Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [46]
‘Fried bread, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages, a KitKat and a glass of Coke,’ Teddy announced, without looking up from his screen.
‘Chips, two fried eggs, bacon, beans, a slice of bread and butter and an Aqua Libra,’ Vinnie replied, also remaining glued to his screen.
‘Toast, two sausages, a cheese and onion omelette, a fudge finger and a cup of tea with three sugars,’ came slim Cheryl’s voice from behind a partition. Slim Cheryl had been on Vinnie’s team for over a year, and although she’d been moved to Jessica’s team, she never broke the link with Vinnie.
‘Four sausages, four fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, bacon, a double portion of chips, six slices of bread and butter and a Lucozade Sport,’ Ravi said.
At twelve thirty, regular as clockwork, everyone always surrendered to their Screensavers, put on their coats and marched as a single body to Cafolla’s. One person had to stay behind to man the help-desk and field calls from hysterical customers whose entire system had just crashed. The position rotated and this Monday Sleepy Steve was the help-desk misfortunate. (Known as Sleepy Steve for his habit of getting drunk after work, falling asleep on the train home to Watford and waking up at the end of the line in Birmingham.) Hollow-eyed, he watched the exodus, and asked in a little voice if someone would fetch him a sandwich.
‘Come on, Tara,’ Ravi ordered, loud as a sergeant-major. ‘Off we go!’
‘I don’t think I should go.’
‘Ah, boo,’ Ravi said, in disappointment. ‘Your bloody diet? You daft girl. OK, carry on without me, men, I’m staying behind with Tara.’
Tara felt guilty. Ravi mightn’t have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had a heart of gold. It wasn’t fair to deprive him of his mammoth fried lunch.
Besides, she hadn’t eaten a thing since she woke up, and all she’d planned for dinner was a big plate of vegetables. And let’s not forget, she reminded herself, that you’re doing a step class after work, you’ll faint if you don’t eat something now. ‘It’s all right,’ she told Ravi. ‘I’ll come.’
Sitting squashed into a plastic booth, before a Formica table, in a clattery, steam-filled caff, eating a plate of chips and beans, drinking strong tea from a thick white cup, always cheered Tara up. But not today. Thomas had been cold and impatient on the phone and the feeling she was carrying around was impending doom revisited.
After the fry-up it was customary for the menfolk to retire to the pub next door for a quick pint and for the ladies to remain behind to have a bun. Mr Cafolla took the confectionery orders as he cleared away the greasy plates.
Evelyn ordered an apple slice. ‘Apple-a slice,’ Mr Cafolla called behind the counter to his wife.
Slim Cheryl asked for a fudge finger. ‘Fudge-a finger,’ Mr Cafolla called.
‘And you, hyong lie-dee,’ he asked Tara, when it looked like she wasn’t going to order anything, ‘what would-a you-a like-a? Custard-a pie?’
She winced. Oh, the bastard. He certainly knew her weak spot. She shouldn’t. She’d never be skinny if she ate custard-a pies. But there was no way she couldn’t.
As she gazed at the bright yellow swirl of custard, so thick it could stand by itself, an appetizing sprinkling of nutmeg peppering its glossy surface, sitting in its little circle of pastry, all supported by its tinfoil container, she knew true bliss for a moment. Seconds later, when the pie was a mere memory, guilt arrived. How she hated herself for her weakness. Briefly she thought about asking Mr Cafolla for the key to the bathroom and trying to make herself puke, but whenever she’d tried it in the past it just hadn’t been a success. Hardly worth the effort. She had no idea how bulimics managed it. She took her hat off to them. Maybe there was some trick of the trade that she didn’t know about.
17
Back at work, Tara nipped into the ladies’ for a quick fag. There she bumped into Amy Jones, who worked on the floor