Sweet Temptation (4 page)

I finished at five and went to get changed in the staff room. We had to wear white tunics with little Mandarin collars and funky metal buttons in the salon. They’d had to order in a size sixteen especially for me, which I’d never heard the end of from Louisa, the assistant manager. Since Karen, our salon manager, had gone on maternity leave, Louisa had become bitchier and bitchier, the power going straight to her peroxide-blonde head. One day, I told myself, when I finally found a diet that worked for me and I was a skinny Minnie, I’d be able to get into a size ten like the other girls. And I’d take great delight in throwing that size sixteen top right back in Louisa’s face, smearing her panda mascara everywhere. I’d dreamed about the moment.

Phoebe was in the changing room, pulling on a strappy black top that clung in all the right places. ‘Hi, Jess,’ she said, fluffing up her hair at the mirror. ‘Hey – you did all right today, didn’t you? I saw a bloke leaving a great big tip for you this afternoon – and one of the hens has already booked you in for a repeat manicure next month.’

I flushed with pleasure, wondering if it was the bride-to-be. I hoped so. Then I frowned as something struck me. ‘Louisa didn’t say anything about a tip,’ I told her.

Phoebe’s skinny eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Didn’t she? Well, make sure you go and ask about it, then. Twenty quid he left for you. Big tall bloke, brown hair.’

Matt. What a sweetie. I got my T-shirt ready to put on before unbuttoning my tunic. Flash as little flesh as possible, that was my motto. In fact, I was gutted when I started work here and realized there were no separate cubicles for us to change in. I’d had to become an expert in switching outfits without revealing anything. ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I said, as Phoebe slicked on some lippy and headed for the way out. ‘Have a good weekend.’

‘Will do. Off to Gatecrasher with the girls tonight – you should come with us some time, Jess!’

Yeah, right. Gatecrasher with their glamour dress code, where you didn’t get in unless you were dolled up in designer gear or stunningly attractive. ‘Yeah, sure,’ was all I said though. ‘See ya.’

I liked Phoebe a lot. She reminded me of myself a few years ago – bubbly and vivacious, always out with the girls, always up for a laugh. Sometimes I wished I could go back to being that person, back to when I’d lived with Gemma, Nat and Shelley. I still walked past our old house every now and then and thought about the good times we’d had there, all those mad nights when we’d gone out partying in our minxy black dresses and heels so high we could barely walk in them. And all the countless girly nights in, too, when we’d sat around in our PJs and big fluffy socks, me giving everyone beauty treatments, then all of us watching
Sleepless in Seattle
for the zillionth time and joining in with the words.

Still. You couldn’t be like that for ever, could you? And I had Charlie now.

I usually left the salon by going through the fitness centre and out of the main doors into the car park, but there was also a separate street entrance that you could get to through the reception area and shop. Louisa did the bookings, so she sat at the front desk in reception, with glass shelves of our lovely posh toiletries lined up behind her.

‘Bye then, Jess,’ she said coolly as I made my way towards her. The meanie. She wasn’t going to say anything about the money from Matt, was she?

I stopped in front of her and forced a smile. ‘I hear there’s a tip waiting for me,’ I said, brazen as you like. Well, twenty quid was twenty quid, wasn’t it? I wasn’t about to let her slip that one in her own back pocket. Not with another week to go before pay day.

Louisa’s eyes widened a fraction as if surprised. ‘Oh yeah, I was just about to say,’ she replied. She was such a bad liar, I was amazed her nose didn’t shoot out a mile. She opened the till and I saw her hand hover over the pile of tenners.
Oh no you don’t
, I thought to myself, but then she slid a twenty out from its clasp and passed it over.

I knew Louisa didn’t like me – I’d have to be a mug not to see that. I didn’t know why, though. I was good at my job, I worked really hard, I was nice to everyone . . . but still she never smiled at me or had anything pleasant to say.

‘I hear I’ve got a rebooking from one of the hens, too,’ I added.
In for a penny
, I thought.

She stiffened. ‘Ye-e-e-s,’ she replied, tapping at something on the computer. ‘I was wondering whether to give that to Maisie, because you’re quite busy that day . . .’

‘I can manage,’ I told her as firmly as I dared. I could see that she’d already booked it in for Maisie, so I stood there while she changed over the names, making a mental note of the date in my head. The girl – Francesca she was called – had booked herself in for a French manicure, and a back, neck and shoulder massage too – she must have trusted me. And I wanted bride-to-be Francesca to get the star treatment I’d promised her. I didn’t want dippy Maisie, our trainee, let loose on her before the big wedding. I waited until I could see
Jessica
typed in the booking slot before I moved.

‘Right,’ she said pointedly. ‘Well, bye then.’

‘Bye,’ I replied, tucking the money in my purse. I held my head high as I walked out, but inside I was seething. What was Louisa’s problem?

‘You there, babe? I’m home!’

Charlie always bellowed his way in, even though our place was only a small ground-floor flat with plasterboard walls. He was that kind of a person, though – liked to make an entrance.

‘In the kitchen!’ I called, hearing him kick his trainers off in the hall.

I’d been in such a flap about Louisa that instead of driving straight home as I usually did after a Saturday shift, I’d stopped at the supermarket in Selly Oak and blown my twenty quid tip on some treats. Yes, okay, so we were meant to be saving for the wedding, but sometimes a girl needed a little pick-me-up, right?

I knew just the thing. Two juicy steaks, a bag of Jersey Royal new potatoes and some crisp green salad. Dinner for two coming up. They’d marked down loads of fresh stuff too, since it was Saturday evening, so I’d picked up a chocolate cheesecake for £1.50, and somehow or other a bottle of red wine on special offer had found its way into the basket too.
Drink me, drink me, treat yourself.
Oh well. I’d been pretty good all week – not even a sniff of alcohol – so why not.

I was just stirring the chopped chives and thyme into my Béarnaise sauce when Charlie came into the kitchen. Ahhh, Charlie. I still couldn’t quite believe how lucky I was to have him. He was absolutely gorgeous – six foot tall with a big wide smile (perfect teeth), black hair and eyebrows and the most beautiful brown eyes. Rufus Sewell but even more handsome. Something inside me melted, just like the butter in my sauce, whenever I was near him.

I’d got to know Charlie when I was living with the girls. We used to walk past this very house on our way to the White Lion pub, and, as the curtains were never shut in the living room, we could always see him in there watching telly with a load of mates. ‘Those lot, what a waste,’ Gemma had complained one evening as we spotted them sitting there as usual, watching some football match or other on the box. ‘Why don’t they ever come down the pub? We could do with the talent in there, couldn’t we?’

‘Let’s invite them, then,’ I’d giggled. We were on our way
back
from the pub, and I’d had quite a few white-wine-and-sodas by that point.

‘What, knock on the door?’ Nat had said, creasing up so much she’d had to cling on to a nearby lamppost. ‘Are you serious?’

‘We could write them a note,’ I suggested. ‘Dear boys . . . come out to play . . .’

We were all giggling by then. ‘Yeah, stop watching the footy, you saddoes,’ Shelley put in. ‘The White Lion needs you!’

And so when we’d got back to our place, we’d written them a note.

Dear boys,

You really need to get out more. How about meeting us in the White Lion on Thursday night? We’ll be there, eight p.m.

Love, the girls.

Daring with drunkenness, I’d run back and posted it through the letterbox. And the rest, as they say, was history.

There he was now – Charlie, the pick of the bunch. ‘Good day?’ he asked, dropping a kiss on my head.

I leaned into him gratefully. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Busy. This’ll be about ten minutes, okay?’

‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go and see what’s happening in the cricket.’

Our kitchen was only a tiny galley one that didn’t have enough room for a table, so we tended to have dinner off trays in front of the TV. Tonight, though, I felt like making a special effort and dragged the patio table and chairs out of the shed so that we could eat outside. I spent a few minutes brushing the cobwebs off them and setting them up, then found a couple of velvety blooms on the white rambling rose I’d trained up the back wall and cut them to go in a vase. Just time to put the steaks on – Charlie liked his so rare it practically mooed at you from the plate – and pour the wine.

There we sat, eating our lovely dinner in the early evening sunshine, and everything seemed perfect. Then I got out the dessert and double cream and brought them over to the table. Which was when it all went wrong.

He raised an eyebrow at the cheesecake, then looked at me.

‘Jess . . . what’s this?’

I pressed my lips together, feeling flustered.

‘It was reduced, so . . .’

My words died away as he shook his head.

‘Naughty naughty,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘What about your diet, eh? I thought we’d agreed.’

‘Yes, but . . .’
Yes, but I had a difficult day, and twenty quid burning a hole in my pocket and . . . oh, all right then, I caved in. Because I’m pathetic.

‘If you really want to get married, Jess, you need to lose some weight. Remember?’

I hung my head. The plate of cheesecake felt as heavy as lead all of a sudden. I had put on two stone since I’d got together with Charlie and we both wanted me to be slimmer.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now cut me a slice, there’s a good girl.’

I cut him some cheesecake, then sat there while he ate the lot, licking his lips. He let out a belch and patted his belly afterwards. ‘Lovely stuff,’ he said. ‘Thanks, babe. Give us a kiss.’

I could taste the sweetness on his lips, and then he was holding me. And everything was all right again.

I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the cheesecake that night. I lay in bed imagining biting into a piece – tasting the sweet, crunchy base and that rich, soft, chocolatey top . . . I knew it would melt in my mouth, could almost smell its delicious fragrance wafting out from the fridge . . .

I tried to think about something else instead. Wedding dresses, for example. I’d seen a lovely one online the other day that claimed to be perfect for the fuller figure, with a plunging neckline and short scalloped sleeves (there was no way I was showing my fat bare shoulders on my wedding day), and the lower half flowing smoothly out from the waist in an A-line shape. That was the sort of dress I wanted, and someone was selling theirs on eBay, starting price £50.
Never been worn
, the owner had written,
due to unforeseen circumstances.
I hoped that meant she’d lost a ton of weight and needed to buy a smaller dress rather than anything more sinister.

It was no good. The wedding dress vision wasn’t working for me. I was more interested in the cheesecake. But if I went and ate some of it, Charlie was sure to notice the next day. And then he would go on at me again about not wanting a fat bride and all the rest of it. I hated it when he did that. And I really didn’t want to give him any reasons to put the wedding off again.

Charlie was snoring away next to me, so I crept out of bed and padded through to the kitchen. Just a few stray crumbs of the cheesecake, I told myself. Maybe a teeny-tiny sliver of it, so small as to be undetectable. Then I would be able to sleep.

I licked my finger and dabbed up the stray crumbs (disappointingly few), and then, almost drooling, cut a baby slice and scoffed it down. Delicious. So delicious. But not enough. It only lasted a few seconds and it was gone. What else?

I rummaged through the cupboards, my appetite whetted. Toast? I couldn’t even wait long enough for it to brown. Cereal? No – too cold with all that milk. Ahhh. Crackers and cheese. Perfect.

I stood there in the dark kitchen eating thick slices of just-runny Brie on cream crackers as furtively and guiltily as if I were robbing a bank. Usually my midnight snacks comforted me and I was able to go back to bed feeling sated. But that night, as I chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, I found tears gathering in my eyes. Tears that rolled down my cheeks and dripped onto the lino and my bare feet.

Lately, it had felt as if there was an emptiness inside me that never seemed to be filled, no matter how much food I stuffed myself with. I went back to bed, but it took me a long time to get to sleep.

Chapter Three

Humble Pie

Maddie

‘FatBusters? Just through the double doors, love,’ said the smiling woman, pointing behind her.

Oh, brilliant. I hadn’t even said what I was
doing
at the church hall, but she’d taken one look at me and guessed. How come she hadn’t assumed I was there for the Pilates session upstairs?

I smiled politely and walked forwards, even though I felt like doing a bunk there and then. I still couldn’t quite believe that I was actually there. When Collette had announced live on air that I’d be going along to weight-watching classes as part of her stupid feature, every cell of my body had resisted.
No bloody way
, I’d told Becky, voice trembling as I got the words out. Even if I’d wanted to try it in the first place (which I didn’t), Collette suggesting it should have made me stick two fingers firmly up at the idea.

After the sports day disaster and the gym nightmare I’d just been through, however, I’d come to the painful conclusion that actually, even if it
was
evil Collette’s suggestion, maybe I should go through with it.