Sweet Temptation (9 page)

It was just the rest of my life that was giving me a headache. The gym were hassling me (it was the third time they’d phoned since Saturday), Mum was on my case, and Collette was ramping up the pressure big-time at work too . . . It was enough to send anyone rushing for a chocolate fix, frankly.

For once, she’d arrived early at the office that day. She’d swung in wearing a short skirt and a shirt that tied up in the middle, showing a flat brown midriff – the sort of outfit that made me feel blobby just looking at her. Jewelled flip-flops sparkled on her feet and her long hair was tied up in a jaunty high ponytail. ‘Morning, everyone!’ she carolled as she burst through the door, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. ‘I’ve got us all coffees and elevenses.’

‘Go Collette!’ cheered Becky, who’d been complaining of a hangover. ‘I like your style there, girl.’

‘Morning,’ I mumbled, trying to squash down the envious feelings that were bubbling inside me as her long brown legs swished by. I wanted legs like that, slim and toned. I wanted a bum like hers too, pert and perky, like one of the peaches in my fruit bowl.

‘So . . . lattes all round,’ Colette said, setting down a cardboard tray and lifting out cups. ‘Bec, Maddie, Emily, Cathy, me, and one for Andy. Gotta keep the boss sweet, right?’ She winked theatrically. ‘Oh, and some croissants for everyone too. Well . . . Except you, Mads. Didn’t want to wreck your diet or anything, not when it’s been going so well and all.’ She gestured towards the Tupperware pot of fruit salad on my desk with a patronizing expression. ‘Keep up the good work, yeah?’

Bitch. It was torture smelling the fresh golden croissants she’d bought from the deli down the road. My face was stiff from trying not to glare at her, but I managed a smile.

‘Always thinking of us, aren’t you, Collette,’ I said sarcastically.

She didn’t notice I was being anything less than genuine, naturally – she was way too thick-skinned to detect any bad atmosphere – and gave me one of her eyelash-batting smiles. Then she pushed her boobs up and went off to present Andy with his goodies.

‘Share mine if you want,’ Becky offered me, tearing her croissant in half.

I was longing to, but couldn’t bear the light of scorn that I knew would appear in Collette’s eyes if she walked in and saw me tucking into the forbidden food. ‘You’re all right, thanks,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘So what’s all this in aid of, anyway?’ Becky wanted to know when Collette sashayed back over to our desks.

Collette perched on the edge of the desk and tossed her silky hair. ‘Just . . . you know . . . a bit of team-building. A spontaneous gesture of kindness. That sort of thing.’

Yeah,
right
, I thought to myself, sipping the white froth from my latte. And I’m Twiggy. Did she think we were all born yesterday?

‘Well, cheers, my dear,’ Becky said. ‘Your spontaneous gesture of kindness has been very much appreciated.’

Collette smiled prettily, but she didn’t fool me for a second. And sure enough, five minutes into our morning meeting, she sprung her surprise. ‘Now, about my Make Birmingham Beautiful campaign,’ she said, licking a croissant flake off her finger. ‘I’ve had rather a good idea.’

Here we go, I thought, exchanging looks with Becky.

‘Rather than
me
doing a round-up on air next week of how everyone’s got on, I thought it would be really cool if we all reported back personally on our beautifying experiments,’ she went on casually. ‘For instance, I’ll give a little spiel about the beauty goodies I’ve been trying out, and I’ll put those before and after photos up on my blog. Becks – you can tell us how you’ve got on with your hair treatment.’ She peered suspiciously at Becky’s wild curls. ‘Er . . . have you actually used any of that stuff I gave you yet?’

Becky bristled. ‘Yes!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been using the Mega-Moisture Conditioner all week.
And
the Miracle De-Frizzer – can’t you tell?’

Collette paused just a fraction too long. ‘Oh yeah, sure.
Sure
,’ she said insincerely. ‘So you can fill us in on how you’ve found them, then. Smell, texture . . . whether or not there’s been any difference to your hair.’ She paused again with a doubtful glance at Becky’s mane before going on. ‘Then I’ll get Andy to give us a quick report on his spa package – whether he feels groomed and pampered or . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘Or just a bit of a prat.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Judging by the strong pong of aftershave in his office just now, I’d say he was rather getting into this male grooming thing, though.’

Becky giggled but I didn’t. I knew I was next in the firing line.

‘And of course Maddie can tell us about FatBusters.’ Collette’s eyes glittered at the prospect. I could tell, just by the way she looked at me, that she would have been a playground bully as a child, one that pulled your pigtails, stuck bogeys on your jumper and nicked your Toffets given half a chance. ‘We want the full low-down on how the diet’s going, the challenges you’re facing, how you’re feeling.’ She leaned closer with the fakest look of concern I’d ever seen on her face. I could smell her sweet, sickly perfume and coffee breath. ‘How
is
the diet going, Mads?’

‘Fine,’ I managed to get out. I’d give her flaming
Mads
, I thought to myself. In fact, if she didn’t watch out, I’d push her off that desk in a minute.

A frown appeared on her forehead. ‘Really?’ she asked as if she didn’t believe me, then beamed out the false smile again, a hundred watts of bullshit. ‘That’s great! Well, we’ll look forward to hearing about it next week. Live on air. Did I mention that bit?’

The horrible woman. Like her yapping on about a few beauty treatments was in any way comparable to me baring my soul about a sodding weight-watching class. I could feel myself tensing all over, just thinking about that evening. In fact, I was so full of rage that when the phone rang, I forgot to screen the call and picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, at last! And there was me thinking you were avoiding me,’ came my mother’s voice, rich with overdone hurt.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, cursing myself for being caught. ‘How are you?’

‘Is there something wrong with your answerphone, dear?’ she went on, not even deigning to reply to my question. ‘Only I’ve been ringing and ringing you, only to get that wretched machine every time. I thought, she can’t have got my messages, otherwise I’m sure she’d have called me back by now, Maddie’s so good like that. Unless she’s got the hump with me and—’

The wily old thing. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help a smile. ‘All right, Mum, all right. Yes, I was a bit annoyed with you, to be honest.’

‘But darling, surely you know I’m only acting in your best interests?’ The words poured out as if she were reading them off a script. It wouldn’t have surprised me. ‘I was just thinking of you, my lovely daughter, trying to be a pal, as well as a mother.’

I sank down into the sofa, feeling tired. ‘You’ve always been a “pal”,’ I told her. ‘But I don’t need you to sort my life out.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ she agreed contritely. Then, ‘I have missed you, you know.’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ I said.

‘I mean, Gerald’s been staying for a few days and he’s wonderful, but . . . Well. He’s not
you.
He doesn’t do girly chats properly, much as I’ve tried.’

I laughed, all bad feelings forgotten. ‘I can imagine,’ I said. Gerald was my mum’s on/off partner, or ‘boyfriend’, as she liked to call him, much to my horror and her amusement. He was another theatre luvvie, a rather fey, elegant sort, with salt and pepper hair and a vast collection of wonderfully natty suits. He and Mum had met when they’d starred in
Lady Windermere’s Fan
at the Playhouse many moons ago, she as Lady Windermere and he as Lord Darlington, and they had drifted in and out of each other’s lives ever since. They blew hot and cold like nobody’s business – they were either best buddies who did everything together, or were throwing hissy fits and bitching about how annoying the other was. He was devoted to her, though, you could tell.

‘So, am I forgiven?’ she went on.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This time.’

I’d thought that would be the end of the daughter-bothering, but the very next evening I dropped in to see her after work and had barely sat down before she brought the subject up again.

‘So . . . have you been back to the gym this week?’ she said. We were out in her garden, sipping mint tea at the patio table, and she stretched out a bare, tanned leg and flexed her foot as she spoke. ‘There’s a fabulous new Pilates instructor there, you know. Very sexy. Couldn’t take my eyes off him this morning.’ She made a miaowing noise and giggled. I was appalled.

‘Mum!’ I protested. ‘Stop it, for goodness’ sake. And no, I haven’t been back. Nor do I intend to. I know you’ve paid a lot of money for the membership, but after the way they humiliated me, I—’

Her leg dropped and she turned towards me, her eyes fierce. ‘Humiliated you?’

Ah. Big mistake. Just as I was starting to get over the experience, I was going to have to trot it out all over again.

‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly, feeling the tears swim into my eyes. Oh, no. Pull yourself together, Maddie, I ordered myself, not wanting to dissolve into sobs like a little girl boo-hooing into her mummy’s skirts.

‘What do you mean?’ she persisted. ‘And why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Her gaze flicked down to her phone as if she wanted to snatch it up and start dialling in a rant there and then.

I sighed. ‘Well . . .’ I began. And then, before I could stop myself, the whole hour of misery burst out, complete with my tears and her fury.

‘He said
what
?’ she hissed at intervals, eyes narrow and flinty. ‘He did
what
?’ And then, when I’d finished, ‘How dare he? How dare he, the insensitive little shit?’ She banged a fist down on the table, making the teacups rattle. ‘I’ll wipe the smirk off his face, I’ll—’

She broke off suddenly and winced, then put a hand up to her forehead.

‘Are you all right, Mum?’ I asked.

She shut her eyes, then snapped them open. ‘Just a headache,’ she said. ‘It’s been coming and going the last few days. Nothing to worry about, though.’ Then, in a louder voice, grabbing her phone as if it were a weapon, she announced, ‘Now – time for me to give that effing
gym
something to worry about. That’s the last time they make my girl cry.’

‘Mum, wait,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to get you some paracetamol? Or a glass of water?’

She batted a hand at me as if the idea was ridiculous. She was never one for displays of weakness. ‘No, no,’ she said, eyes down on her phone list. ‘Right. Gym. Let’s see what my friend the manager has to say about this Jacob idiot’s
disgraceful
rudeness . . .’

I looked away as she was put through to the manager and launched into full bollocking mode, her icy tones berating the poor sod on the end of the line. She was quite scary when she got going, my mum: she didn’t mince her words. My gaze wandered around the garden, which looked wonderful – roses in full scented bloom, bright sweet peas scrambling up their iron wigwams, their papery petals open like butterfly wings, and the long, lush lawn rolling all the way down to the clematis-covered summer-house at the end. There were tiny green apples appearing on the gnarled tree nearby, and the wind shook its old branches, dappling the sunlight on the patio table. I wasn’t usually one for sitting out in the sun – being overweight meant I sweated easily and felt uncomfortable on hot days – but the breeze was very pleasant, and the mint tea somehow tasted better outside.

It was only when I heard the words ‘Saturday? Yes, she’ll be there – and she’ll expect a better service this time,’ that I jerked back to what my mum was saying, feeling a creeping dread rise through me. She jabbed victoriously at the phone to end the call and I was about to question her – surely she hadn’t just roped me in for a
further
session of embarrassment? – when she clutched at her head again, dropping the phone onto the table with a clatter. It bounced down to the stone cobbles beneath our feet and the battery case flew off like a shiny insect.

‘Mum!’ I said in alarm. ‘Are you all right? Let me get you something.’ Before she could argue, I rushed into the kitchen to find some painkillers. My hands felt damp as I pulled open her cupboard door. The units might have had an overhaul or two since I’d lived there as a teenager, but everything was still comfortingly in the same place. Painkillers had always been stored on the top shelf of the cupboard next to the fridge, in a large white plastic tub. I pulled it down, expecting to see the usual Lemsip sachets, Anadin packet and the anti-inflammatory tablets she took for her arthritis, plus assorted plasters and the old mercury thermometer that had seen me through measles, chicken-pox and other childhood lurgies.

I took down the tub and stared in surprise. There on top were two packets of pills with the chemist’s sticker and dosage instructions. What were
they
for? Mum was normally as healthy as a horse: she never complained of any ailments. I snatched up some Nurofen and filled a glass of water.

She was still holding the side of her head when I went out, and I set the glass down on the table and put an arm around her. ‘Here,’ I said, trying to open the packet of Nurofen one-handed. ‘Mum? I’ve got some painkillers.’

She took her hand away carefully, as if worried her skull would break open if she let go, and blinked. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, accepting the tablets I put in her hand and swallowing them. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’

I hesitated. ‘Mum, I saw you’d got something from the chemist in your first-aid box. Have you been having a lot of these headaches?’

She sipped at the water, not meeting my eye. ‘One or two,’ she said vaguely. She took a deep breath and seemed to rally. ‘Anyway. Enough about me. Mike, the manager at the gym, was
extremely
apologetic about what happened last Saturday and he’ll do your next induction session himself. He’s good, too. I think you’ll like him.’ She gulped down another mouthful of water and went on, sounding more like her bossy old self now. ‘So you’re booked in with him at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon. He said that’s usually a quiet time, so hopefully you won’t feel quite so on show.’