Ollie Quain - How To Lose Weight And Alienate People

‘What issue? There is no issue. I’ve told you he’s not around.’

‘And that’s where the discussion always ends. Why?’

I hold my hand up. My face feels hot and my neck is itching. ‘Right, the cod psychology stops here, Luke. We don’t need to talk about family stuff. It’s boring … and pointless.’

‘Not when they are the people who have shaped you.’

‘I shaped me!’ I snap. It’s definitely time to re-route this conversation. I flop down onto the sofa, put my head on Luke’s shoulder and change tack. ‘Look, I know I’m handling this chat quite badly, but you have to admit it was a bit of a curveball. Let’s face it, we’re hardly in a practical position to think about a, er …’

‘Baby,’ he says, putting his arm around me. ‘A baby . You won’t get pregnant by saying it.’

I smile, equally pleased he has been drawn away from the subject of my family and is loosening up. ‘Whatever you want to call it. How could we consider having one of those when we’ve only been seeing each other a year?’

‘I agree,’ he says simply. ‘It would be ridiculous, which was why I was only approaching the issue. It was you who went off on a tangent. Kids would obviously be some way down the road …’ Not if I’m driving! ‘… after we’ve lived together for a while.’

I feel uncomfortable again; as if I’m lying on the island unit, my joints pressed into the marble. ‘Where would we do that?’

‘Why not here?’

I burst out laughing. ‘Luke, hell would have to freeze over before Adele let you do that. In fact, hell would have to freeze over and then maybe a few years later sometime after an entire winter theme park with snowboarding facilities and an ice hotel had been built on top then maybe she would consider a trial period … as long as you didn’t bring your records, music equipment or cables.’

He tilts my head up towards him. ‘We could always get our own place – just you and me. It wouldn’t be as big as this place but—’

‘Monday would find downsizing hard,’ I interject quickly. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Warren, either.’

‘Since when have you cared about Wozza? You called him “tragic” last week.’

‘He is. But he’s a tragedy who has done you a lot of favours recently. If you moved out he’d really struggle to fill your room. I doubt he’d get too many responses from an advert on Gumtree: AVAILABLE! Tomb-like space in dark basement flat on very rough road in Shepherds Bush (usually cordoned off by police) – must be okay with dark Berlin techno and basic communication with other tenant. General knowledge of hydroponics and GCSE chemistry Grade C or above a plus …’ I lean up and kiss Luke’s cheek. ‘You can laugh now. Go on, I know you want to.’

He doesn’t. Which makes me feel odd, because that’s why I thought both of us were here – to have a laugh – and now Luke isn’t laughing. But what is even odder is that I’m sorry that I am the reason he’s not. I genuinely am. More than I thought I would be.

A full English breakfast is not something I would ever choose to make. There are too many individual components. Personally, I think that three is a more than sufficient number of items for any dish. But the following morning, I feel I ought to get up at the same ridiculous time Luke always has to (on week days) and do something he would consider a nice gesture. So I pop a Nurofen and cook.

Things appear to be fine between us. We potter about the kitchen bantering with each other as normal. He in his favourite T-shirt, the one with a picture of a large cartoon fish wearing a pair of headphones underneath the words, Cod is a DJ . Me wearing his boxer shorts and sweatshirt. As he grabs his car keys from the fishbowl, I attempt to pull him back in the flat by his rucksack.

‘Stay for a bit longer,’ I tell him. ‘Just for a few minutes … I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Really? How would you go about doing that?’ He turns round and prises my fingers from his bag. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve got to pick up Kevvo en route and I’d prefer to do that without a hard-on. I mean, he is a fellow Aussie and, admittedly, we have got a lot closer recently, but …’

I laugh. ‘You always used to stay when I asked you.’

‘That was an isolated period of a few weeks, before I got a job. I can’t be late … it’s not fair on the others. When we all put in the effort we get more done.’

I roll my eyes at him and push him out into the corridor. ‘Tsk, no one ever got anywhere by having a strong work ethic and a dedicated sense of teamwork, Luke. You should remember that.’

Smiling, he rolls his eyes back at me, then backs off down towards the front door. ‘Play a blinder at your audition. Shall I come round later?’

‘Nah, Adele will be back. I ought to spend the evening with her and feign interest in her endless camcorder footage of imposing mountainous terrain.’

‘Well, look after yourself and don’t get into any more fights.’ He bends down to stroke Monday who has wandered out into the hallway and is doing that feline slalom thing; twisting in and out of Luke’s legs. ‘Make sure you have a productive day, little mate,’ laughs Luke. But when he stands up his expression is serious.

I feel that marble surface digging into my joints again. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘About last night …’

‘Last night?’

‘Yeah, last night. I’ve been thinking … about what happened.’

‘What about it?’

‘I think you should know something. Something very important—’

‘Which is?’ My voice goes up a nervous octave as I interrupt him.

Luke repositions his rucksack, but doesn’t stop staring at me; his mouth is fixed in a sombre straight line. I swallow hard. I really can’t be doing with another heavy conversation.

‘I think I … well, I’ve got a bad feeling about something.’

‘A bad feeling about what , Luke?’

He pauses, then suddenly, grins. ‘I may have thrown away that condom in a cutlery drawer … not the bin. That new kitchen set-up is a total mind-fuck.’

I burst out laughing.

I am still laughing as I dispose of the offending article in the actual waste unit … along with the breakfast leftovers. I squirt these remains with washing-up liquid and then finish my necessary chores throughout the flat. In the background, I can hear an American actress being interviewed on some morning TV show, talking openly about how she doesn’t let Hollywood’s obsession with size double zero concern her – yeah, right, treadmill face! Then I do my Barry’s Boot Camp DVD and collapse on the sofa. Monday is already on there enjoying a snooze, clearly not having had enough quality shut-eye during the twenty odd hours he slept yesterday. I lie down next to him and scroll through a load of programmes I’ve stored for viewing. I plump for the last series of 90210 . The opening scene on the beach in the first episode is entirely stolen by AnnaLynne McCord’s ribcage. It is so prominent I wonder if it has hired its own publicist during the down time between seasons. My mobile bleeps. I don’t recognise the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Vivian Ward? Barb Silver …’ She sounds a bit like Streisand. ‘Publicist. I represent Maximilian Fry. I got your number from the manager at Burn’s. I’m assuming you’ve seen what’s happened?’

‘Er, no.’ I try to sound slightly irritated, as though getting calls from tough-talking industry players is a regular part of my daily routine.