Sweet Temptation (8 page)

He brought back a rather jolly-looking silver-haired lady and led her into one of our interview rooms. I could tell by the way she giggled and gazed at him through her lashes that she was already melting in his presence.

While I waited for the Munter, I answered a few emails and began uploading a new profile for the website.

Matthew Baines, finance director for large law firm, aged 35.
Blimey, Matthew had done well for himself. That was, of course, if ‘finance director’ didn’t translate as ‘the lackey who got sent to deposit cheques at the nearest Barclays’. I’d become an expert at reading between the lines.

Searching for The One – a soulmate and partner who makes me smile.

Ah, bless. I had a squiz at his photo out of interest. Not bad. Looked a rugby type, with big shoulders and a slightly crooked nose, but he had nice eyes, at least, and a good strong jaw. Hmmmm. Who could I pair him up with? He was a bit old for Bad Emily, but maybe . . .

The buzzer interrupted my thoughts. ‘I’ve got a Mister Joe Smith in reception for you,’ droned Carol-on-reception.

Joe Smith? That
had
to be a fake name. We got a few of those. Always married. Always cheaters. Brendan was no doubt signed up to one of the rival agencies as Dave Jones or something anonymous-sounding.

‘Cheers, send him up,’ I said to Carol.

I got up and stretched my arms above my head, trying to shake off the sleepy feeling I’d had since my enormous lunch. I’d go back on the diet tomorrow, I told myself as I sauntered out to wait for the lift. Today was a blip. Tomorrow I would be saintly again. Absolutely.

Ping! The lift doors opened and . . .

And . . .

I was staring, my gob hanging open in a really unattractive way at the sexy chunk of a man who’d emerged from the lift.

Oh. My. God. Had I seriously thought I didn’t believe in love at first sight any more?

Actually, I did.

‘Hi,’ the sexy chunk was saying, holding out a big meaty paw for me to shake. ‘I’m Joe. And you must be Lauren.’

We didn’t usually get proper good-looking clients. We got a few almost-pretties, but mostly they were average-lookers, the type you wouldn’t notice in a crowded pub. But Joe Smith . . . My God. Forget a crowded pub, you’d notice him in Symphony Hall. In fact, no, you’d notice him in the Millennium Stadium. He was that tasty.

I shook his hand. Phwooaarr. Solid, heavy fingers. Big lovely
manly
fingers. I couldn’t actually look him in the eye for a few seconds before I absolutely forced myself. And then . . . Oh God. He was even more handsome close up, so much so that I could hardly breathe. Thick brown hair. Eyes the colour of pewter. Genuine warm-as-toast smile. Slightly craggy face with a big nose.
And we all know the truth about men with big noses
, Patrick’s voice lilted in my mind. Something twanged inside me at the thought.

‘Hello,’ I managed to say. It took me a huge effort to speak. I kept having distracting thoughts about those big, lovely fingers manhandling me in the best possible way. I was also worried I smelled of the Greasy Spoon.

Unfortunately, he was looking straight through me in a depressingly familiar way. Seen one fat bird, seen ’em all. It always struck me as strange that overweight people could be so invisible to so-called normal people. It was as if the Normals couldn’t see past the spare tyre and double chin through to the lovely, gorgeous person within the Fatty. I double-checked, but nope. There was no sign of Joe Smith having the remotest interest in me.

I did some deep breathing and tried to pull myself together. The last thing I wanted was for sex-on-a-stick Joe Smith to walk out of the building before I’d charmed him, made him realize what a warm, witty, fanciable person I actually was, despite the excess poundage. I couldn’t let him out of there without getting his phone number at the very least.

‘Um . . . hi. Yes. I’m Lauren.’ God, I was wittering like a loon. ‘Why don’t you come this way and we can have a chat.’

I led him into our second interview room, conscious of my saddlebag hips swinging as I walked. Damn it. Why had I let myself go? Why had I given up on myself so Why had I got so
fat
on takeaway after takeaway, easily? Pinot Grigio after Pinot Grigio, all those evenings? This was a wake-up call if ever there was one. A wake-up-and-smell-the-Ryvita call.

‘Okay, have a seat, and I’ll go through a few calories,’ I said. ‘I mean, questions.’ My cheeks stung with embarrassment. A few calories, indeed. What was wrong with me? Now he’d know I was on a diet. Now he’d be thinking about me being overweight. Shit. I’d blown it already.

I opened up the application file on the computer and gave him my best smile.
Professional, Lauren. Friendly and professional. Not slavering dog
.

‘Right, then. So your name is . . . Joe Smith . . .’ I said, typing it in. ‘And you’re male . . .’
Yep, you’re that, all right
, I thought, forcing myself not to look at him. ‘Age?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Oh, same as me, perfect,’ I said. ‘I mean . . . the perfect age. Ha-ha.’

I was glad Patrick couldn’t hear the tosh I was coming out with.
Shut up!
I ordered myself. ‘Thirty-two,’ I said quickly, typing it in. ‘And can you tell me a bit about why you’re here and what you’re hoping to get from Love Hearts? The agency, that is. Stupid name, I know.’
Shut UP, Lauren!

He looked a bit taken aback. Fair enough. There was a complete airhead sitting opposite him, gurning and looking like she wanted to punch her own lights out.

‘Um . . . well, I’ve had a few girlfriends in the past, but for one reason or another, things haven’t worked out,’ he began. He had a lovely voice, Joe, low and deep. I had a sudden vision of him murmuring disgusting things to me in that low, deep voice, and felt another twanging sensation, this time right in my knickers.

‘I see,’ I said, although I hadn’t been listening properly. Too busy enjoying the twanging.

‘And in my line of work, it’s hard to meet women,’ he went on. ‘So . . .’

Oh God. Was he in the SAS or something? Working on an oil rig? ‘What is it that you do for a living?’ I asked him, suddenly anxious.

‘I’m a chef,’ he said. ‘I work at the Zetland in Brindley-place – I don’t know if you’ve been there?’

I nodded. Wow. The Zetland was
nice.
Cheating Brendan had taken me there on our first wedding anniversary and it was small and intimate, classy and expensive. So sexy Joe could cook. The man got better and better. ‘I know the place,’ I managed to say.

‘Well, I work most evenings and . . .’ He shrugged. ‘That doesn’t go down too well with girlfriends, in my experience.’

‘Ah,’ I said. Personally, I couldn’t see the problem. I rather liked the idea of Joe Smith slipping into my bed late after his shift and . . .

I blushed. Shit. I hadn’t just said that out loud, had I?

‘Okay,’ I went on briskly. ‘So tell me what you’re looking for in a partner.’

I found myself tensing while I waited for a reply.
Come
on, Joe. Don’t go and spoil things by telling me your ideal woman has to have a sexy bum or matchstick legs.

‘Well . . . Somebody trustworthy,’ he began, his eyes faraway.

I made a note. Trustworthy. Yes, good. I was trustworthy.

‘Independent and intelligent,’ he added. ‘I don’t really go for the Stepford type.’

‘No,’ I said, typing quickly. ‘Of course not.’
Excellent
answer, Joe. Keep it up!

‘Good sense of humour, generous, adventurous . . .’

Yes, yes, yes . . .

‘And . . . that’s about it, I guess.’

Perfect.

‘Oh, apart from the obvious, of course: that she has to be gorgeous.’ He grinned and I felt giddy.

But as the words sank in, I felt tense all over again.

‘Right. So when you say “gorgeous”,’ I began carefully, ‘what exactly do you mean?’
Please don’t say slim. Please don’t say slim. Some men liked statuesque women, didn’t they? Please let Joe Smith like statuesque women.

He smiled. ‘Well, preferably slim . . .’ he began, and reeled off a series of other attributes, none of which I could take in.

Forget it, Lauren. You’ve got no chance.

I smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find you your perfect partner, Mr Smith,’ I managed to say.

It was just a shame that it obviously wasn’t going to be me.

Chapter Five

Cold Turkey

Maddie

Despite all my best intentions, the rest of the week seemed like hard work. I got back from my shift on Thursday to two missed calls – one from the gym, asking me to book in for my next ‘Couch Potato’ session (‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I told the answerphone sarcastically. My next couch potato session would be on my own sofa, thank you very much, not in their poxy gym) and one from Mum. ‘Darling, come on, don’t be a grouch,’ she purred into the machine. ‘I’m sorry if I was too interfering – you know what a nosy old bat I am, but I didn’t mean any harm, I just want you to be happy . . .’

I rolled my eyes, still reluctant to forgive her. She was so bloody-minded, my mother – always had been and no doubt always would be. I deleted the message without listening to the rest of it and headed for the kitchen.

Out of habit, I was zooming straight in on the biscuit tin like a wheat-seeking missile when I saw the picture I’d cut out of a magazine and stuck there as a reminder: Tess Daly beaming out at me. I’d gone for Tess as an ideal figure to aspire to – she wasn’t scrawny-thin, she still looked womanly, but in a healthy, perfect, glowing sort of way, with no love handles or muffin-top in sight.

My hand hovered above the tin without actually touching it. Tess wouldn’t be tucking in to biscuits right now, would she, I reminded myself. She was probably twirling around a television studio in a sparkly blue dress and high heels, exchanging quips with the camera crew and flicking her hair. Not stuffing her face with carbs and sugar because she was having a tricky week.

Step away from the biscuit tin, Maddie. Step
away
.

I stepped away.
Yes.
One small step for Madeleine Lawson’s foot, one giant step for Madeleine Lawson’s mind.

Two days into the diet, and – to my astonishment – I wasn’t finding it too terrible so far. Okay, so it was early days, and no doubt the novelty would wear off before long, but I’d been surprised how much I enjoyed basking in a smug, self-righteous glow as I only gave myself one potato at dinner instead of the usual five, and ate it with a drizzle of olive oil and black pepper rather than smothered in butter. The chicken last night had tasted fine grilled, none the worse for not seeing the inside of the roasting pan and lashings of oil as it usually did, and as for the salad I’d piled on my plate . . . well, I could barely see over the top of it, put it like that.

Not everyone was happy, though. ‘Is this how it’s going to be from now on?’ Paul had remarked glumly, pushing his rocket leaves around with a fork. ‘Rabbit food every night?’

That had annoyed me. It wasn’t exactly supportive. I had told him about my FatBusters mission when I’d got back that Monday night, and he’d been a bit surprised at first – ‘I think you’re gorgeous as you are, babe,’ he’d said again – but when I showed him my diet book and the calorie chart and told him about the charm bracelet scheme, he’d blinked a few times (his standard response to processing information) and stared at me.

‘You’re serious about this, then,’ he’d said.

‘Yes,’ I’d replied.

‘Right,’ he’d said, clearly weighing up what this meant for him, then gave me a look. ‘You know, if you want a bracelet that badly, you should just go and get yourself one,’ he told me. ‘You don’t need to go starving yourself to prove anything.’

I had smiled, but it was an effort. ‘Yes, I do,’ I’d said. ‘Oh yes I do.’

Now I watched him whingeing about eating a bit of salad and my heart hardened.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ I told him, swigging down a glass of water in the hope that it would fill me up. My jaws were starting to ache from all the lettuce-munching, but I wasn’t about to fess up as much.

‘What’s for pudding, Mum?’ Ben asked, once he’d carefully hidden his salad under his knife and fork.

‘Fruit,’ I said firmly, braced for moans and groans. The greengrocer’s had been laden with summer goodies – strawberries, raspberries, peaches, cherries – and I’d brought half their stock home with me, arranging my purchases in tempting clusters in the fruit bowl and stocking the fridge with bulging brown paper bags. The idea was that I’d grab a piece of fruit whenever I had a sugar craving, instead of breaking open the Wagon Wheels. Actually, the idea was that I’d chuck out all the Wagon Wheels and Crunch Creams and Chocolate HobNobs full stop so that I didn’t have to resist temptation every time, but I wasn’t quite ready to go cold turkey (or cold biscuit) just yet.

To my amazement, there were no moans and groans about the fruit. In fact, the kids fell upon the strawberries with great delight, cramming them in three at a time, even without cream and sugar. It was Paul who pulled a face. ‘Have we got any ice cream?’ he asked, turning his nose up at the bowl of shiny plump berries.

I popped a cherry into my mouth and narrowed my eyes at him. ‘You know where the freezer is,’ I said tartly, and left the room. Paul also knew damn well that ice cream was one of my weaknesses. I didn’t trust myself to stay in the kitchen while he scoffed his way through a big bowlful of Ben & Jerry’s.
Remove yourself from temptation
, Alison intoned in my head.
Don’t even look at something if you know you shouldn’t have it.

So if you discounted Paul’s unwilling forays into healthy food, the diet was proving remarkably stress-free. I’d stayed off the booze, I’d bought some low-fat margarine instead of my usual butter mountain, and I was guzzling the fruit and veg with gusto. Tess was keeping a watchful eye on me from her spot on the biscuit tin, and all was going well.