Sweet Temptation (2 page)

I put my big fat head in my big fat hands and wished the world would go away.

I was skinny as a child. Tall and skinny, long bony legs and pointy elbows. But somehow or other, that all changed. Somehow or other, I got bigger and bigger and bigger until I was five foot ten and seventeen stone. Half woman, half dumpling, that was me.

I would feel people’s gazes upon me in the supermarket. Their eyes would swerve from me straight into my trolley, obviously expecting to see a teetering mountain of crisps and chocolate biscuits piled high. I’d ignore them and load in more fruit and vegetables. They weren’t expecting that, were they? I enjoyed the looks of surprise. Mind you, they didn’t know that I ordered the other stuff online. It came in a van when the children were at school – my secret treats: slabs of cheese, bags of Kettle Chips and those fun-size chocolate bars you give out at children’s parties.
See, I’m being good
, I’d tell myself as I ripped open a mini Mars bar and sank my teeth into it. Only a titchy little bar of chocolate for me!

Then I’d go and spoil it by scoffing another four later in the day, but somehow managed to overlook that. Anyway, I ate those ones standing up at the cupboard.
That doesn’t count
, I convinced myself.

The problem was, I loved food. Always had done. I could read a recipe book just for the sheer enjoyment – mmmm, chicken pie and mashed potato with gravy . . . oooh, loin of pork with garlic and bay leaves . . . marinated lamb on rosemary potatoes . . . I would sit in bed trying not to salivate on the pages.

And entertaining – oh, yes. Loved it. Nothing better than friends and family around the table, kitchen steaming with fragrant cooking smells, me flushed in the face and happy, serving up a huge roast, a tray of Yorkshires, crispy golden spuds and all the trimmings. The
ooh
s and
ahhhs
and
this is so delicious
and
Maddie, you’re a star!
What was not to like?

The flipside was, I hated the way I looked. Loathed it. I didn’t bother checking in the mirror any more – I didn’t want to play count-the-chins. The fat seemed to have crept all over me like a wobbly pink covering. I bulged over my kneecaps. There were distinct, countable rolls around my waist. You could barely see my ankles, they were so puffy. When I sat down, I always worried I’d break the chair.

I dreamed of having slim, shapely legs again, a flat stomach, a handful of a bottom. I secretly wished I had the bottle (and money) for liposuction or a tummy tuck.

Thankfully Paul didn’t seem to mind. Paul was my husband and he liked big girls. ‘More to hold onto,’ he said fondly, if rather unromantically. ‘You still look like a princess to me, babe.’

At least one of us thought so, eh?

The very next day, things got worse still. More humiliation. More embarrassment. It was the mums’ race at my kids’ school sports day: welcome to Hell.

That morning, I was light-headed from a sleepless night, still feeling vulnerable from the embarrassment of the day before. Sensing weakness, my daughter Emma pounced.

‘Mum, have you remembered it’s sports day this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘You
are
going, aren’t you?’

‘Um . . .’ I began, buttering toast, my back to her and her brother. I had the afternoon off and I’d planned to get the shears out and do some major hacking in the jungle that was our neglected back garden.

‘Oh go on, Mum, you
never
come to sports day!’ Ben complained. ‘All the other mums do.’

‘I really want you to see me in the three-legged race with Amber,’ Emma added. ‘We’ve been practising loads and we’re dead fast. We might even win!’

I kept schtum. The thing was, I was quite happy to watch
them
running races up and down the playing field, but I’d heard all the horror stories about the obligatory mums’ race from years gone by, and there was absolutely no way on earth I was getting dragged into
that
.

‘It
is
my last year at Highbridge,’ Emma went on, an accusing note appearing in her voice. ‘And you haven’t come to one single sports day. Last year, when I won the sack race, I really wished you’d been there, but—’

I was starting to feel harassed. I’m not my sharpest at 7.45 in the morning and stood no chance against the wiles of a ten-year-old girl.

‘I do have a
job
!’ I pointed out, bringing the plate of toast to the table and helping myself to a slice.

‘Not this afternoon,’ Emma countered smartly. ‘You only do a half-day on Thursday, don’t you? You can easily make it.’ Her eyes narrowed, and then she delivered the sucker punch. ‘If you’re interested, that is. If you
care
!’

‘Oh, Emma,’ I sighed. ‘Of course I care!’ Her words stung me with guilt. ‘Oh . . . okay, then,’ I found myself saying, defeated. One poxy sports day. One stupid mums’ race, which would be over in a matter of minutes. How bad could it be?

This
bad, was the answer, I realized several hours later. I was tense even before the gun had gone off – my heart jumpy, my whole body clenched with nerves. A fat sun glared down, bathing us all in harsh white light. The other runners were muttering to one other in low voices, but I was so churned up inside, I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t move. Why had I allowed myself to get talked into this?

The mums alongside me on the starting line all seemed to be wearing skimpy vest tops and shorts, sunlight bouncing off their toned, tanned skin. I was the blob on the horizon, the only one in fat-lady slacks and a long baggy top, showing as little flesh as possible. All of a sudden, I wished I hadn’t had that fourth piece of toast for breakfast. Or the lunchtime bag of thick salty chips. Or the Snowdonia of cakes and chocolate and cheese and pasta I’d scoffed in the last week . . .

Shut up
,
Maddie
, I told myself.
What’s done is done
. Besides, there were two beaming faces in the crowd, waving and making encouraging thumbs-up signs at me. The knot inside melted a little as I remembered how lovely it had been watching Emma and her friend Amber win second place in the three-legged race, a triumph of hasty hobbling, their faces radiant with smiles as they crossed the line. And as for Ben’s look of sheer joy when he’d surged past the other Year Twos to romp home in first place in the egg and spoon race . . . bless him, I’d had to stop myself from punching the air in pride. Goodness only knew how a tubster like me had ever managed to produce two such lithe, athletic children.

There was an undercurrent of jostling at the start line as Mrs Gable, the deputy head, looked our way and held up the starting pistol. Near me in the crowd I noticed Vanessa Gray, wearing expensive-looking running shoes, with that glint in her eye – the same determined look I’d seen at many PTA meetings in the past when she’d ensured the vote had gone her way on the summer fair stall allocations and the venue for the PTA committee night out. I clocked her surreptitiously sliding her left elbow in front of Jane Willis and inching her foot forward.

‘On your marks . . .’

Oh God. This was really happening. Fear sloshed around inside me like water in a washing machine.

‘Get set . . .’

Vanessa Gray was tensed, knees slightly bent, a jaguar poised to spring in Lycra cycling shorts and a perfect, glossy ponytail.

BANG!

We were off – forty or so mums pounding down the school playing field, high-pitched shrieks and cheers from the spectators ringing in our ears. Vanessa sprinted ahead like a woman possessed. She had probably been training for this all year.

I, on the other hand, was panting as if my chest was going to explode.
Thud-thud-thud
went my feet in my trainers. (Gleaming white. Bought as part of a New Year’s resolution. Worn for the first time today, six months later.) I was puffing like a steam engine, my face shiny and hot, going as fast as I could. Somehow, though, the other mums were getting away from me.

My fake smile tightened as I became stranded at the back of the pack. Ahead of me was a sea of pert bottoms, legs scissoring forward, elbows pumping. Behind me, just my own lumbering shadow. I grimaced as Vanessa Gray charged over the finishing line in first place, arms thrown up in victory as if she were Paula sodding Radcliffe. There was a smattering of reluctant applause from the teachers. None of them liked her either.

Thud-thud-thud.
The audience, one hundred and seventy kids all cross-legged in rows down either side of the playing field, was a blur. Oh help. I was miles behind. Others were over the whitewashed finishing line too now, laughing and wiping their hair out of their eyes. Time seemed to have stopped. Just me left on the field.
Thud-thud-thud.

Mrs Gable held up the megaphone, well-meaning but oh-so-crushing. ‘Come on, Mrs Lawson, you can do it!’

Oh, Christ. Kill me now. Children were sniggering at me. Sniggering at fat, unfit, panting Mrs Lawson as she finally – finally! – waddled over the finishing line. I tried to laugh too. ‘Phew,’ I said, forcing a smile, though I was more concerned about imminent heart failure. ‘Well, that’s my exercise for the week!’

Vanessa Gray overheard and gave me a chilly smirk. It said
loser.

I sought out my children in the crowd, wanting reassurance, needing to see their thumbs still up. But there was Emma, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, catching my eye and scowling before looking pointedly away. And there was Ben, being elbowed and teased by his mates. He had his arms crossed defensively in front of him as he stared down at the grass.

I felt as if I was the worst mother in the country. Shame rose out of me with every panted breath, like steam.

‘Well, do something about it, then!’ Mum said bossily as I sat there in her living room later that evening, having fessed up to the full sports day showdown. ‘Be positive – see it as a motivator. Get off your bum and . . .’

I tried not to groan as she started fiddling with her slick turquoise mobile.

‘Now, where’s the gym number? I know it’s in here . . .’ she muttered.

‘Mum, I’m not going to your gym,’ I told her. ‘I—’

But she already had the phone to her ear and was holding her other hand up imperiously, forbidding me to say any more.

‘Hello, it’s Anna Noble here,’ she purred into the receiver. My mum’s voice was so husky, it almost needed its own ashtray. ‘Yes, very well, thank you, darling. Just wondering if I could book my daughter in for an induction . . . Yes, she’s thinking of joining, that’s right . . .’

‘
I am not!
’ I hissed furiously, glaring at her. Oh no. Definitely not. Gyms and me did not go well together. I’d tried exercise, but we weren’t a good match – like chips and custard: a really bad combination.

Up went the hand again, like a policeman directing traffic.
Stop. Do not speak
.

I narrowed my eyes at her, but she was writing something down and didn’t notice. ‘This Saturday – oh, that’s wonderful, darling, thank you. And perhaps a day pass for the rest of the family? Yes, one adult and two children. That’s marvellous. Appreciate it. Bye now.’

My mum was a bit of a legend. You’d probably remember her as one of the Martini girls in the early Eighties, back when advertising regulations were slightly more relaxed about sexing up alcoholic products. She was the particularly beautiful one in the white swimsuit diving into a bottle of Bianco; she was on all the billboards around Brum for years while that campaign ran. I used to get teased about it at school – ‘Saw your mum’s boobs this morning’ and so on – but I didn’t mind. I was dead proud of her. Besides, the ads had paid for the big house in Edgbaston where she’d lived ever since, and had spring-boarded her later career as an actress. These days, the long hair had become a sleek chestnut bob, and there were a few wrinkles on her neck, but she still had those smouldering almond-shaped eyes and fabulous legs. And clearly she still thought she could order me about like a child.

She clicked off the phone now, a look of triumph on her face.

‘There. You’re booked in to see someone called Jacob on Saturday morning at ten o’clock,’ she told me, getting up and raising the crystal decanter in my direction. ‘Sherry?’

‘But I don’t want to go to the gym!’ I told her. I was a thirty-four-year-old woman but I felt like a petulant teenager again. ‘I don’t want to see this Jacob, I . . .’ She was still holding the decanter, eyebrows raised, as if she hadn’t heard my outburst. ‘No, thanks,’ I mumbled, gritting my teeth.

She sploshed some sherry into a glass for herself and sipped it. Then she came over to sit next to me on the huge red sofa, folding her legs underneath her gracefully.

‘Darling,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You came here for help. I’m not going to pat you on the back like Paul and say, “Never mind, you’re still beautiful to me.” ’

I lowered my gaze, feeling irritated. Paul had indeed done just that when I’d poured out the story to him.
Never mind, I still think you’re gorgeous. Now, what’s for tea?
He’d barely seemed to listen or care, just trotted out the words he thought I’d want to hear.

‘I’m your mother,’ she went on, like I needed reminding. ‘I can get away with a few home truths. Yes, you’re my lovely Maddie, the most wonderful daughter and human being I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.’ My eyes prickled at the unexpected compliment. ‘But yes, you’re also overweight and very unfit. And I’m going to help you sort yourself out.’

I fell silent, wishing I’d said yes to the sherry now. A pint of the stuff.

‘So Saturday it is, then,’ she told me, and that was that.

Chapter Two

Sweets for my Sweet

Jess

‘Oh yes,’ he groaned beneath me. ‘Ohhh . . .
Yes
. . . This is bloody brilliant . . .’

I leaned over him, smiling. Always nice to get a compliment, wasn’t it?

‘You are amazing,’ he murmured thickly. ‘You’re just the best . . .’