The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 26

'Where are you going?' I ask, as he gets up and starts to walk over towards their table.

'Salvage operation,' he replies. 'Watch and learn.'

There's a brief, heated exchange. Thirty seconds later, he's back with his tail between his legs.

'Got any other great ideas?'

'But...'

'Well, keep them to yourself,' he hisses, before heading off to the gents.

Once Wendy brings our food across, Lynne stands up and walks slowly over from her table. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, then taps the ash all over Dan's lunch. I look at her in amazement as she repeats the process, smiles pleasantly at me, then goes back to her seat without a word.

When Dan comes bounding back from the toilet, he stares at the steaming plate of pasta in front of him.

'What's all this?'

'Er...' I look over to where Lynne is sitting, staring back at our table, daring me to tell. 'I thought you might like some black pepper.'

Dan nods, tucking his serviette into his collar. 'Good call. I'm starving.'

I watch, fascinated, as he jabs his fork into the food and mixes it round, the little black flecks of ash coating the pasta quills as he does so. He sticks a huge forkful into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully.

'Mmm. This is great. You should try some. The bacon tastes really...'

'Smoky?'

Dan nods appreciatively. 'That's the word. Help yourself.'

I shake my head, and take a mouthful of salad. 'I'll pa.s.s, thanks. Diet, and all that.'

As Dan munches away, much to Lynne's consternation, the penne doesn't drop. But I'm starting to realize something-that where women are concerned, perhaps the most important lesson I can learn from Dan is how not to be like him.

Tuesday 22nd February.

8.19 p.m.

'What're you writing?'

'Sam's suggested I keep a diary.'

'What-how often you m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e? Is that part of her exercise programme too?'

'Don't be disgusting, Dan. A food diary. It'll help me keep track of my eating habits. Make sure I'm following a healthy diet. Not snacking. That sort of thing.'

On Sam's advice, I've done a sweep of my kitchen and thrown away everything 'unhealthy', or in my language, 'tasty'. Also gone is all the bread, pasta, and even my favourite chocolate Hob-n.o.bs, which I've replaced with some rice cakes that have all the flavour and consistency of a beer mat. I'd probably get more nourishment from biting my lip, but drastic measures are called for, particularly given what the bathroom scales are telling me.

'Oh. Right.' Dan sits there silently for a few seconds, then peers at what I'm writing. 'There's two zeds in "pizza".'

'Can't you take anything seriously?'

'Not usually, nope.'

'This all may be a big joke to you, Mister Genetically Modified, but it's serious stuff for me.'

'Sorry, mate. How is the old diet lark going?'

'Well, I'm giving Atkins a try at the moment.'

'Atkins?'

'Yup. Which means I can have bacon and eggs for breakfast. Every day. This is a good thing, because I like bacon and eggs, and coincidentally, it's about the only thing I know how to cook.'

'And is it working?' asks Dan.

'Not yet,' I reply. 'But it's still early days. Although I'm a little worried about the potential side effects.'

'Side effects?'

'Flatulence and bad breath, apparently.'

Dan makes a face, and moves his chair away from mine. 'Mate, some days your breath is like a chemical weapon anyway. But I wouldn't worry if I were you.'

'Why ever not?'

'Well, it's not as if you're going to be getting close enough to anyone for them to notice, is it?'

Monday 28th February.

6.56 a.m.

I'm lying in my bed with the light off, watching the digital display on my clock radio slowly advance. When it reaches 7.00, I hit the 'snooze' b.u.t.ton in an attempt to stop the ringing, before realizing that the noise is actually Sam at the front door.

I lie there, hoping she'll go away, but after a further thirty seconds of determined ringing I hear my front door opening-I'd forgotten she had a key-followed by the sound of footsteps walking along the hallway towards my bedroom. When she knocks on my door, I pull the duvet cover over my head in an attempt to hide. Unfortunately, despite this professional camouflage attempt, Sam still manages to find me.

'Come on, sleeping beauty,' she says, trying to tug the duvet cover from my grasp. 'Those inches won't just lose themselves, you know.'

'I'm tired. I thought we could give it a miss this morning.'

'Oh no you don't. It's for your own good.'

I hang on for dear life, but unfortunately Sam has a better grip than I do, plus, of course, she's a lot stronger. She whips the duvet cover off me, just at the very same moment that I remember I couldn't find any clean boxer shorts yesterday so decided to sleep naked. I grab the nearest thing I can find to cover my predicament, which turns out to be a bad move, as it's my clock radio, which is of course plugged into the wall, meaning I can't move.

Sam looks at me mischievously. 'Now you're stuck.'

'Go away. I'm not getting up.'

Sam reaches into her bag, and produces her Polaroid camera. 'I'll give you ten seconds.'

'You wouldn't dare!'

She pops the flash up. 'Nine, eight...'

'Okay, okay.'

'Seven, six...'

'Well at least have the decency to turn around, then.'

As Sam walks out of my bedroom, I drag myself out of bed, and pull on my workout gear. Two minutes later, I'm ready for her.

'Good boy,' she says, as I walk into the lounge. 'These are the important days-where you really don't want to do it. These are the ones that prove that you're...'

'All right, all right. Enough of the pop psychology. I'm up, aren't I?'

'Ooh! Get you! What side of the bed did you get out of this morning?'

'Well, you should b.l.o.o.d.y well know,' I reply, grumpily.

'Edward, is something the matter?'

I slump against the wall. 'It's just...What's it all for? I'm getting fitter, sure, and I can run further without feeling sick, but...'

'But what?'

'I don't seem to be losing any weight.'

Sam adopts the tone of a schoolmistress. 'Have you been getting on those scales again?'

I stare guiltily at my feet. 'Might have been.'

'How many times do I have to tell you? It's not how much you weigh. It's how you look. And more importantly, how you feel about yourself.'

'But I...'

'Come here and take your sweats.h.i.+rt off.'

'What?'

'Take your sweats.h.i.+rt off. I want to prove something to you.'

I reluctantly pull my top off and drop it onto the sofa. 'What?'

Sam pulls her camera out again, and snaps a quick photo.

'Now, fetch me the one we took at the start,' she orders.

I walk into the kitchen and remove it from the front of the fridge. 'Here you go.'

Sam scrutinizes the two photos, and hands them to me with a smile. 'Now, look at the two of them together.'

I hold the pictures up and peer at them, and then have to do a double take. The one of me today is starting at least to look like a shadow of my former self. They're not quite before and after-more sort of a before and halfway through-but at least they're the right way round this time.

'But, the scales...I don't understand.'

Sam smiles patiently. 'What did I tell you when we started? Ignore what the scales say. The reason you haven't lost much weight isn't because you haven't lost any fat. It's because you've put on muscle at the same time. And muscle is heavier than fat. The important thing is your body shape. And looking at these...' She takes another look at the photos. 'It looks like old cuddly Teddy is on his way out for sure.'

'But, even when I look in the mirror...'

'That's because all you see is the same thing, albeit slightly slimmer every day. You won't notice a difference until you stop and look at it like this. And imagine what someone who hasn't seen you for a while-say, for three months-will think...' Sam leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is crystal clear.

I take the photos back from her and stare at them in disbelief. While I still have a spare tyre, at least it's more low-profile compared to the over-inflated one in the original picture. And when I look closely at my arms and shoulders, is that a bit of definition I see?

Sam leads me through to my kitchen and sticks the two photos back on the fridge door, side by side.

'There,' she says. 'Something to keep you motivated. And are your clothes feeling any looser?'

I peer down at the waistband of my jogging pants. There does seem to be slightly less straining going on.

'A little. But I just put that down to them having stretched.'

Sam grabs me gently by the arm, and starts to lead me outside. 'So, Edward,' she says. 'Shall we begin?'

I smile sheepishly back at her. 'Let's.'

And finally, as I follow Sam out into the morning air and down to the seafront, I feel like we're really getting started.

7.45 a.m.

I don't know if it's what I've seen, or the effect of Sam's motivational chat, but this morning is the best workout we've ever had. I manage to get further down the promenade than ever before until I feel like dying, and then even set a few personal bests in the gym. Sam starts humming the Rocky theme tune as I get a level up on the cross-trainer, and it's all I can do not to high-five her as I step triumphantly off the machine. She leads me over to the stretch mats, and when she tells me what we're doing next, I suddenly regret the fact that she saw me naked this morning.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said we're going to do some ball work.'

'Ah. Ball. Singular. I thought you said...never mind.'

Sam walks over to a cupboard in the gym and produces what looks like a s.p.a.ce-hopper, minus the horns and inane face, which she bounces back over to me like an oversized basketball.

'What on earth are we going to do with this?'