My Single friend by Jane Costello

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

            My love-life will never get off the ground unless I endeavour to become thinner.

            Henry looked at me as if I was clinically insane when I shared this conclusion with him. I then explained that there is some logic behind the theory and I am not simply some Heat magazine-reading idiot who is obsessed with the size of her thighs, at which he pointed out that I love Heat magazine and spend more time contemplating the circumference of my legs than most people do inhaling oxygen.

            My argument is this: first, had I the bum of a seventeen-year-old trampolining champion and a washboard stomach that made Cameron Diaz look like a pork-pie addict, I would radiate a level of self-assurance that would be irresistibly attractive. Secondly, were I possessed of such qualities, I would simply be irresistibly attractive.

            Henry snorted at these suggestions in a manner I didn’t appreciate, and I told him as much, before dusting off my old Diet World welcome pack and ‘Nootrient’ point calculator.

            Worse, he’s now looking at me with an air of amused disbelief as I walk around the supermarket calculating the Diet World ‘nootrient’ value of our foodstuff before it goes into the trolley.

            We currently have one artichoke (0 nootrients), a large bag of bean-sprouts (ditto), a box of ice cream (4 per serving – I’ve got to have a treat occasionally), a piece of Brie (5, ditto), two bottles of Pinot Grigio (24 nootrients in total – I have a stressful job), and a tub of margarine (1 per teaspoon – to be used sparingly).

            Henry looks at his watch.

            ‘Lucy, we’ve been here an hour and there are seven items in our trolley. At this rate it’ll take until two weeks on Tuesday to buy enough ingredients for a stir-fry.’

            ‘Eight items,’ I correct him. ‘The margarine came with a free fridge magnet.’

            ‘You told me you hated Diet World.’

            ‘I did not,’ I protest.

            ‘You called the leader Mussolini.’

            ‘Only because she was going bald. And, okay, she was a bit of a bully, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to the classes anyway. I’ve got enough willpower to do it by myself. I’m just following the diet, which I know from experience works a treat.’

            ‘If it works a treat, why are you having to do it again?’ he asks.

            I tut, hiding the fact that I’m stumped for an answer.

            ‘Is this allowed?’ he asks, picking up a family-sized chocolate trifle that could keep a killer whale going through the winter months.

            ‘God, no!’ I leap back in horror. ‘There must be . . . let me calculate this . . . SEVENTEEN nootrients per portion.’

            ‘I don’t know what seventeen nootrients means, but from your reaction I’m guessing it’s potentially fatal.’

            ‘Might as well be,’ I tell him haughtily. ‘It’s out of bounds.’

            ‘You don’t have to have it,’ he says innocently. ‘I can hide it in the fridge drawer for myself.’

            I glare at him. ‘You’re seriously going to keep a chocolate trifle the size of Centre Court at Wimbledon in our fridge – next to my measly bag of bean-sprouts?’