Chapter 7 - Week 4: Cheese Week (Part 1)

Rebecca had always loved cheese. Cross her heart, hoped to die...preferably face-down in the remains of an entire wheel of brie. Gouda, paneer, halloumi? Brilliant. Red Leicester, smoked cheddar, Blue Stilton, Cornish Yarg? Divine. She campaigned against Brexit with banners protesting anything that disrupted the import of Emmental from Switzerland. She'd kept jars of chutney for Christmas, when she would finally treat herself to that fattening Brie and Cranberry baguette. She'd gained at least twenty of her Jono-pounds on raclette alone.

Now Rebecca hadn't had cheese in eight months.

In the beginning she'd told herself it was better this way. Inside, it felt worse than the breakup. She'd grown up around cheese, her mother treating her and Rachel to cheese toasties every day after school. They'd both been fat children, but Rebecca hadn't cared back then. Kids and their parents both hated fat but confidence and a sense of humour could win anyone over. As a teenager, good makeup went some way toward hiding a nascent double chin. Even when she took up swimming in Year 12, it just gave her the excuse to eat more. Life made her hungry; swimming made her ravenous.

Then came uni, takeaway and beer. A job in the local cheese shop for beer-and-takeaway-money and something to fall back on in case that Makeup in Media degree didn't pan out. Twenty pounds gained on kebab and samples. The big 2-0-0. Stretchy trousers and blouses with ruching beneath the bust.

Then she had to grow up.

She'd always heard adults say, laughing, to remain a child if you could. But why would she? Youth was insecurity - mouldy shared rooms, freezer burnt chicken tenders, and the Student Loans Company badgering you to repay loans you hadn't finished borrowing yet. Adulthood was a glorious Emerald City at the end of a long potholed road: a steady job. A flat of her own. A dog, eventually.

A boyfriend.

But it turned out that those adults were right. Adulthood had responsibilities and expectations. She exchanged the cheese shop she loved for more time spent on her actual career, though it barely paid her enough to make up the difference. Her fridge-freezer emptied in deference to the broadband and heating. The boys at the kebab shop could no longer remember her name.

Then she met Jono.

It was amateur dramatics, back when he still pretended to have a personality. The director had ordered him extra eyeliner because his face tended to disappear on stage - which should have been her first clue, really.

She was down to just over ten stone at that point - soft but average - and had felt deflated. She wanted pizza and fondue and for this stupid man to stop squirming in her chair.

'You are very pretty,' he told her, deadpan.

She nearly drew a line into his eye. 'Do you think so?' she said. No one had ever said that to her, at least not that forthright and when they weren't drunk.

'Yes,' he said. 'Do you want to go out?'

They went out. They got on. Six months later they moved in together. Six months after that they adopted a dog.

Rebecca had performed as expected, ordered her life neatly according to conventions. Graduate. Lose weight. Get a job. Get a man. Get a house and a dog. Stay the same weight, no matter if you fracture your ankle or are working nights or if it's award season with pre-party drinks and three course meals.

Then came the Great British Baking Contest and the comfort of the sofa and the dressing gown.

Then back came the cheese.

And back came the fat.

And eight months later, here she was, her hand buried in a party bag of cheese puffs, watching her mobile and willing it to ring.

She'd been texting Robert ever since they left the tent, courtesy of Shana, who had given them both the other's number. It had been Robert who started it with a photo of a happy, panting Panda and an offer: _You know I'm happy to go all _Taken_ to find someone else's dog, too._

Rebecca had smiled at that. It's fine, she'd replied. She was Jono's dog, really. Besides, with the amount of time either spent on a sofa or at work, lately, Mitzie never would have been walked if she'd stayed with Rebecca. Part of her briefly wondered if Mitzie would like having a new baby to play with, but quickly dismissed that thought.

_How's Scotland?_ she asked.

_Scottish_, he replied. _How's the South?_

_Coventry is not South._

_You're basically Africa to me, mate._

Rebecca laughed.

You should come visit, she said. I can show you the great sites of the Midlands.

Aye, he replied, but only after you've come to see me. I need someone to keep me warm, after all.

They'd texted off and on Monday and Tuesday, sending photographs and flirtatious messages as both of their work schedules allowed.

On Tuesday night he rang her.

'You free?' he asked.

She rolled over in bed. It was nearly eleven. Her belly was full of Jamaican ginger cake and meal-deal-for-two from Ocado.

'Yeah,' she said. She felt her face stretch wide in a smile. 'Hi.'

'Hi,' he said.

'What can I help you with?' she asked.

'I've been practicising all evening,' he said, 'and I now have a pile of molten cheese at the bottom of my oven.'

Rebecca rolled onto her back. Her belly flattened against her ribs, pressing the air out of her lungs.

'That sounds amazing,' she said in awe.

He laughed. 'Tempted to have Panda clean it out for me,' he said, 'but God, maybe you'd do the trick.'

'Save me some for the weekend,' she said.

'I'll do my best. But Christ, Becs, cheese is not baking. I'm not sure I can do this.'

'Of course you can. Cheese is better than baking,' she replied in earnest. 'Cheese is life.'

His frustration was fading. He was smiling on the other end of the line; she could tel.l 'I forgot about your cheese shop thing.'

''Thing' does not do it justice,' she said.

'Right,' he said. 'Fine. So when I open my bakery, we'll open a little cheese shop on the side for you.'

'Sounds amazing,' she cooed. 'Just to warn you, you won't sell anything from it.'

'And why's that?'

'Because I'll eat everything,' she said.

'Ah,' he said. His voice cracked. 'That would be a shame.'