Well Groomed (16 page)

Feeling another Big Mac burp bubbling up, Tash shook her head, too tearful to speak. She was going to have her jaw wired, her stomach stapled and her fridge super-glued as soon as she found the time.

More chairs had been distributed to cater for the swollen ranks of dieters, making Theresa’s neat circle into a rather chaotic open meeting. Tash found the only spare red plastic chair was right at the front of the ‘class’, next to the cardboard snow-man with scurf. She perched on the edge of it, now feeling so fat that she was certain it would collapse under her. As she brushed lightly against the snow-man, he keeled over, adding to her gloom.

‘Welcome, welcome, welcome!’ Theresa wafted nimbly to the centre of her circle, smoothing down the fake Chanel suit against her wafer-thin hips. ‘So lovely to see so many new faces!’

The new faces were almost universally looking suicidal, having just been told how hugely overweight they were. Theresa swiftly cleared her throat and, reaching for a large photograph being held out by the fluey assistant, rushed on.

‘This,’ she paused for effect, clutching the photograph to her chest, ‘was me before I joined Flab-busters six years ago!’

Turning the photograph around, she revealed a very grainy enlarged black and white shot of an extremely attractive, if curvy, brunette wearing a caftan and looking like a lost member of Manfred Mann.

There was a lot of gasping and giggling around the room – more, Tash suspected, as a reaction to the horrific dress-sense Theresa had once displayed than the extra pounds.

‘I know, I know – I was SO overweight, but you see, if I can do it, anyone can.’ Theresa beamed caringly as she propped the photograph up beside Tash. ‘And I’m here to show you not only that I have got it off and kept it off, but that you can too. Together WE CAN!’ With a theatrical flourish, Theresa nodded at her assistant who produced several tin cans from a plastic Tesco’s bag and held them up. Each had ‘I CAN’, ‘YOU CAN’ or ‘WE CAN’ Tippexed on the side.

Tash settled back in her chair, no longer caring if it collapsed, and tried to catch someone’s eye for a giggle. But everyone was looking quite rapt with enthusiasm now.

‘What I am here to do is provide you not only with the know-how to shed those bulges, girls, but also the will power. And here he is.’ Theresa made a lunge towards Tash. ‘Mr WILL POWER!’

Giving Tash a dirty look, she extracted the collapsed snow-man, who was shedding cotton wool fast now, and held him up to her excited followers.

For the next hour, Tash stifled yawn after yawn, gave a few surreptitious Big Mac burps and correctly guessed the calorie content of a Kit-Kat (she ate three a day, and read that terrifyingly high three-figure digit each time she unwrapped one. It was a form of psychological torture).

‘Well done, Natasha!’ Theresa beamed at her insincerely, putting the Kit-Kat prop back into her assistant’s Tesco’s bag. ‘For that you win a prize. Guess what it is?’

Tash raised an eyebrow. ‘A Kit-Kat?’ she suggested hopefully.

‘No, no, NO!’ Theresa laughed. ‘What have I just said, Natasha? Chocolate is on what list in our Mental Munchy Map?’

‘The once-a-week treat list,’ Tash said with the flat by-rote boredom of a child reciting its times table.

‘Quite.’ Theresa crinkled her eyes fondly.

‘Well, this is once a week,’ Tash pointed out. She rather felt like a Kit-Kat now that the thought had been put in her head.

‘And you’ve got a whole week to get through.’ Theresa clearly felt she was exhibiting the patience of a saint. ‘So you’ll need your treat to look forward to, won’t you? On Friday, you may be grateful that I told you not to have the choccy bar, because that means you can substitute it for the one alcoholic drink treat – say a gin and tonic. Hmm?’

Tash went pale. ‘You mean I can only have one drink a week?’

Theresa shuddered with exasperation. ‘Yes, I told you that. You can have ONE item from your once-a-week list, once a week. It’s very simple, dear. Do try to concentrate.’

The rest of the class, also impatient with Tash’s horrified lack of comprehension, was getting fidgety. Tash searched around for a sympathetic face, but after just one hour in her company they were all Theresa converts, possessing the same condescending expressions and slightly manic looks of enthusiasm.

‘Here’s your prize, Natasha.’ Theresa clicked her fingers at her assistant, who reached into her Tesco’s bag and extracted a Flab-busters fridge magnet which read ‘TOGETHER WE CAN!’

After the hour was up, Tash couldn’t be bothered to queue up in the long line of new devotees eager to buy scales and recipe books. Instead she took her oilskin and her fridge magnet back to the Land Rover, via the late-night newsagent’s to buy a Kit-Kat.

‘What’s this?’ India, who had called in on Tash to borrow some designer’s gouache, fingered the Flab-busters fridge magnet with interest.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Tash pinkened slightly. ‘Just some freebie I got with a Sunday supplement.’

‘Isn’t it a fridge magnet?’ India stuck it back where she had found it.

‘Yup.’

‘So why have you got it on the fire guard? It’s starting to melt.’

‘I’m unconventional.’ Tash went to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate, which she knew India adored. Then she remembered that, in her over-zealous post-Flab-busters blitz of all fattening foods the night before, she had thrown it out. All she had in the house was coffee, celery sticks and dog food. It was amazing how tempting Pal could be when one’s stomach was performing back-flips of hunger.

‘She’s so gorgeous.’ India had settled on the sofa now and was playing with Beetroot’s huge envelope-flap ears. ‘It’s lovely to have an affectionate dog. Enid’s so paranoid, she thinks a pat means a trip to the vet. Ted threw her a ball yesterday and she ducked for cover.’

‘She totally adores your mother,’ Tash pointed out. ‘She’s just a one dog woman. Wally’s pretty friendly.’

‘If you bribe him,’ India sighed. ‘You even have to offer him a choc drop to goose you these days, he’s so spoilt for choice with all the eventers who troop through our kitchen. What’s this?’ She picked up a fat, dog-eared script from the sofa arm. ‘One of Niall’s?’

‘Yup.’ Tash squinted at it. She’d been so bored and lonely over the last few evenings that she’d been reduced to reading some of the scripts Niall had been sent. ‘Actually that one’s wonderful – so romantic.’

India scrutinised it with the critical eyes of an academic snob whose only recent reading had been the GCSE English syllabus – Jane Austen, Emily Brontë and Chaucer.

‘Looks a bit schmaltzy – Four Poster Bed. Does he have to get his kit off?’

‘Mmm – a bit, but it’s far more of a witty English romance. Very sharp. I loved it.’

‘Is he going to do it then?’ India cast it to one side in favour of cuddling Beetroot some more.

‘I’m not sure,’ Tash confessed. ‘I’ve not spoken to him about it.’ She didn’t add that she’d not in fact spoken to Niall at all for several days. He was never available, never in his hotel and never seemed to get her messages. When he did call her, she was invariably out working or fast asleep. They were currently communicating by answer machine alone, which was hugely frustrating, although it did give one the time to think up those witty little one-liners normally only mulled over long after the conversation has ended.

‘You’re so lucky having Niall,’ sighed India. ‘He’s absolutely wicked to show off about.’

‘And he’s a lovely man,’ Tash pointed out wryly.

‘Yes, that too. He’s an ace bloke. God, my friends at school are so jealous that I actually know him. They were sick as spun-dried cats when I told them you guys were getting hitched.’

Tash sucked her thumb uncomfortably. India, as long and leggy as an evening shadow, was looking doe-eyed with enthusiasm.

‘I can’t wait for the wedding,’ she sighed happily. ‘Mum’s gone all dreamy about it too, you know.’

‘I thought she didn’t altogether approve.’ Tash gave a ghost of a grin as she headed back into the kitchen to see what she could find in the absence of hot chocolate.

‘I think she needs a man of her own.’

Tash, who had been in the midst of offering India a Diet Coke, swallowed the rest of her sentence and looked up from the fridge in shock.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘We-eell,’ India looked shifty, ‘it’s just that she hasn’t had a boyfriend for simply ages. And I was thinking . . .’

‘She went out with Gus’s friend Frank last year.’

‘. . . of setting her up.’

‘Who with?’ Tash kneaded her spare tyre thoughtfully, wondering if it had gone down yet.

‘Someone local actually.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Tash grinned. ‘Like who? There’s not exactly a plethora of available men in the village. Godfrey Pelham, I suppose, but he’s a bit old and fusty—’

‘He’s gay, Tash!’

‘Oh, yes; I suppose now you mention it he is a bit camp.’

‘I was thinking of Hugo.’

‘Hugo!’ Tash’s chin slammed back into her neck. ‘Are you serious?’

India looked mildly insulted. ‘Of course. I mean he’s quite a bit younger than Mummy, but he’s just her type and incredibly sexy, you have to admit.’

‘Christ!’ Tash was having trouble getting to grips with this. She badly needed some chocolate. ‘Would you really fancy him as a step-father? I mean, it’s not so long ago that you fancied him, full stop.’

‘A silly teenage crush.’ India dismissed it, sounding more forty than fourteen. ‘Even you fancied him once. And anyway, he likes older women.’

‘Sure – like Kirsty?’

‘She’s only three years younger than Mummy.’

‘What?’ Tash’s chin hit her neck again.

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No – I mean I never asked.’

‘She’s thirty-seven.’ India nodded. ‘Gus says the only reason she wants to marry thick Richie is because she’s desperate to have kids before she’s forty.’

‘Good grief,’ Tash giggled delightedly. She’d always imagined that Kirsty was the same age as herself, she certainly looked no older. Although, she reasoned rather gloomily, it could just be that she herself looked no younger than thirty-seven.

‘And Hugo’s last long-term girlfriend was older, wasn’t she?’

‘Amanda?’ Tash shuddered at the memory. She had been terrified of the diminutive, sharp-tongued Amanda who had a sub-zero manner with other women – particularly tall ones. ‘She was a bit older, I think – not much.’

‘There you go!’ India seemed to think that this proved he and Zoe were positively star-destined in the lover stakes.

Tash busied herself looking for the desired gouache.

‘I hardly think,’ she ventured gently as she dug through her paint tin, ‘that the fact Hugo has dated a couple of attractive older women makes him and your mother compatible. I don’t even think she likes him very much – he can be pretty insufferable. And he’d make a lousy step-father.’

‘I disagree.’ India was marking Tash with her eyes. ‘He’d pretty much let us get on with it, I should imagine. Anyway, I’m off to Art School as soon as I get my “A” levels, and Rufus and he get on brilliantly – they can talk about cricket and horses for simply hours.’

‘And what if he wants kids?’ Tash was trying to make sense of what appeared to be a ludicrous suggestion. She was amazed that India appeared to be taking it so seriously.

‘Oh, Mummy’d probably go along with that too. She’s always said she’d like a couple more once Rufe and I are old enough to help her out. She and Hugo would have beautiful babies.’

Tash wrinkled her nose. If their babies turned out anything like Hugo, they’d need to be thrust into the arms of a karate-trained nanny pretty smartly. She couldn’t imagine anything more potentially brattish than a seven-pound replica of Hugo.

‘So will you help me?’ India was looking at her eagerly.

Tash gaped at her. It was at times like this that she wondered whether India came from another planet. She appeared so calm and serene for her age, so eminently capable of doing anything she put her mind to, so unrealistically mature and sane. Not only that but she was blessed with looks that Tash would have considered a miracle in her own youth. She was the most stunning-looking girl Tash had ever encountered, more flawless than one hundred faces staring out of the glossy magazines which mocked the overweight in dentists’ waiting rooms and on newsagents’ shelves. Yet for all these apparent gifts from God, she was as daft as a hairdresser’sworth of brushes.

‘You want me to help you set your mother up with Hugo?’ She clarified the situation in a croaking voice.

‘Yup.’ India smiled expectantly.

‘Christ.’ Tash looked down to see that she had dropped a large quantity of gouache on the floor and now appeared to be treading most of it in as she wandered around in a state of disbelief.

‘Please, Tash. I really need your help – I mean, you know him far better than me, and I know he’s best friends with your brother-in-law, so that could be useful.’

‘No way!’ She started shaking her head and walking towards the kitchen for some much-needed calories.

‘Please?’ India looked imploring.

‘Why don’t you put it to Penny and Gus and see how they react?’

‘No, Mummy won’t let me do that.’

‘You mean your mother knows about this?’

‘Of course.’ India stood up, tipping Beetroot on to a cushion. ‘I mean, she didn’t suggest it or anything, but I think we can say she’s given her tacit approval. If we do it this way we can palm it off as a silly schoolgirl thing if he shows no interest.’

Tash was completely speechless now. She knew that Zoe had seen a couple of men over the years she had lived with Gus and Penny, but she had always maintained that after her first marriage she had no intention of getting seriously involved again. She’d obviously been very badly hurt, although it was a topic she never offered much information about and Tash respected her too much to probe. She wasn’t immune to men’s charms, and she certainly had plenty of admirers – there were many of Gus’s friends who had tried to become more to her than a coffee-in-the-kitchen chum and occasional dinner date. But they were all gently sent away by Zoe’s polite, friendly indifference. The thought that she might be harbouring a private desire to hook Hugo – Mr Eligible Local Hell-raiser – was beyond belief.