same painful mix of love and longing that she used to give her boys when they were sleeping babies.
I’ll just eat one.
No, she wouldn’t. She was stronger than this. But she should leave now.
One, though. Just one. What harm would one do?
There was no such thing as one.
But the gorgeous feel of it in her hand, the hefty little weight as it lay in her palm, the roughness of the tinfoil against the tips of her fingers. Suddenly she was shaking. Saliva flooded her mouth and she was ripping off the wrapper and, oh, the crunch of the first bite – the sound was exciting, the sweetness coating her tongue, the sticky filling on her lips, one more bite, and then it was gone and, without thinking, she was reaching for another, then another, and what did it matter, because they were only small and there were so many in the bucket and she should take some from the other bucket to even things up and her heart was beating very fast and she couldn’t stop but she could replace them, she could just drive to the nearest Spar, they were always open, even on Easter Sunday, and now she was looking at a proper Easter egg, a big Wispa one. Dozens more were downstairs for whoever wanted them, it would be no trouble to replace, so she’d just eat it, eat it and enjoy it, because the damage was done, sheep as for a lamb, and then she’d stop. Pulling the cardboard, ripping at the foil, breaking the egg – hearing the crack gave her a thrill that was almost sexual. She was snapping pieces off and swallowing almost without chewing. But she began to feel sick. What she was putting in her mouth no longer tasted like pieces of Heaven but she kept eating until it was gone.
Then it was over – and sanity returned.
Oh, God. How had that happened? All those calories. Even as she was calculating the total, she was trying to blind herself to how much she’d eaten.
Friday hadn’t been spent climbing Torc for the endorphins or the bonding time with Nell, it had been done to burn fat. Same for Saturday’s trek around the lake. Everyone else had been loving life, living in the moment with the sunshine and the fresh air but she was only doing it because she wanted to be thin.
Her fat cells were filling up and expanding. Already her jeans felt tighter.
But it wasn’t too late …
She grabbed a bottle of water, swigged it all, then went to the bathroom, upended a tooth mug, filled it with tap water and gulped it down. Tasted disgusting, but that was good. Four more glasses, then she crouched over the toilet. Fingers down her throat and she gagged, gagged again, nothing happened and then a torrent, mostly water, but some chocolate.
Eyes streaming, nose running, she drank three more glasses of water and repeated the horrible exercise, with slightly better results.
It was exhausting, it was disgusting and yet, seeing all that chocolate reappear, it felt rewarding.
She cleaned up the bathroom, redid her make-up, gathered all the discarded packaging and bundled it into her bag.
On the way to the Spar, she felt light-headed, almost elated. She probably shouldn’t be driving.
She stuffed the evidence into the bin outside the shop, then looked at the pile of Creme Eggs on the counter. Would ten be enough? No. She hadn’t kept count but she reckoned fifteen might do.
‘Kids,’ she said sheepishly, to the startled assistant.
So this was very, very bad. But she’d got away with it and it would not happen again.
NINETEEN
Johnny’s phone rang. Who was calling him at ten past ten on Easter Monday? Celeste Appleton. What the hell was she ringi– Oh. Right. He might have an idea … Summoning inhuman quantities of energy, he hollered, ‘Celeste!’
‘Johnny!’
‘Well, this is a surprise!’
‘Are you still in bed?’
‘Ha-ha.’ Christ, trust her to mention bed only ten seconds in.
‘Application here for a summer internship from a Ferdia Kinsella. I thought, That name rings a bell. Is that Johnny Casey’s stepson? I wondered. So? Is he?’
Heartily, Johnny said. ‘I believe he is!’
‘I seeeeeeeee.’ He visualized her twirling a pen in her shiny, slippery hair, being pouty-mouthed and suggestive.
‘Over two hundred applicants for the spot. Why should I give it to young Mr Kinsella?’
‘His résumé is good. And he’s a hard worker.’ He wasn’t. He was a lazy little prick, but he could hardly tell her that. Not with Jessie earwigging.