Sweet Temptation (31 page)

‘Are you all set for the party tonight?’ Mike asked as we jogged through the park.

It was late on Saturday afternoon and I’d been knackered when I got back from the long, drawn-out dress-quest with Lauren and Jess. It had been an effort to force on my tracky bottoms and trainers, not to mention the sports bra that was made of such tough material you could have used it to patch up the Rotunda. But here I was, puffing alongside Mike, my breath steaming in the crisp winter air. The trees were all bare now, their golden leaves long shed and swept up, and their branches clattered together like bones in the breeze.

‘Party?’ I echoed. ‘Oh God, is it tonight?’ I’d had half a mind to pounce on my husband that evening, especially as I’d popped in to Ann Summers in a fit of daring on the way home. I’d bought some new knickers – black satin and lace – and a matching camisole, and had been wondering ever since if I was brave enough to wear them.

‘Yeah, it’s tonight,’ he said. ‘Oh, you
are
coming, aren’t you? We’ve got a really good DJ booked, and there’s going to be mulled wine and a buffet . . . It’s going to be a great night.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling torn. ‘I’d kind of planned something else tonight, but . . .’

The heart monitor he wore on his wrist beeped and he slowed to a walk. We were doing three minutes jogging, one minute walking, then three minutes jogging now. And then, when he’d finished with me, I would always collapse on the nearest bench, and wheeze for a few minutes, purple in the face and barely able to speak.

‘Oh, go on,’ he urged. ‘It’s always a good night, the gym Christmas party. Very relaxed and friendly. You can put on a party dress, have a dance . . . Come on, Maddie, say you’ll be there. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’

I felt flattered by his persistence. It was nice to feel wanted for a change, and I could feel my resistance buckling under his gaze.

‘Sounds good,’ I told him. ‘Well . . . maybe. Hopefully.’

When I got home later I felt in quite a good mood. Going running always seemed to clear my head and give me a space where I wasn’t constantly brooding over Mum or filled with sadness. I was usually too puffed out to talk very much, so tended to pound along in silence, just thinking about each foot hitting the ground in turn and trying to conserve my energy. I’d managed twenty minutes of the jogging-walking routine that day, which was my record, and I felt really proud of myself.

‘Where have you been?’ Paul asked as I walked through the front door. He sounded peevish, like he had the hump with me. ‘You’ve been gone hours.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, kicking off my trainers. ‘The shopping mission took longer than I expected, and then I just thought I’d squeeze in a quick session at the gym.’

‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘I should have known.’

‘What?’ I replied, stung. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, you’re always there these days. It’s like you’re obsessed. Can’t you stop all this diet stuff now? You look fine to me.’

I felt taken aback at how forcefully he had spoken.

‘But . . . I like going to the gym,’ I told him. ‘It makes me feel good. And I still want to lose more weight, I want to carry on.’ I felt my positive mood deflating like a burst tyre. ‘Paul . . . it would be great if you could be a bit more supportive, you know.’

He gave a snort. ‘Me, support you? Maddie, that’s all I’ve been doing for the last few months. What about you supporting me for a change?’

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘Paul – I’ve gone through quite a lot this year. Mum dying. Trying to lose weight . . .’

‘Yeah, but you’re not the only one with problems,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one who needs support. It’s meant to be a two-way thing, marriage, isn’t it? And . . .’ He broke off, looking irritated. ‘Oh, forget it. Just forget I ever said anything.’

I stared at him. ‘What is it?’ I asked, feeling shaken. Paul was usually so steady – he wasn’t given to outbursts and flares of temper. ‘What’s wrong?’

He wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘Forget it,’ he repeated heavily. ‘Want a coffee? If I promise to use the low-fat milk?’

I bit my lip, not liking his sarcastic tone. ‘No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’

Upstairs, I stripped off and stepped under the hot water, prickling with irritation. Why was Paul being so grumpy with me? What had I done to deserve
that
? And what did he mean, I wasn’t supporting him? As far as I knew, his life was carrying on as normal. It wasn’t as if
he’d
lost one of his parents or anything; they were still as fit and healthy as ever.

I soaped myself, feeling miserable. I had neglected our relationship lately, though, it was true. I’d been so caught up in my own feelings that I’d barely thought about him. Maybe he was fed up with me moping around the house like a wet weekend and not paying him any attention.

I ran my hands over my wet, naked body, thinking about the Ann Summers underwear I’d bought. Did I have the nerve? The kids were both out on sleepovers at friends’ houses. I could make an effort for once, dress up in my black lacy purchases and try to patch things up with Paul, couldn’t I? Apologize for not appreciating him more. Because, to be fair, until his strop just now, he’d been so good, such a rock through Mum’s illness and death.

I shampooed my hair, feeling better. Yes. I would do it. For the sake of our marriage, I would rise above the embarrassment and summon up the inner sex kitten inside me. Maybe I’d end up as the cat who got the cream.

I locked the bedroom door as I blow-dried my hair and then rubbed body lotion all over myself. It had been a long time since I’d dared peep at my naked self in a mirror, but I braved it, taking a deep breath and then walking up to the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door.

‘Here goes nothing,’ I muttered and lifted my gaze to take a good, long look.

There was still a fat woman staring back at me, but with one less chin and a brand new shape. Before, I’d been your classic lard-arse lump of blubber – boobs overhanging belly, belly overhanging thighs, huge meaty forearms and a bum like two round sofa cushions.

But now . . . Now that lard seemed to be melting. My belly, bum and thighs were still doughy and wobbly, the colour and texture of uncooked bread, but a waist was emerging from the flab. And my arms, while still technically bingo wings, definitely had some muscle tone to them. Who would have thought it?

I turned away modestly while I pulled on the knickers and camisole with clammy fingers. Then, after another deep breath, I moved back and looked at myself. Bloody hell. The French knickers were astonishingly flattering, more like sexy little shorts of see-through black, tied with black satin ribbons at the sides. The camisole was sheer and plunging, with tiny ribbon straps . . . it didn’t leave much to the imagination.

I winked at my reflection, hand on hip, and then practised a smouldering come-to-Mama look. I looked voluptuous. I looked naughty. And yes, I actually looked sexy. Me!

Foxy lady
, Jimi Hendrix drawled in my head, and I giggled.

Right. Now to show Paul the goods. I wasn’t sure if it would give him a hard-on or a heart attack – but there was only one way to find out . . .

‘Paul?’

‘Mmmmm?’ He was frowning at the computer in the corner of the living room and didn’t turn when I spoke.

‘Paul . . . I’ve got something to show you.’ I stood in the doorway, wearing my dressing gown, ready to give him the surprise of his life when he looked round. I was clutching the edges together and I would let them fall loose, I’d planned, then shrug it right off, revealing my sexy, naughty, voluptuous look as soon as he turned round.

The only thing was, he
didn’t
turn round.

‘Just a minute,’ he muttered, sighing heavily at the computer screen. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Paul . . .’ My adrenaline was starting to subside, my nerve was beginning to waver.
Come on, Paul
, I willed him.
Just look at me! Look at me, your wife, instead of that flipping screen for two minutes!

‘What?’ he said, sounding impatient. He still hadn’t turned in my direction and was typing something now, jabbing laboriously at the keyboard with his two index fingers. ‘Can’t it wait? I’m busy.’

A small sob escaped my throat and I turned and raced upstairs. ‘Yeah, it can wait,’ I called back down. ‘No worries.’

No worries that I’ve just agonized over this, you useless bloke
, I felt like shouting.
And yeah, it can wait, all right. You’ll be waiting a long time now before you see me in this get-up, mate.

I crashed back into the bedroom feeling mortified and wept into my hands. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Although . . .

I stopped crying suddenly as I remembered what Mike had said earlier. The gym Christmas party would have started by now.
You are coming, aren’t you?
he’d asked, with such eagerness in his voice. Hope, even.

I smoothed my hands over my foxy knickers, then got up and began rummaging through my wardrobe for a party dress. Sod it. Just sod it. If Paul wasn’t interested in me, I’d bloody well go out to the party on my own. It was about time I had some fun.

So that’s what I did. I pulled off the camisole – if I was going to be dancing, I’d need a
little
more support in the chest region to avoid injuring someone with my flying boobs – but decided, at the last moment, to leave my new knickers on. They made me feel womanly . . . sexy. That was allowed, wasn’t it?

I was in a dangerous mood, looking back. In hindsight, I should have stayed at home, tried again with Paul, not flounced off in a huff when he was too engrossed to look at me. But no. I felt rejected and upset, I felt I had something to prove. So off I went, in my sexy knickers and nicest red party dress. This Cinderella
would
go to the ball, I decided.

The party was taking place in Studio One, the biggest room at the gym. They’d hung up a disco ball and colourful flashing lights, and dance music blared out from big speakers. People were whirling around on the dance floor, laughing and enjoying themselves, and it took me a while to recognize their faces, I was so used to seeing them all sweaty in their gym clothes and trainers.

The adrenaline and bravado which had got me here suddenly subsided as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the huge mirrors which covered one wall of the studio.
Look at you
, a voice in my head said.
A frumpy, middle-aged woman bulging out of her dress. Talk about mutton dressed as lamb. You idiot, Maddie. What were you thinking?

A table nearby was groaning with party food – sausage rolls, crisps, sandwiches, a cheese platter – all the sorts of food I loved, but none of them allowed on my diet, of course. Christmas was definitely the hardest time in the whole year to try and lose weight, I thought, wincing and deliberately turning away so that the temptations were out of my line of vision. But even worse, I could now smell mulled wine from a table on the other side of me. Ahhh . . . mulled wine . . . More temptation . . .

My resolve weakened as the fragrant aroma of cinnamon and spices teased my nostrils. Oh . . . Oh, go on, then, I told myself, unable to resist. I’d just have one glass. A bit of Dutch courage to get me back in the party mood.

‘Hi there,’ came a voice as I waited in the queue for my wine. ‘You made it – and you look beautiful, Maddie.’

It was Mike. He seemed different out of his tracky bottoms and trainers, I thought. A man, rather than a gym instructor, in his 501s and a carbon-grey long-sleeved top. ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling at him. His chest appeared hard and muscular through his top, and I found myself wondering what he would look like without clothes.
I bet he’s got an amazing six-pack
, I thought to myself.

‘Are you waiting for wine?’

The voice of Tina, one of the gym receptionists, who was on bar duty, jerked me out of my thoughts. My inappropriate thoughts, you could say. ‘Um . . . Yes, please,’ I replied, hoping I wasn’t blushing as I took the glass she was holding out. ‘Thanks, Tina, that smells delicious.’

I sipped it. It tasted delicious too. I’d been off the booze for a long time, bar a few misery sessions on the brandy when Mum had died, and the warm, spiced wine on my tongue made me feel heady now. I could feel the alcohol sinking through me, dancing in my blood stream. It made me feel reckless and devil-may-care. The first chords of ‘Atomic’ by Blondie throbbed from the speakers, and I drained the rest of my glass in one.

‘Come on,’ I said to Mike, grabbing his hand. ‘Let’s dance.’

Chapter Eighteen

Devil’s Food Cake

Lauren

Good luck, Lauren. Hope it goes well 2nite. Maddie x

Go 4 it girl! We want all the goss on Monday! Jess x

I smiled at the text messages that came in one after another as I headed towards Simpsons. Oooh, I was looking forward to this. I had poured myself into the black dress and some Magic Knickers, and had on my favourite black strappy heels and a statement silver necklace. I was also wearing the new silver Pandora bracelet I’d treated myself to, complete with its two round silver beads, inspired by Alison’s reward scheme. The first bead I’d chosen was engraved with silver hearts and the other had a delicate leaf pattern. They were so pretty – and so expensive, I might add. It wasn’t often I treated myself like that, but hey, I’d lost a whole stone, hadn’t I? I deserved it.

It was a cold, starry night with frost in the air, but I felt warm and tingly as I approached the restaurant. The tree outside was covered with fairy lights and I almost stumbled in my excitement as I went up the steps to the door. ‘I’m meeting a friend here,’ I said to the immaculately groomed maître d’ who greeted me. ‘Joe Smith?’

‘Of course, madam,’ he said, consulting the book of reservations. ‘If you’d like to come this way?’

Would I ever. I made my way carefully through the spotless white-linen covered tables, all of a sudden finding it harder and harder to breathe. Oh my God. There he was, the most gorgeous man in the whole city, sitting waiting for me at a table for two.
Didn’t she do well?
Bruce Forsyth said in my head.
Yes, Brucie, I bloody well did
, I replied, unable to take my eyes off the prize.