Second Chance - Jane Green [21]
‘Fred? Doesn’t exactly conjure images of gorgeousness,’ Olivia said.
Tom snorted. ‘Yes, because George is such a sexy name.’
‘What about George Clooney?’
Tom sighed. ‘Okay, point taken. But you of all people know you can’t judge a man by his cover. Or his name.’
‘So tell me about him,’ Olivia said reluctantly.
‘He’s thirty-three, single, freakishly fit – he does these Ironman competitions that are all the rage in our office and are completely mad and horribly addictive.’
Olivia burst into laughter. ‘I suppose your idea of exercise is still ambling around a cricket field?’
‘Yes, well. Quite. It was before I worked here. Have a look at his picture. It’s on our website.’ And so Olivia looked while talking to Tom, and Fred was rather dishy, and even though she wasn’t looking for anything at all, far too soon after George, maybe Tom was right, maybe a revenge fuck was just the thing she needed.
‘Go on, then,’ Olivia said. ‘You can give him my email address.’
Fred emailed her the next day, and the two of them embarked on a fun, and rather more flirtatious than she had expected, email exchange.
He sounded boyish and relaxed, and although she had always thought George was the perfect man for her, at forty-seven he was definitely set in his ways, and there was something about Fred’s thirty-three years, his youth, that filled her with delicious anticipation.
‘I wish I was coming over sooner,’ Fred wrote. ‘It seems so long to wait to meet you, until January. I was thinking maybe I could orchestrate a London meeting in November… what do you think?’
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ Olivia wrote back. ‘I’d love to finally put a face to your name.’
Olivia walks back into her flat, unclips the dogs, and feeds the animals before starting to think about feeding herself. She has become a creature of habit these last six months where food is concerned. When George was living here she would cook, would plan elaborate meals, or at least hit M&S food hall for something every night.
Now she can barely think about food. She keeps a stock of sliced turkey breast in the fridge, and usually eats it with half a bag of carrots and a couple of spoons of hummus.
When she remembers, she has Lean Cuisines on hand too. Not because she particularly likes them but because they are easy, because she presumes she is getting the nutrition she requires, and because she can throw them in the microwave and blast them without putting any thought or effort into it.
As a consequence, she has lost a stunning amount of weight. Not through choice, she is quick to tell everyone who asks her what miracle diet she has been on, but through stress and unhappiness. Her clothes are now hanging off her, and she knows she will have to buy new ones soon, but the thought of shopping for clothes has always filled her with horror.
Still. There are times when she feels like eating, and tonight is one of them. Sod’s law, when she opens the fridge door, she is confronted with a nearly clear expanse of white: the wax rind of a slice of cheese that should have been thrown away when the cheese was finished, a clear plastic bag of greenish-black slime in the bottom drawer that she seems to remember may once have been mixed lettuce leaves, and half a pint of rancid milk.
The cupboard doesn’t offer much more. A couple of Ritz crackers rattling around in the box, a full box of cornflakes, which doesn’t hold much appeal without milk, and some tea bags.
There is only one thing to do on nights like this. She grabs her keys,