The Chocolate Lovers' Diet

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That Lucy. I hope she’ll be very happy.’

  Ignoring his lack of interest, she ploughed on. ‘I know that we’ve never really spent time with the other members of The Chocolate Lovers’ Club,’ she babbled. ‘But I thought this could be a great opportunity for you to meet them all. I hoped that you might like to come to the wedding with me.’

  ‘I hate weddings,’ Ted said.

  She swallowed the needle of irritation that pricked at her. ‘This one will be nice.’

  Her husband shrugged. ‘Okay. Let me know when and where, and I’ll see if I’m free.’

  So that was how it was going to be. This was going to be harder work than she’d imagined. ‘I should leave.’

  As she went towards the door, Ted said, ‘You just got here.’

  ‘And you said you had other arrangements,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I have a few minutes.’ Ted capitulated with a sheepish glance. ‘Want a quick glass of wine?’

  Chantal took another deep breath. ‘I’m not drinking at the moment.’

  ‘Dieting?’ Ted helped himself to a bottle of white that was chilling in the fridge. Chantal felt as if she could commit murder for a single sip. ‘I could get you a soft drink.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Thanks.’

  ‘You look like you’ve put a little weight on.’ Her husband smiled. ‘I know that’s not a great thing to say to a woman, but you look good. Curvy. It kinda suits you.’

  ‘Ted . . .’ Chantal cleared her throat. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  Ted chewed his lip nervously. ‘There’s something I need to tell you too.’ He took a hearty swig of his wine, then blurted out, ‘I’m seeing someone else.’

  That wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ Ted instructed.

  Chantal sank into the nearest chair, steadying her hands on the table.

  Her husband paced the kitchen floor, avoiding her eyes. ‘I could come to this wedding with you, if you need company. But I want you to know that there’s someone else on the scene.’ He glanced back at her for a reaction.

  Chantal sat there calmly while she absorbed this news. She’d lost her husband to someone else. Ted was clearly hoping that she’d ask him more about it, but she couldn’t. Her brain simply couldn’t take in any more. ‘I see,’ she said finally.

  Ted laughed uncomfortably. ‘I’m glad that’s out in the open,’ he said. ‘We are separated, but, well . . . I didn’t like to feel that I was sneaking around.’

  She wondered if it was a barbed comment aimed at her, but decided to let it go. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ted said. He busied himself looking at his watch again and draining his glass. ‘But now I really do have to be going. I have a reservation at Hakkasan.’

  It was the ultra-smart Chinese restaurant across town that had been their favourite hang-out for Oriental food.

  ‘Nice,’ she said. It was a table for two, no doubt.

  ‘What was it that you wanted to tell me?’

  Her brain froze over. She couldn’t even find the words to begin to tell Ted about the baby. Not now. Not at this moment. Ted stood waiting while the cogs inside her head slowly tried to work together. Eventually something clicked.

  ‘The wedding,’ she said. ‘Lucy’s wedding. You’ll probably need to wear your morning suit.’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  My desk is covered in cards bearing cheery wedding greetings and there’s a beautiful bouquet of white lilies perched on the corner. Even the harridans from Human Resources have signed a card for me. I leaf through them again. Crush hasn’t. My lips purse together sadly.

  Still, no use crying over spilt milk, as they say. It’s nearly seven o’clock and everyone else has left the office for the night, so I take my holdall that normally holds my gym gear and head into the ladies’ loos to make my preparations for the evening’s entertainment ahead.

  It’s my hen night and the members of The Chocolate Lovers’ Club are going out on the town. Clive and Tristan are coming with us too as, basically, they’re honorary girls. I’m not sure if this form of ritual humiliation is supposed to be fun, but I’m going along with it because my friends insist that they’ve organised a great night out. They’re all meeting me outside, at the front of Targa’s office in about ten minutes, so I’d better get a move on.

  As part of the ‘fun’, I’ve been given a joke wedding dress to wear. I think my friends must have bought it from a sex shop. It’s minuscule and extraordinarily tarty. If you wore this sort of thing as a real bride, then the vicar would pass out. I so don’t have the legs for this – or the heart. Nevertheless, I elbow my way into a cubicle clutching my compulsory outfit and, with a complaining sigh, peel off my work suit and wriggle into this ridiculous confection.

  There’s a corset that laces tightly up the front, forcing my bust to spill out over the top, making me look vaguely reminiscent of Nell Gwynn. The excuse of a skirt froths out from my cinched-in waist and stops rather abruptly below my bottom, about twelve inches short of decent. There’s a red ‘L’ plate stitched to the back. I’ve got white stockings to wear and matching white Essex girl shoes. A cheap net train about ten feet long comes from a sparkly tiara that I jam onto my head.

  Out by the sinks again, I check myself in the mirror. It’s worse than I imagined. I look like some sort of Playboy wedding fetish model. There’s no way I can go out in public looking like the slut bride from hell. My phone rings.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Chantal says. ‘We’re all waiting downstairs. The festivities are soon to begin.’

  ‘And you’ve got costumes on too?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Chantal says. ‘We’re all suitably attired. Come on, we’re wasting valuable drinking time.’

  ‘You don’t drink any more.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a mineral water somewhere with my name on it,’ she counters.

  Right. Vodka, I think, will be my tipple of choice. I have no intention of being sober in this outfit for very long.

  ‘Shake a leg,’ Chantal says, showing that she can remember appropriately stupid English phrases.

  ‘If I shake anything else, it will all fall out.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she says with a laugh, and hangs up.

  Scanning the mirror again, I realise that I have no option but to go out looking like this. I resign myself to the fact that, at least, no one I know will see me.

  I tiptoe out into the office and, rather furtively, head for the door. Just then, it opens and Aiden Bloody Holby swings in.

  ‘Whoaw!’ he says when he sees me, and pulls up sharply. His eyes pop out on stalks.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I have a bouquet of loud fake flowers in clashing colours which I hold against my hip in an aggressive pose.

  ‘I forgot my laptop,’ he explains, still wide-eyed. Then, in a rather leisurely manner, he takes in my skimpy outfit. A smirk settles on his lips. ‘I’m glad that I did.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone else in the office about this,’ I threaten him. I even wag my finger in his face. ‘Or you’ll never get your hands on any of my chocolate ever again.’

  Crush starts to laugh. His eyes are travelling between my boobs which are spilling out of my dress and my stocking-tops – which probably have my thighs spilling out of them. As always in the presence of Aiden Holby, I turn beetroot-coloured. He tries to organise his face into some semblance of seriousness when he says, ‘I take it that’s not your real wedding dress.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s being ridiculous?’ He smiles at me. ‘Actually, you look kind of sexy, Gorgeous.’

  ‘It’s my hen night,’ I tell him. Which, as we know, is an excuse for all kinds of appalling behaviour.

  ‘Funny, but I’d sort of gathered that.’ We stand and look at each other uncomfortably. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Mi
stress Jay’s.’

  ‘The drag club?’

  I nod in confirmation. Clive and Tristan have set this up – even though Clive insists that female impersonators are now considered a hideously outmoded and politically incorrect form of entertainment. Maybe it’s Tristan who goes for men in sling-backs and thigh-slit gowns. I have no idea. Frankly, I have enough trouble sorting out my own raison d’être without worrying about theirs.

  For some stupid reason, I’d like to ask Crush to come along with us, but my mouth won’t form the words.

  ‘You’ll have a blast,’ Aiden says.

  ‘I intend to be very drunk, very soon,’ I tell him.

  Then his eyes lock onto mine and they look so terribly sad. His voice softens. ‘So you’re really going through with this wedding lark?’

  I nod. A lump comes to my throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you love Marcus?’

  I make myself nod again.

  ‘Then I wish you all the luck in the world,’ Crush says.

  ‘I’d really like you to be at the wedding,’ I blurt out.

  ‘So would I,’ he says. ‘But only if I can be the groom.’ Then he turns and leaves.

  And, as I look after him, utterly speechless with shock, I notice that he’s forgotten his laptop once again. He’s going to be really annoyed when he realises what he’s done.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Nadia and Autumn are also both dressed as slut bridesmaids, which makes me feel much better. They’re wearing stockings too, ankle-turning high-heels and dresses that leave little to the imagination. How Chantal has managed to persuade Nadia out of her widow’s weeds and into this outrageous outfit, I’ve no idea. But I’m very glad that she has. Actually, Autumn looks fantastic too. She should think of becoming a shameless tart rather than an eco-warrior as the look really suits her.

  Chantal is dressed as a three-tiered wedding cake after arguing that a woman in a pregnant condition shouldn’t be required to bare her body in an unseemly way, though it doesn’t stop most of the celebs these days. The guys are also in fancy-dress costume. Tristan is a rather red-faced priest complete with that frilly white garment they all wear, and Clive is clearly supposed to be my betrothed, but he’s wearing an oversized, joke morning suit. His usual immaculate spiky hair has been given a centre parting and is greased down.

  My heart lightens as we totter down the street, giggling like a bunch of schoolkids, and the horribly sad look on Aiden Holby’s face starts to fade away. Or, at least, I pretend it does.

  I look over at Nadia and take in her appearance properly. She’s lost weight – the pounds are literally dropping off her, but other than that she’s bearing up remarkably well and I hope that a night on the town will help to keep her that way. Autumn’s boyfriend Addison is babysitting Lewis. I can tell that she’s anxious about leaving him so soon after Toby’s death, but she has agreed to do it for my sake and I love her for it. So much so, that I don’t hold it against her that she was the one who helped Chantal choose my slut bride look.

  ‘You look great,’ I tell her as I slip my arm round her and give her a squeeze.

  ‘I look terrible,’ she says, ‘and we both know it.’

  ‘I don’t even know how you’re managing to be upright,’ I tell her, ‘let alone go through this.’

  ‘I’m existing on a divine blend of denial and prescription drugs.’ She gives me a tired smile. ‘I’m hoping that adding strong drink to the equation will make oblivion come more quickly. I’ve spent every night since Toby died just staring at his empty armchair willing him to reappear. Going out dressed like a hooker is welcome relief. Your getting married is very timely; if I hadn’t come out tonight I think I would have gone quietly mad.’

  ‘Oh Nadia,’ I say, feeling my friend’s pain. ‘You’ll be fine. Just fine. We’ll all make sure that you are.’

  ‘Well,’ she sighs, ‘I know for certain that I couldn’t do it without you.’

  ‘No more sitting alone at nights, for one thing,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be round just as often as you like with a box of chocs and a crappy film.’

  She kisses me on the cheek and I put my arm round her and we huddle together.

  ‘Come on.’ I force a spring into my step. ‘Let’s go celebrate my last night of freedom.’

  At Mistress Jay’s club, we’re escorted to our table in a crescent-shaped booth by a beefy guy who’s over six foot five dressed in a hot pink basque, a thong and vertiginous black patent leather heels. For a moment, I feel slightly overdressed. His blonde wig tumbles to his waist and, as he seats us, he pouts his collagen-enhanced lips at Tristan.

  The theme here is very burlesque – all red velvet and gold embellishments. Even this early in the evening, the place is crowded, mainly by hen parties, and mainly inebriated ones. Our overpriced champagne, too, is quick to arrive and we make a brave stab at catching up with our rivals – except for Chantal who, much to her disgust, is drinking nothing stronger than Perrier water.

  ‘I hope this young lady realises all the sacrifices that I’m making for her,’ she complains, patting her stomach fondly.

  I raise my champagne glass, feeling ridiculously emotional. ‘To us,’ I say. ‘To The Chocolate Lovers’ Club.’

  ‘To us,’ my friends echo, and we clink glasses together.

  ‘And to your forthcoming wedding.’ Chantal hoists her glass of water again.

  The others join in. ‘To Lucy’s wedding.’

  ‘To my wedding!’ I say, but my voice sounds over-bright and forced. I slug back my champagne, feeling ridiculous and wanting to cry.

  The cabaret begins. High-kicking male showgirls – who were probably builders and computer programmers in a former life – strut their stuff across the stage. All the favourite hen-party standards are reeled out: ‘It’s Raining Men’, Aretha’s ‘Respect’ and ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves’, ‘One Night in Heaven’, ‘I’m Every Woman’ – the oldie but goldie hits keep on coming. And the audience go wild.

  Between acts, the compère called Raunchy Roberta takes the floor. He or she is another six-footer but this time sporting a red curly wig and a sparkly white dress slit to the thigh. Roberta tours the audience and insults everyone in close proximity. Our food comes and so does more champagne. Lots and lots of it. The main star of the cabaret takes the stage. He’s dressed as Marilyn Monroe in full-length gold lamé and matching gloves. Marilyn machine-guns out round after round of blue jokes that, if I hadn’t had so much to drink, would make my ears want to curl up.

  We drink more and then we all lurch onto the dance floor and sing loudly to more songs that are mainly about what bastards men are – Clive and Tristan, for some reason, singing the loudest. Why are gay men always good dancers? Does the gay gene and the good-dancing gene go hand-in-hand? Is this why all straight men can’t dance? The boys put us to shame, strutting their stuff, while we girlies try to do coordinated dance steps, but are generally thwarted. After a few songs, it proves too much for us so, giggling, we all head back to our table.

  I flop gratefully into my seat just as our dessert arrives. ‘Ohmigod!’

  ‘Just for you, Lucy,’ Clive and Tristan say proudly.

  They’ve made a special chocolate mini-wedding cake which they must have had delivered to the club for me. A bouquet of sparklers is fizzing at the top and the chocolate fudge icing looks an inch thick. It’s utterly fabulous. I get envious glances from the other hen parties. Ha. Hands off!

  ‘You guys!’ I say, all teary, and I do a mock cutting of the cake. Everyone cheers and then we tuck in. I give myself a megaslice – yum. Just to be polite, you understand. Mind you, if I eat too much of this, I’m never going to be able to get into my wedding dress. I’ll have to live on fresh air for the next few days to make up for it. I feel drunk, light-headed and very slightly disorientated. Can this really be happening to me?

  Then, as I look up, I see Crush standing in front of me and I know that I have entered a more hallucinatory realm. My fo
rk stalls on its way to my lips.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he says bleakly.

  I can’t think of anything to say. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  ‘Don’t get married.’

  When I look round, I see that the forks of all of my friends have also stalled.

  Then, with impeccable timing, Raunchy Roberta, the red-wigged compère, breezes up to our table.

  ‘Oh – hello, love.’ His immaculately manicured fingers latch onto Aiden’s arm and he pulls him into a robust cuddle, theatrically squeezing his biceps. The spotlight swings onto our table. The rest of the drunken hen-party audience ‘ooo’ their appreciation. I want to die. Crush blinks against the harsh light and I want to stand up and stop this, but I can’t. My brain can’t make my legs work, or my mouth, or anything vaguely useful. ‘You’re a handsome young thing.’

  Crush looks perplexed and desperately uncomfortable with the glare of attention.

  ‘Are you the lucky groom?’

  ‘No,’ he says flatly.

  ‘You look like you wish that you were.’ The audience cheer. Crush says nothing.

  Chantal whispers in my ear, ‘For an old drag queen, this guy is remarkably perceptive.’

  ‘Take her home and give her a good shagging,’ the compère advises. ‘It might be your last chance!’ And then he moves on to the next table which is hosted by a bride who looks at least six months’ pregnant as her bump’s twice as big as Chantal’s. Still he hasn’t finished with Aiden, as he shouts over his shoulder, ‘If she won’t have you, then maybe you can give me a go!’

  Chantal takes my fork from me and returns it to my plate. ‘You should both get out of here,’ she says to me and to Crush. ‘It seems as if you’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  My friend somehow pushes me to my feet and my legs remember how to do the walking thing. Crush takes my hand and leads me out of the club. And it just goes to show what a state I’m in, since not only have I abandoned my friends at my own hen night, but I have left chocolate cake unfinished and I don’t even think about it until much, much later.