Chapter 1

Nothing more annoying, I thought, than being disturbed by a caller when you’re cooking. If the caller was on the phone, it would only be the gas or phone company with some promotion. Or maybe one of my wife Karen’s family in America, taking her away from helping in the kitchen – something she had difficulty doing even when the phone didn’t ring. Worse still was a ring at the door: bound to be some religious proselytiser with a creepy smile, or another do-gooder collecting for charity. It would be a nuisance at any rate.

All these thoughts ran through my head when the doorbell rang. It was early evening in north London. I was cooking dinner. Chicken pieces were in the oven, and the vegetables were simmering nicely. Karen was probably upstairs on the internet, mesmerised by her emails or an urge to research some arcane titbit, like Paris Hilton’s IQ.

Anyway, up I went to the front door, surprised that I was making the effort. I knew it was a charity worker the moment I saw her. She had that well-meaning smile, plus clothing that looked ethically impeccable. She also had more fetching qualities: a disarming smile set among nicely rounded cheeks, and dark eyes with a bit of a sparkle. “Hello,” she said.

The voice sounded strangely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I’m from Helping Hands. I left a note the other week, in case you wanted to – ”.

Instead of saying the word ‘donate’, she dropped her mouth with a gasp, then said “Steve – it is you, isn’t it?”

I admitted it was, and was about to apologise for my mind going blank when the penny dropped. Of course. It was Simone, my former girlfriend. Not seen for, what, six years? Not at all who I expected on the other side of the door. She had changed a bit. No eye make-up, and she was wearing her lightly curly chestnut hair a little longer. But the biggest change was that she’d gained some weight. Before she was taut and trim, with visible cheekbones. Now, dressed in an unbuttoned tan jacket and blue jeans, she looked rounder, softer. I couldn’t see the cheekbones at all.

She sputtered out questions like a motorcycle with a faulty engine. “What are you doing? What’s up? I didn’t know you lived here!”

“And I didn’t know you worked for Helping Hands.” We found ourselves smiling.

“Just something I do after work.” Her day job, she said, was still in local government, and she was still living with Dave, the computer nerd who for some bizarre reason had replaced me in her affections. At least I thought she said she was still with Dave: truth was, I’d become transfixed by the changed contours of her face, the fuller cheeks, the blurred chinline. It was very, very alluring.

Suddenly I heard her saying “And what about you?”

I snapped out of my reverie. I said I was still at Witchett and Phipps (investment brokers), but was married now. Had been for five years.

“Yes, I heard through the grapevine. I’m happy for you. And things are fine?”

“Yes. Of course.” It seemed the easiest answer. We chatted with remarkable ease for a couple who’d split up. All the while I kept feasting on those fuller cheeks and the general silky glow that had come with her added pounds. Eventually she said she’d better get on. I hesitated a second, then went for it. “Maybe we could meet up some time? I mean, just a drink. Old friends...”

“Do you think your wife would mind?”

“Why should she? We’re done and dusted with that stuff, aren’t we?”

She scribbled a phone number on a Helping Hands leaflet, an action I noticed that brought out the cutest little pillow of fat from under her chin. “Don’t leave it too long,” she said warmly. “Oh, you don’t I guess have anything to donate?”

Feeling guilty, I said I had nothing. Then with a smile and a slightly tentative hug my former girlfriend was gone.

I closed the door feeling slightly dazed and also, frankly, aroused. Immediately I could smell something burning. I rushed down to find the vegetable saucepan boiled dry. I dashed over to the cold water tap. The saucepan hissed. The vegetables were irretrievably charred.

“It’s Cajun-style vegetables tonight, sorry,” I said as Karen appeared in the kitchen and gave me her best accusing stare. Too fuzzy to think up any other alibi, I told her roughly what had happened: the doorbell, Helping Hands, the unexpected encounter with my old flame, whom she’d often heard about but seen only in photos. I left out that I now had Simone’s phone number.

Karen was bothered more by the saucepan than this blast from my past. She peered into it, her face shrivelling. “You and your former girlfriend have really burned the vegetables.”

If Karen had a choice between saying something soothing and saying something sour, she’d always choose sour. It hadn’t always been like that. But over the five years she’d been in England, homesick for America, where we’d met and had a whirlwind romance, she’d gradually taken undue delight in looking on the bad side. It wasn’t a pretty quality, especially if you were faced with it at 7.30 in the morning.

Looking back it now seems clear that I’d fallen for Karen on the rebound, after the collapse of my relationship with Simone. The collapse hadn’t been acrimonious: just one of those things, caused mostly by me travelling a lot and leaving Simone with enough spare time to be courted by this nerd Dave. Splitting up had left me feeling a hole in my life, and I’d thought Karen would fill it. Getting actually married wasn’t my personal wish, but it made practical sense. I had the well-paid job and clear career path in London. She didn’t: how much money can you make working in a second-hand bookshop? Five years later, we both could see our relationship had rough edges, though doing something about them was another matter.

As we ate the edible portions of the meal, I was struck how angular Karen looked compared to my doorstep visitor. Karen had always been slim, but now she seemed almost gaunt next to the new Simone. Her collarbone stuck out. No padding in her face. Compact breasts. Even with our embarrassed hug on the doorstep I’d felt the upholstery covering Simone’s body; but with Karen, if I gave her a hug I knew there’d be just bones.

Afterwards I went upstairs to my study. I had to work on some figures, I told her. In truth I just wanted to spend time with my memories. From the depths of a drawer in my dresser I retrieved an envelope of photos – the last ones I probably had printed before Karen gave me a digital camera. There was Simone as I’d known her before: a sweet, chiselled face; tight-fitting jeans; a body always “bikini-ready”. They brought to mind the care she’d taken about what she ate, the daily exercises, the weekend jog. The last person you’d think would begin to fill out. Yet the extra flesh had arrived, probably quietly, over time. Maybe it was a metabolism thing; maybe it was Dave. Something had happened to make her put on – what was it, 15, 20 lbs? Hard to tell.

Two weeks went by and I still hadn’t phoned her. I’d wanted to let that doorstep experience bed down, so to speak, to see if my old passion for Simone faded. It didn’t. At the same time I kept remembering the good times we’d had, simply as friends: walking in the parks, chit-chatting, laughing at bad movies on TV. All absent, I ruefully thought, from my current life with Karen.

I kept looking at the number that she’d written down. Was that work or home? Would Dave pick up? Then indecision stopped. I dialled. She answered, and said she’d been hoping I’d call. We fixed a date. 6.30pm. Henry’s, a wine bar, not far from Witchett and Phipps.

I wondered if I should keep this under Karen’s radar. In the end I decided to avoid guilt by telling her, as casually as I could, so it would seem a harmless matter of two old friends catching up. “At least you can’t burn any vegetables,” she said. I laughed, probably a little too merrily.

I got to the place early and secured a corner booth. Simone came late, her face flushed, probably from hurrying. She apologised profusely, removed her handbag, and settled into one of Henry’s luxurious padded chairs. She wore black slacks and a white blouse that didn’t look as if it gave her much room to breathe. I noticed her breasts, bulkier than before. I also noticed a curve of fat on her stomach: common enough with women, I suppose, but never before seen on Simone. Now she had joined the club.

“I can’t believe it!” she said. “You haven’t changed at all! What’s your secret?”

“Oh, probably my hair’s receded a bit. You’re looking much the same too.” I thought I would be polite.

“I don’t think that’s true, but thanks.” I could guess what she meant, but decided for her sake to leave the subject alone. We started to fill in our missing years, and estimating our current lives. Both of us looked on the bright side. Dave, she said, was bearable, certainly a great money earner, if a bit boring. He was away in the Philippines at the moment on a short-term contract. She sounded rather relieved.

Me, I admitted Karen could be a bit of a challenge, though there were various plus points. “She’s company. She’s clean and tidy.” It wasn’t a ringing endorsement.

“Do you mean I wasn’t clean and tidy?” Simone squawked. But I knew she was only faking. I looked into her brown eyes and felt maudlin. “Oh why did we ever break up, Simone?”

She stiffened a little, and became serious. “You know the reasons. We were both at fault. But let’s not get into that. Water under the bridge, isn’t it? I certainly don’t have any hard feelings.”

“Me neither. It’s just that – it’s just that it’s so nice to see you.”

She smiled again, shyly. Her voice became tender, confidential. “The feeling’s mutual,” she said, reaching out to touch my hand. “Maybe we could – “. She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes. I’d like that too.” Simple enough words, though I knew full well what they meant: we were proposing spending time together, intimate time.

Having crossed that hurdle, I began to feel more relaxed. And as we talked about this and that, memories from our past mostly, the more I became utterly bewitched by her new look, her new weight. The extra pounds, I soon realised, hadn’t just softened her contours; it had also widened her expressive range. Little dimples came and went on the boundaries of her cheeks. Her smile seemed richer, deeper; her looks of surprise or amusement more penetrating. Without angular features her whole personality seemed more open, more giving. With bones and muscles more blanketed, she also looked younger, certainly more relaxed. It was almost as though the old Simone had become replaced by a rounder, sexier sister – someone with the same gene pool, but with the cocktail differently shaken.

Free of nerves now, I knew I had to make some comment about her weight, or at least lever the talk in that direction. I told her again that she was looking good. This time she took the bait.

“You do realise there’s 20 pounds more of me these days?” She sounded wistful, as though she was staring at her thinner self and thinking, “That used to be me!”

I jumped immediately to her defence. “I can tell you’ve filled out a bit, but nothing for you to worry about. Honestly. Simone, it suits you. As if it’s the way you were meant to be.” That last thought took me by surprise, but the moment it came out it struck me as true. She did, somehow, seem more of herself, more the true Simone.

“But I’ve now got a little belly, Steve! So many clothes have got too tight. I’ve already given a lot of them away.”

“When did you do that?”

I think she found the question surprising. But, good sport, she answered it anyway. “Two years ago? A while past, anyway. I started gaining soon after we split up. Dave kept wanting to eat out.”

She started circling a finger round her wine glass, looking sad and vulnerable. I was moved, and wished she could see herself as I saw her, newly transformed and beautiful.

With regret I realised I had to go. Karen and dinner were waiting. We made some tentative arrangements. “Better call me at work,” I said, giving her my business card.

“I’ll squirrel this away.” Then, standing up, she prepared for departure by stretching her arms up and out, like a bird’s wings – a movement that lifted her white blouse sufficiently to expose the layer of fat padding her waist. It was like a vision of heaven, abruptly ended when she pulled the blouse down with the swift gesture of someone used to regularly adjusting her clothes. We kissed, fervently; then she walked off, her bottom swinging inside tight slacks. 20 pounds, I kept on thinking as I wended my home, 20 pounds...

By the time I’d reached my doorstep, guilt had hit me. I knew that the next time I saw Simone I wouldn’t tell Karen about it. I’d tell a lie, or be conveniently vague: anything but the truth. I tried telling myself that if I picked up the reins with Simone, it would have nothing to do with Karen herself. But that was a fudge. It was about Karen, as well as Simone. With Karen I felt bound by habit and duty, but not overpowering love. Whether it was love with Simone, or nostalgia, or unvarnished lust, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that the force she exerted was real, driving, and dangerous.

I found Karen down in the kitchen, fretting among the saucepans. It was almost serving time. “I thought I’d have to call out the police. What took you so long?”

“We got trapped reminiscing. Sorry, I should have called.”

She looked at me with beady eyes. “You won’t be making a thing of this, will you? Seeing your old girlfriend?”

“No, no, of course not.” Lie number one.

“It’s going to be haddock,” she said, pulling from the oven two white slabs of fish. They looked singularly unappetising. “How is Simone, anyway? Different? The same?”

“She seems well. She’s put on a bit of weight.” I added that partly because I enjoyed saying it, partly because I thought it might help Karen not see Simone as a threat.

“Wasn’t she always going to the gym?”

“Not so much now. She’s grown a little chubby.”

“Well, that’s not our problem,” Karen said, brushing the topic out of the way as she guided the vegetables to the dinner plates. Then she gave me a straight look. “She is out of your system, isn’t she?”

“Absolutely. No problem there.” Lie number two.

The haddock proved as tasteless as I’d expected. Simone’s taste continued to linger, and she kept popping up in my head even when I did the right husbandly thing, asking Karen about her day, generally being solicitous and interested. All the while I kept thinking about Simone’s slim body slowly softening year by year, say half a pound a month, slow enough for no-one for a time to notice. And then, suddenly, the moment of truth: the favourite jeans that wouldn’t fit; the shock encounter with the scales; the comments from people, certainly Dave, about her chubbier face or the fat built up on her tummy. It was as though I was going back in time, feeling Simone’s own discomfort at watching her old body disappear.

When she called me at work a week later, wondering if an evening might be possible, I immediately said yes. I told Karen I had a new project at work. I’d have fed her some made-up details if she asked, but she didn’t. “Better get dinner for yourself on Wednesday,” I said. “OK, I’ll get some haddock.”

Once again, lying made me feel guilty, so did saying goodbye to her as I left for work on the big day. Yet by the time I’d got to the end of the street I could already feel the black cloud lifting. I told myself I was only going to absent myself from my marriage for a few hours. I was only locking Karen briefly in a box. I would be back. The box would be reopened.

****