The Chocolate Lovers' Diet (5 page)

‘I’d break both of my own,’ I tell her, and having recently broken a limb I know how painful that is, so it’s not a threat I make lightly. So it looks like my Christmas is going to be spent singing along with Dick Van Dyke and chewing the sleeves of my chocolate-scented T-shirt.

Chapter Eight

W
aking up alone on Christmas morning is not a great feeling. This is definitely a time designed for lovey-dovey couples and families – however warring. This is a time for making up, forgetting old hurts, putting feuds aside. This is not a time to be by yourself. Even though I’ve never actually achieved this scenario with my own family, I can’t help imagining everyone else out there having a warm and loving holiday together, gathered round the Christmas tree opening their presents.

I plod into the kitchen and stick two chocolate Pop-Tarts into the toaster. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge and I suppose that I could start on it now – there’s nothing to stop me. I’ll be back on my cheap and cheerful wine by tomorrow, so I might as well make the most of it. If you’re going to have empty calories, make them expensive ones, that’s what I say. So I crack it open, let the cork ricochet off the ceiling and swig heartily from the bottle. The bubbles make me do a little burp. Hmm. Not bad.

I take my breakfast, such as it is, into the lounge and sit in front of my tree. My red chilli lights wink happily at me. Even the sight of me, miserable and alone, can’t
dismay them. There’s no great pile of presents here. In fact, there aren’t any at all. My parents both gave me cheques – they know my needs – and I’ve opened and eaten everything else I was given. Except for Chantal’s chocolate T-shirt – but the day is still young.

Staring at the phone, I try to curb my urge to speak to Crush. Would one little call have hurt him so much? I can’t believe that he hasn’t got in touch with me at all. He could at least have contacted me to say that he was sorry and that he was a low-life and that, frankly, I deserved better than him. I look at the clock. His Christmas Day will nearly be over. He’s probably been on the beach, barbecuing succulent prawns with Miss Skanky Pants in a skimpy bikini and simply doesn’t care about the broken heart he’s left behind. Choking down a bit more of my Pop-Tart, I follow it with a swig of champagne. I wonder if I’ve even crossed his mind.

Still, I
am
going out today. I wasn’t just saying that to appease my lovely mates. I was determined not to sit here at home feeling pathetically sorry for myself. There are people much worse off than I am. I can’t actually bring any to mind, at the moment – but I’m sure there are some.

Taking myself into the bathroom, I have a good, vigorous scrub-down under the shower, which instantly makes me feel a lot better. I pick out a smart, but not overtly glamorous outfit, put on some slap, do something wonderful with my hair and then head on out.

I’ve never been inside a soup kitchen before – I don’t even know if that’s the correct term any more. They’re probably
called Eating Venues for the Under-Privileged and are awarded the equivalent of Michelin stars. This is normally more Autumn’s bag than mine. And, I suppose that I could have easily asked Autumn for one of her contacts – as undoubtedly she has them – but I didn’t want any of the girls to know that I was planning to do this sort of thing, as they would have tried to talk me out of it. All I did was look up ‘homeless’ on the internet, found out who was running a volunteer programme, then I called these guys and they were more than happy to have me come along to help out. And why wouldn’t they be? Any old idiot can dish out a few sprouts.

A three-course traditional Christmas lunch for all-comers is being served in a crumbling church hall not too far from where I live. If they do get stars for this kind of establishment, then it wouldn’t get many for décor. Unless, of course, peeling paint becomes
de rigueur
. When I arrive, there’s the smell of roasting turkey in the air, but it’s overlaid with the rancid hum of unwashed clothes and bodies. Sitting at the rows of makeshift tables are a range of people from under-nourished teenagers with pizza faces to crusty old tramps with potatoes growing under their fingernails and matted hair. It shocks me that every seat is filled and there are more people waiting in line for spaces to become vacant. I had no idea that there were so many people who were alone at Christmas.

‘Here you are, dearie. Good to see you.’ Before I can decide that dishing out a few sprouts is, frankly, beyond me and make a run for it, an ample woman hands me a ladle and a red Christmas hat. She’s sufficiently jolly to
stop me from getting too maudlin. She grins at me and I grin back. I too can do cheerful in the face of minor adversity. I might be miserable and alone, but I have a lot more to be thankful for than these folk. ‘Give them a nice big bowl of soup to start with,’ she tells me. ‘There’s plenty to go around.’

Feeling slightly dazed, I find somewhere to put my handbag where it won’t be nicked and then I take my place in the soup distribution line. I’m just about to launch into my new role as humbled and selfless volunteer with a cheery disposition when I hear my name being called.

‘Lucy!’ My head spins round. I hadn’t expected to know anyone here. Which, to be truthful, was part of the attraction. Three people along the line, I see Clive, also ladle in hand. ‘What are you doing here?’

I shift places, budging a silver-haired, twin-setted woman and man in a corduroy jacket and sandals out of the way, until I’m standing next to my friend. ‘The same as you, I guess.’

‘I couldn’t face being on my own,’ Clive admits as we dish out our soup to grateful recipients. ‘This seemed like a useful alternative.’

‘Great minds think alike.’

‘How did we end up like this?’ Clive wants to know. ‘We’re nice people, aren’t we? Why does no one want to be with us?’

‘You haven’t heard from Tristan?’

He gives me a sad shrug. ‘Not a thing.’

‘When we’re through here, let’s spend the rest of the day together,’ I suggest. ‘I have champagne. I have chocolate. I
have a wide range of microwavable food and some really rubbish board games.’

Clive gives me a hug and my spirits lift. ‘Sounds perfect.’

When we’ve finished serving lunch and the washing-up has been done, then the remaining volunteers sit down together. The turkey’s looking a little dried up by now and the roast spuds have gone soggy, but there’s laughter and camaraderie to help it down and it doesn’t taste so bad at all.

As Clive and I are tucking into a tired helping of Christmas pudding and vaguely lumpy custard, his mobile phone rings. ‘It’s Tristan,’ he mouths to me, then moves away from the table and paces the floor anxiously as he talks.

Looking around at my fellow volunteers, I feel the warmth that has formed between us. I came here looking for a way to distract myself from being alone, but I’m surprised at the sense of community that I’ve found. To be honest, I might even consider coming back here next year. Particularly if I’m still a miserable spinster with no one to love. If my life continues as it is then I might even be standing in the soup line myself, by then.

When Clive comes back to the table, there’s a pensive and slightly troubled look on his face.

‘Bad news?’

‘Tristan’s missing me,’ he says. ‘He wants me to join him at his parents’.’

‘That’s good news!’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But then I’ll have to leave you.’

‘Oh.’ Hadn’t thought about that part. ‘You must go,’ I say. Even though I actually want to beg Clive not to. ‘You should be together.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist bravely. ‘I’ve been fed, and I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself for the rest of the day.’ At least I have a comfy sofa and a telly and don’t have to head back out into the cold, hard streets with nothing but a few cardboard boxes for solace.

‘If you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘Clive. Go. I’ll push you out of the door if I have to.’

‘You’re a lovely person, Lucy. Free chocolate for all of next week for this.’

‘I can eat a lot,’ I threaten. ‘And I’ll be in every day.’

‘You already are and we love you for it.’

Clive gives me a bear hug, plants a kiss on my cheek and then waves over his shoulder as he goes out of the door – leaving me to wonder if it’s possible to have a game of Pictionary with just one player.

Chapter Nine

A
ddison took a step backwards as they approached the front door of the house.

‘Your parents own
all
of this place?’

Autumn nodded.

‘Not just one floor?’

‘All of it,’ she confirmed.

Addison pursed his lips and she thought she saw a gulp travel down his throat. Everyone’s reaction was the same when they saw where her parents lived. She used to wish fervently that home was a tiny terraced house in some northern industrial town. Their wisteria-covered mansion was very grand and imposing, and was always a great embarrassment to her when taking home impoverished and socially-aware boyfriends. It had ended more than one relationship.

She was sure that it wouldn’t come to that with Addison. He wanted her for herself, not for what her parents did or didn’t have. Or had too much of. He was cooler, more accepting and, at least he
had
a job, which was an improvement on most of the men she’d been romantically involved with over the years. Autumn didn’t think, however, she’d mention to him just yet about the family’s other homes
in the Bahamas, Gstaad, Nice and various other places around the globe. Or their country ‘bolthole’ as they called it – a sprawling farmhouse in the Cotswolds surrounded by acres of land.

‘You said they were upper-class, Autumn,’ he reminded her. ‘Not one step down from royalty.’

Wiping her palms on her dress, she chewed nervously at her lip. ‘We don’t have to do this.’

‘We can’t do a runner now. What will happen to all the festive delights your mother will have spent hours preparing?’ Addison put his arm round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘They can be quite over-bearing,’ she warned.

‘And I can be quite charming,’ Addison countered. ‘They’ll love me.’

Autumn hoped that he was right. She hadn’t really cared that her parents had disapproved of every other man she’d ever taken home to meet them, but suddenly, this time it mattered that they should like Addison – and that they should like him a lot.

The door opened and they stepped inside. ‘Merry Christmas, Miss Autumn.’

‘Thanks, Jenkinson. Merry Christmas to you.’ The butler-cum-housekeeper who’d run her parents’ London home for many years, took their coats.

‘Your parents have a
butler
?’ Addison said when the elderly gentleman was out of earshot.

Autumn didn’t dare tell her boyfriend that they had a cook and cleaner too. ‘Jenkinson isn’t really a butler, he’s a . . .’

‘Faithful retainer?’

‘Now you’re teasing me.’

‘Not really,’ Addison said. ‘But you might have warned me that this wasn’t going to be lunch with your average parents.’

‘They’re the only ones I’ve got, Addison.’

‘Well, as we’ve already agreed, it’s too late to run away, so you’d better introduce me.’

If her parents were at all shocked by Autumn’s choice of boyfriend, then they managed to hide it very well. They sat sipping Kir Royale in the drawing room, making polite conversation, while the final preparations for lunch were made. Addison didn’t make any comment about the absence of her mother slaving over a hot stove. Autumn didn’t think that her mother ventured into her kitchen very often. Most of their Christmas lunch had probably come directly from Fortnum & Mason.

‘You have remembered that I’m vegetarian, Mummy?’

Her mother looked blankly at her. ‘I’m sure that Jenkinson has. Besides, we’re having goose, darling. That hardly counts as meat.’

Autumn sighed to herself. They should have stayed at her apartment by themselves. Then she could have cooked a nut roast and Addison wouldn’t have been subjected to this.

‘Do you live near here, Alan?’ Her father had decided to hold court.

‘Addison,’ he corrected patiently. ‘No. This is a bit above my price bracket. I have a council flat in Streatham.’

‘How lovely,’ Autumn’s mother piped up, her voice just too shrill to be perceived as sincere.

Her father looked less than impressed. ‘What’s your line of work?’

‘I’m an Enterprise Development Officer,’ he said. ‘I find jobs for reformed drug addicts.’ He shrugged. ‘Not all of them reformed. It’s very hard for some of these kids to kick the habit.’

Her parents exchanged an anxious glance. ‘Perhaps lunch is ready,’ her mother said.

Addison looked at Autumn as if to say, ‘What have I said wrong?’

Before she could intervene with an explanation, Jenkinson opened the door. ‘Master Richard has arrived.’

‘
Richard?
’ He was the last person Autumn had expected to see.

‘He wasn’t sure if he’d get back in time to join us,’ her mother explained. ‘He’s come straight from the airport. We wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘It’s certainly that,’ Autumn agreed.

At that moment, Richard swung through the door. ‘Sis!’ he said, and grabbed Autumn in a rough embrace.

It was the first time in her life that she hadn’t felt relieved simply to see Rich in one piece. She had imagined, after his months in rehab in the States, that he’d have looked healthier than he did. She’d envisaged him a few pounds heavier, the shadows gone from beneath his eyes, maybe even the glimmer of a tan, but her brother still looked gaunt, his cheeks sunken. When he pulled away from her she could see that his eyes were unnaturally bright, not
quite focused, and she knew instinctively that Rich was still using. All the months that he’d supposedly been in rehab had been completely pointless. Their parents might as well have dug a hole in the ground and buried all their money in it.

‘Darling,’ their mother said to him as she kissed the air either side of her son’s cheek. ‘It’s so good that you could make it back.’

Richard embraced his mother stiffly. ‘Mumsy.’ He shook his father’s hand, who then attempted to pat him rather uncomfortably on the arm.