerant William now
knew the joys of gluten-free cooking. My allergy sufferers could
cut out the causes of their discomfort. But there was no
straightforward fix for an unpopular, overweight teen. To solve the
chicken-and-egg problem, Kate had to believe that she deserved a
solution. I just wasn’t getting through to her, even though I knew
exactly how she felt.

I’d been so afraid to go to university that
I nearly gave up my place. Christy might have been safely in
France, but there were other Christys out there, and they had a
knack for finding me. I only went through with it for fear of
disappointing my parents. Mum and Dad were so hopeful and
supportive. They were desperate to give me a new start. I thanked
them by vomiting down the side of the car when they drove me to
Leeds for Orientation Week.

Everyone in my dorm seemed pretty friendly
but I kept to myself. Better safe than sorry. The dining room posed
the usual problem. It was, along with the changing rooms, prime
hunting ground for bullies. Eating without being noticed is an
important survival skill in the fat person’s meagre arsenal. At
school I’d had no choice but to have my lunch when everyone else
did, but at university the dining room was open for several hours,
and fortunately empty near closing time.

My camouflaging wasn’t as effective as it
might have been though. Laura Dunstable started paying attention to
me. At first it was just a friendly hello when we crossed paths.
Then she’d look into my room when she passed and the hellos
continued. Over time she started popping her head through my
doorway to ask what I was up to. Finally she asked me to join her
for meals with some of the other girls. Eventually I said yes.

Laura Dunstable walked every day, in fair
weather or foul, irrespective of sore heads or period cramps. When
she first asked me I thought she was joking. ‘I’m not really a
walker,’ I said.

‘But you can walk, right?’

‘Well, duh.’

‘Then come on. I’m so bored of walking by
myself. Please?’

‘Will you leave me alone if I say yes?’

‘For today,’ she said.

I put my shoes on and started a new
routine.

At first I thought I was having a heart
attack. I huffed. I puffed. I wheezed and whined. But Laura really
wouldn’t take no for an answer and eventually we were able to walk
a few miles together. We had excellent talks on those walks, and I
discovered that exercise didn’t have to involve crushing
humiliation.

I also realized that the world wasn’t
actually made up of bullies and victims. It was made up of normal
people who just wanted to get along and be happy. I met a lot of
those people at university, like Laura, and finally I was enjoying
myself. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t lonely. I was just me.

Maybe dietetics wasn’t the obvious choice of
study for a person of larger proportions. But I no longer felt like
that person. My demons were exercised along with my body. And I had
a plan.

Physician, heal thyself.

The move into the science of nutrition was a
natural one for a geek like me. I spent three years learning the
mechanics of healthy living. I didn’t need any courses to learn to
empathize with my patients’ difficulties.

Doing the course was no magic bullet. I
didn’t suddenly see the light, repent my sins and transform into
Kate Moss’s twin by the end of the first term. Slowly, slowly, with
my friends’ support and the right information, my habits changed
for the better. Eventually I was a happy, healthy size ten, and I
learned perhaps the most important lesson in the process. I wasn’t
happy because I lost weight. I lost weight when I was finally
happy.

Jack rang a few days after the reunion, just
as I was beginning to develop OCD from checking for missed calls.
Not only did he ring, he asked me out on a proper date. So I spent
the next twenty-seven hours trying not to explode from
excitement.

I knew as soon as I walked into the French
Belle Époque restaurant in Soho that he’d booked it in my
(Christy’s) honor. Warm light glinted off the gilded mirrors and
the heavy bronze chandeliers suspended from the ornately corniced
ceiling. My heels clicked across the polished parquet floor, the
sound muffled by the buzz of conversation.

Even if I hadn’t lusted after Jack during my
formative years, he’d have caught my eye as he waited at the bar
among the trendy media crowd. Lots of men wear smart jackets with
jeans, but not many look as comfortable as he did. ‘Hi!’ As he
kissed each cheek I inhaled the citrusy, spicy scent he was
wearing. He’d come a long way since his AXE days.

When the waiter showed us to our table, Jack
put his hand gently on the small of my back. I felt like the
luckiest woman in the room. He pulled my chair out for me and said,
‘May I just say that you look gorgeous tonight? You really are so
pretty... I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.’

‘No, no, I’m always beet red like this.’ I
grinned through my blush. ‘It’s just that I’m not very used to
hearing that. Thank you.’

‘Well you should hear it every day because
it’s true. There aren’t enough compliments in the world in my
opinion. We deserve more.’

‘You look nice too.’

‘I wasn’t fishing, but thanks. I made an
effort.’ He rubbed his designer stubble. ‘I thought you’d like it
here. A little slice of home. Or do you think of England as
home?’

‘Definitely England.’ I grabbed a menu,
which was in French but luckily had subtitles. ‘The food looks
delicious.’ Hopefully it wasn’t one of those restaurants that
served its food as if on rations.

‘It is delicious. I’ve been here a lot with
my colleagues. It’s a payday indulgence. Champagne, wine or beer?’
he asked me when the waiter appeared.

‘Wine please. Is white okay?’

‘Of course it is.’ He glanced at the list
and ordered a bottle.

It was his confidence that was so sexy. That
and his eyes, gorgeous smile, strokeable hair, the way his jacket
followed the contours of his biceps, his long legs that were
obviously very fit… I drained my water glass and asked for more
with lots of ice.

‘Can we also order a dozen of the Fine de
Claire oysters, please?’ he asked the waiter when he returned to
the table. ‘Nice way to start the meal, eh?’

Sure it is, if you don’t mind the sensation
of swallowing large gobs of snot. ‘I’m sure they’re delicious,’ I
said. Not to mention still alive. ‘You go ahead with them.’ Don’t
mind the wriggling. ‘I’ll have a goat’s cheese tart or
something.’

‘But I thought you loved them. You smuggled
them into school one day for your mates to try. Don’t you remember?
You nearly got expelled.’

That’s right. It was big news when Christy
did that. What a pretentious little show-off.

‘Oh yes, well. That’s the problem. I ate too
many. Positively gorged myself. I’m sick to death of them now. You
enjoy them though.’

So that was that. The point of no return. I
was officially Christy sodding Blake. I’d have felt worse about it
if my stomach wasn’t flipping with excitement.

The conversation galloped along for hours,
until we were the last diners in the restaurant.

‘Pudding?’ he asked.

‘Yes, cupcake?’

‘Would you like pudding?’ He handed me the
menu as the waiter hovered. ‘You must miss speaking French.’

‘Mm, hmm,’ I said, studying my options.

‘I’m sorry I’m hopeless at languages.
Otherwise we could talk together. But you can at least order in
French.’

As if.

But the waiter nodded, poised to take my
order. ‘
Je vous écoute, madamoiselle?
’

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. If
only I was sure of the question. Jack stared at me. The words were
right there on the menu but I had no idea how to pronounce them.
Mille feuilles
? Was that Milly Fuilly, the French cousin to
the 80s lip-synching duo? I had no clue. I never really got along
well with French. There were too many tiny words to keep track of –
oo, ay, la, sa, vous, coup. I knew about three useful words. One
was
merde
, which probably wasn’t on the menu. ‘Er,
où
est… ça
?’

The waiter looked confused. ‘
Où
est
…?’

I pointed to the menu.

‘
C’est dans la cuisine,
mademoiselle
,’ he said.

That didn’t clear up anything. Frantically I
scanned the list for something I could pronounce. Aha! ‘Sorbet,
civilplay!’

‘
Lequel, madamoiselle? Nous avons mangue,
citron, pêche ou la noix de coco
.’

Cocoa sorbet? That sounded like ice cream to
me. ‘Coco, civilplay, danka. What’ll you have, Jack?’

‘The lemon tart, please,’ he said, frowning.
‘I guess you lose a bit when you don’t speak a language
regularly.’

I tried laughing and eventually Jack smiled
along. Phew. ‘Yeah. I didn’t realize how rusty I was. More
wine?’

I filled our glasses, resolving to avoid all
French people in future.

When the bill came I pulled out my purse.
‘Please, let’s split it,’ I said, withdrawing my debit card.

‘No, please, Christy, it’s my treat.’ He
began peeling bills from the wad in his money clip just as I caught
sight of my name on my card. My name. Not Christy’s.
Merde
.
My hand froze.

‘Well, at least let me pay the tip,’ I said,
digging a ten pound note from my purse. ‘And I insist you let me
pay next time.’

In cash, of course.

Chapter 5

There was no repeat of The Language Issue, as
I’d dubbed my French faux pas, and Jack and I settled into a lovely
dating routine. I use words like
settled
and
routine
,
but it felt as far from those things as I’d ever imagined.

Before I knew it, we’d been out nearly every
night for two weeks. Each date drew us deeper into each other’s
lives. He rang every morning. We didn’t go to sleep without saying
goodnight. I didn’t ask where things were heading in the broader
sense and neither did he. But it was coming, I could tell.

It’s amazing how little of your past is
involved in falling in love. Really, you just float around in a
bubble of shared feelings and experiences, untethered to your
history. And the other person gets to know you without all the
baggage.

There was less need for fibbing as we began
to build our present together, though it was still disconcerting
when he called me Christy. I hoped he’d soon find a pet name for
me. Like Annabel.

One weekend evening, Jack scored us tickets
to The Roundhouse for an “immersive” theater experience. That
mostly involved being herded into a darkened room where actors on
wires waited in the rafters to pluck people from the audience. I
spent the whole time with Jack’s hand clasped in mine. They weren’t
going to get me without taking him too. We came as a two-for-one
offer.