in a different direction. She adored Gabby, but … today there was something else she needed to do.
Again? So soon?
She’d done it already today.
And she needed to do it again.
It was only ten past twelve but Tesco in Baggot Street was overrun with office workers, queuing to pay for their lunch. She jigged her knee, finding the waiting almost unendurable. It was always like this: the closer she got to eating, the more the need intensified. And thank you, God, a till had freed up. She scooted forward with her basket – self-service tills were the best things ever, because no one could judge. Beeping speedily, she slid a doughnut, a giant cookie, then bar after bar of chocolate past the scanner. She hadn’t paid much attention to what she’d flung into her basket: quantity mattered more than quality. And her two-litre bottle of water, of course: she couldn’t forget that.
Twenty-nine euro, though.
That was … a lot.
What the hell? She’d stop soon.
The day was warm and sunny and she sat on ‘her’ bench in Fitzwilliam Square – it was perfect: only a four-minute walk from the Ardglass but not on a direct cut-through route. It was unlikely she’d be spotted by any of her co-workers. The doughnut first – the ecstatic relief of those initial few mouthfuls – next the giant cookie, then the chocolate. It all happened extremely quickly. She was tearing the wrappers off, having the next bar lined up, even while she efficiently and methodically slid the current one into her mouth. It wasn’t about the taste, it was about the feeling, chasing the calm, then the high. A Wispa disappeared in three bites, a bar of Whole Nut in four. But in between, remembering to drink her water.
The few people who passed paid her no attention. Hiding in plain sight, she looked just like anyone else, having her lunch.
With almost everything eaten, she felt good. Only a Starbar was left, she always kept one to finish with. It felt like a punctuation mark. Standing up, gathering all the bags and wrappers, still eating, she began walking quickly. Without breaking stride, she dropped the bag into ‘her’ bin and now came the fear. The fat and sugar molecules were already migrating through her stomach walls, turning into sheets of yellow blubber on her thighs and belly and arms. It needed to be got rid of. Now.
In through the discreet staff entrance of the Ardglass, down the back stairs and, oh, no, there was Antonio, one of the sous-chefs. ‘Hey, Cara.’ He greeted her with a dazzling smile.
Please, no. They’d had lovely chats a few times in the past about Lucca, where he was from. He’d be expecting her to stop and talk. ‘Hi, Antonio, great to see you.’ She slid past him. ‘Hope you’re well.’
His surprised hurt followed her and the guilt was hard. But she. Could. Not. Stop.
Wrenching open the door of the little bathroom, she suddenly felt exhausted at the mini-ordeal ahead. Her stomach muscles were sore, her throat already felt raw.
This is the last time.
She didn’t know where the resolve had come from but she was certain. No more. It was crazy. She loved Ed, the boys, her job, her life. Doing this was insane.
THIRTY-EIGHT
June already. How did that happen? Jessie slung some Middle Eastern food onto the dining table. Next month I’ll be fifty and, seriously, what’s the age when a person finally feels safe and secure? Because I really thought it would have happened by now.
She surveyed the dining table: fried halloumi, baba ganoush, hummus, olives, pitta bread …
She’d done a lot with her life. She had. Five children, a happy marriage – it was happy, wasn’t it? Running a profitable company, employing more than fifty people, her life was a success.
She’d forgotten water glasses. Turning back towards the kitchen, she wondered if anyone really liked her. She was dogged by a recurring sense that everyone just put up with her – Christ! She’d almost toppled over!
It was these bloody shoes: Océane Woo Park’s slides. They were lethal but she wore them every chance she got, to reduce the cost-per-wear.
Poor impulse control: that was another thing she despised about herself. She should never have tried on Océane’s present. As soon as she’d slip-slapped down the stairs in them, the soles were too scratched to be gifted or returned. She’d been secretly delighted – for about half an hour. Then the guilt had arrived: there wasn’t the money for a spontaneous self-gift of