be good to prove to everyone – and myself – that I’ve really changed. I could show everyone I’m not the girl with the unhealthy relationship with food any more, that I’m a million miles away from who I used to be. On the other, I can’t imagine being in the same room with Adam Hartwell again. Not after what happened at the Leavers’ Dance.
I decide to put it firmly out of my mind as I head over to my parents’ cottage. It’s my weekly trip to theirs for dinner, so at least I have some good food to look forward to. My parents are massive foodies; they and their friends have a Come Dine With Me league, where they each try to host the perfect dinner party. The only problem is they refuse to cook anything remotely healthy.
As soon as I open the door to their cottage, which sits just across the village green from mine, I’m greeted by a beautiful smell. Judging by what my parents like to cook, it won’t be something Marjorie would approve of.
‘Hi, guys!’ I call, ‘something smells good!’
‘In here, darling,’ my mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Come and taste this spaghetti carbonara!’
Yup, just as I thought. Although my mum’s all too aware of my weight-loss journey, she believes food is something to be enjoyed and that salads are strictly for rabbits. I head into the kitchen, where the aromas are even more intense. I can smell the smoky pancetta, the onions and the garlic. Definitely not Carb Counters approved.
Mum beckons me over and holds a wooden spoon in front of me. ‘I’m glad you’re here; your dad’s still over at the pub and I need someone to taste this sauce. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s definitely not on the Carb Counters meal plan!’ I reply with a giggle.
Mum’s face darkens and she sighs. ‘Can’t you just have one night off the diet? One plate of spaghetti won’t make you pile three stone back on, will it?’
Although I know she’s right and that it’s silly to be worried, I still feel a little apprehensive as I take the spoon from her. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and anything that threatens to ruin my progress scares me. I can almost hear Marjorie saying eat right and the jeans won’t be tight; part of me wants to run home and dig out one of my healthy ready meals from the freezer.
‘What’s up?’ Mum asks with a frown. ‘I thought this was your favourite!’
For a brief moment, I consider reminding her for the millionth time that I’m on a diet and that pasta with rich creamy sauce is a big no-no. But she’s worked so hard on preparing the spaghetti carbonara that I can’t bear to even picture the look of hurt on her face.
‘Nothing, everything’s fine.’
I lick the spoon and my taste buds are hit with the sensation of cream, Parmesan and eggs. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy it.
‘Wow,’ I say, ‘that tastes incredible!’
Mum’s face lights up and she goes back to stirring the sauce. ‘I knew you’d like it! I wasn’t sure if I’d added too much garlic or not. Anyway, go and sit down, it’ll be ready in a minute.’
I wait for her to ask how last night’s Carb Counters meeting went, but she doesn’t. I don’t know why I’m surprised; Mum isn’t exactly the biggest fan of slimming groups and diets, and I can’t say I blame her.
But that’s another story.
*
After Dad makes his way back from the pub, we sit down to dinner. I stare at the plate in front of me, my brain in a whirl as it tries to add up all the calories. Best not to stick this one down in the food diary, I reckon.
‘Eat up love, it’ll get cold.’ Mum looks up from her own half-empty plate and gestures to my full one. ‘Go on, it’ll be a change from that healthy muck you always eat. Looks like it’s been swept out of a rabbit hutch.’
I feel a little bubble of anger rise within me and grit my teeth. I know Mum means well and just wants to serve me a nice meal to eat, but a little bit of understanding wouldn’t go amiss. I twirl some pasta round my fork and put it into my mouth, loving and hating the taste at the same time. This is laden with calories and not something I should be eating on Carb Counters, yet I can’t deny how amazing it tastes.
Mum looks at me expectantly, waiting to hear my verdict. I manage a weak smile and nod my head.
‘S’good,’ I say through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Really good.’
‘As long as you’re enjoying it,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how you stomach that quinoa stuff you’re always banging on about. Life’s too short to eat rubbish like that and worry about the numbers on a scale.’
One, two, three, four…
Counting to ten doesn’t help this time; the words are out of my mouth before I know it.
‘My Carb Counters meeting went fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’
A deadly silence falls over the table, replacing the convivial chatter we’d been having before the subject of food had been brought up.
‘That bloody con artist Marjorie Newton still got you hooked, has she?’ Mum purses her lips and folds her arms, looking at me with a sneering expression.
‘She’s hardly a con artist if I’ve lost three stone, Mum!’
‘A bloody slimming group is the last thing you should be going to after all the trouble you’ve had—’
‘Enough!’ Dad’s voice booms out across the room and stops our argument in its tracks. ‘Now let’s change the subject, shall we?’
Mum isn’t in the mood to back down, though. ‘I’m just saying a slimming group isn’t the best place for someone like Cleo, that’s all. Or don’t you remember what happened when she was at school? She was throwing up nearly everything she ate and taking those awful diet pills!’
My blood begins to boil and I dig my nails into my palms. I hate being reminded of the worst time in my life, not least because of how hard I’ve worked to overcome my issues. Yet Mum brings it up at every available opportunity, using it as a weapon to undermine my progress with Carb Counters.
‘I am here, you know? Look, I know I haven’t always had the best relationship with food, but Carb Counters helps me, Mum. I know you’re worried I’ll fall back into my old habits, but I won’t. I’m eating healthily and losing weight safely this time.’
I can tell she’s not convinced, but she chooses not to pursue the matter any further. Instead, she flashes me a look and turns her attention back to her pasta.
In an attempt to clear the air, Dad pipes up, ‘Cleo, did you know Amanda Best’s back in the village?’
Nice subject change, Dad.
‘Yeah, she came into The Pastry Corner earlier today. Apparently she’s hosting a school reunion.’ My brain throws up the memory of me looking her right in the eye and telling her I’d be there. The corners of my lips pull up into a smile.
Mum scoffs. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
