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Twenty-Two
I inhaled deeply as I raised myself on to my toes with the poise and concentration of an Olympic diver. I swayed precariously, but steadied myself, knowing that everything—everything—depended on me keeping perfectly still for the next few seconds.
I waited, eyes half-scrunched closed, even though they were fixed on the digital numbers flickering rapidly between my big toes.
Any moment …
Any moment now the display would stop jumping around and deliver its verdict. My heart was thudding so hard I could swear the noise was bouncing off the tiled walls of my bathroom.
And then, just as I thought it was never going to happen, it did.
I stared down at the pale-green digits lighting up my bathroom scales in horror.
‘No way!’
I knew Christmas had been bad. I knew that, despite my promises to myself to have just a few naughty things, as the festivities had progressed my cravings had gained momentum, eventually sweeping me away on a relentless tide I’d been helpless to resist. (I’d never been a strong swimmer.)
The green digits flashed at me, blinking their accusation. I jumped backwards off the scales. The stupid thing was malfunctioning, that was all. Probably just sulking because I’d neglected it for most of November and all of December, a bit like Roberta did after I’d been away.
My cat always put on a show of being mortally offended if I dared leave her alone overnight, giving me the cold shoulder for at least half an hour before she finally leapt on to my lap, kneading my thighs with deliberately unsheathed claws and purring like an old-fashioned petrol lawnmower.
Not that I expected my bathroom scales to purr back at me when they’d had a chance to calm down. However, a little love in the form of a decent number wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, we’d be bosom buddies again in no time, especially now January’s cold light was intent on revealing my every lump and bump.
I glanced in the mirror, something I’d studiously avoided doing over the festive season. My cheeks were definitely chubbier, making the pixie cut I’d had back in the summer—the I’m-divorced-and-I’m-embracing-my-new-life cut—seem like a moment of insanity rather than a declaration of freedom. I ignored the healthy gloss on my short, almostblack hair, the way the cut made my eyes look huge, and focused instead on the fact my cheekbones had definitely been swallowed up by the sheer volume of mince pies I’d consumed.
Ugh. Disgusting.
I’d had a good excuse, though. I’d thought the second Christmas without Ed—the first since our divorce had been
