Ollie Quain - How To Lose Weight And Alienate People

OLLIE QUAINlives in London. She has worked for Ministry of Sound, The O2, a load of fashion mags and also done a bit of telly. She is a fan of techno, Jason Orange from Take That, Citalopram, white leather and black liquorice. She hopes for global harmony, but wishes one of her exes wasn’t so annoyingly fit. She loves her cat, Eddie—even when he sneezes in her face—and hates writing about herself in the third person. How to Lose Weight and Alienate People is her first novel … the second is on its way. Follow her on Twitter @olliequain.

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Mummy Q.

She is the best.

My biggest thank you goes to Ben Mason, fabulously dynamic boss of Fox Mason Literary Agency, who has made it possible for me to be a) an actual writer and b) able to shout, ‘Well, my agent says …’ loudly (and a lot) in public places. In addition, a waggy tail of gratitude to Silvio, his equally nimble canine cohort.

Next up, I am hugely appreciative to publishing wonder woman Donna Hillyer and her crack team at Harlequin. (That’s ‘crack’ in the expertly insightful and brilliantly motivated sense, not the junkie one. Obvs.) The peeps at Cherish PR have been absolutely splendid too.

Then there’s my brother, David. He’s ace and my life has been made infinitely better by having him (and occasionally his cheque book/PIN number) in it for all these years.

As well, shout-outs must go to my oldest buddies, who I will obviously disregard entirely as soon as I am summoned to Los Angeles for discussion of movie and/or TV serialisation rights of my novel. They are: Sean ‘Barbara Jean’ Varley and The Drag Queen Massive (Faris, Otto, Mazza’n’Rosie); my USofA family, Scott, Val, Noah, Alex and Jack Sapot; Suzette ‘The Schnitzelator’ Allcorn; my gurrrrrrrrrrls, Hugh McPhillips’n’John Tippens; Anoushka ‘Wheely’ Healy; Felix Bowers-Brown (fancy an international mini-break?!); the West London legend that is Misty Gale; Sandra ‘Crofty’ Carter; and The Carlisle-Griffiths unit, Fi, David and Ruby … and of course, at numero uno, Martyn Fitzgerald—my worst friend in the best possible way.

I’d also like to give maje props to Ben Raworth, Rob Fitzpatrick, Annabel Brog and Grub Smith (although the latter will be appalled at the expression ‘maje props’), who all inspired me to do a book, like, totes way back, innit.

On a more superficial note, my Dior Homme grey beanie hat is doffed to the peeps I rely upon to keep me clinging on to 2007. They are: Pete and Nathan at boxcleversports.com (big upz da lunchtime krew!); Dr John Quinn at Quinn Clinics—’cos who actually needs to frown?; my DC10 Ibiza amigos ; the gang at Aveda Notting Hill; and supersnapper Darren Orbell.

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Endpages

Copyright

I am aware that learning my lines on the loo is not the classiest way to prepare for an audition, but it works for me. The gentle trickle of a cistern filling up, the hypnotic whirring of an AC unit in the background; it helps me concentrate. I often imagine what other actresses get up to in the toilet. I picture them:

a.) Sticking Post-it notes on the shoots in W magazine they would like their stylist to draw inspiration from.

b.) Tweeting a supposedly self-deprecating, goofy ‘selfie’ in which they actually look fabulous.

c.) Plotting how to raise awareness of their worthiness and humanity by raising awareness of worthy humanitarian causes.

d.) Using their visit as me-me- me -time to consider their brand extension. Maybe – right now – somewhere in the Hamptons in a WASP-y ‘new minimalist’-style bathroom, Gwyneth Paltrow is coming up with a low-GI (but highly condescending) spelt-based agave-nectar-infused muffin recipe for her latest cookbook.

I doubt I will ever get to confirm d.), though, as Gwynnie and I don’t mix in the same circles. Unlike her, I am not a super-successful thespian with my fingers in other financially rewarding (gluten-free) pies. I am a hostess at a private members’ club in central London called Burn’s. I act when given the opportunity but I am certainly not at risk of suffering from ‘exhaustion’ due to a relentless schedule of back-to-back projects. My own fault – I have some focusing issues – but honestly, I am not desperate to become a huge star. Besides, I don’t do ‘selfies’ and I reckon I’d struggle with the worthy humanitarian angle.

I leave the loo and head for a meeting with Roger, my boss. It still feels weird calling him this because over a decade ago we started out as waiting staff together. We always used to request the same shifts so we had the same hours off to party and go on the pull. We went for the same type of guy, too: those with directional haircuts and an enticing after-the-club-shuts attraction at their apartment, like an ice box full of premium vodka or tandem-functioning disco lights and surround sound. But then Roger met Pete and our late nights out together? They petered out.

‘Hi, Rog,’ I say, loitering outside his open office door.

He looks up from his desk. ‘Come in, Vivian. I saw you in that advert for the Sofa World Spring Clear Out! last night. To be fair, you made that cream leather recliner look very tempting indeed. The way you flopped down on to it in your sensible office separates without spilling a drop from your glass of vin rouge – I was absolutely convinced you’d been grafting at work all day … not a look of yours I’m particularly familiar with.’

We both laugh as I enter the room. Like the rest of Burn’s it is painted in an understated off-white Farrow & Ball paint and the furniture is a mixture of ultra-contemporary pieces and perfectly worn classics. Ten years ago, when the club first opened, this schizophrenic new-meets-old look was reasonably fresh. Now you can’t move in London’s hospitality industry without tripping over an angular chrome footstool and landing on a tattered leather sofa.

‘Anything exciting?’ he asks, pointing in the direction of the manuscript I am holding.

‘ Surf Shack . The audition is tomorrow. It’s a new kids’ show for a late-afternoon slot, so even if I get the role and deliver a performance with Tilda Swinton-esque intensity, it’ll probably only be seen by some homework-dodging ten-year-old in between mouthfuls of reconstituted poultry “nibblets” and ketchup.’ I pass Roger the script and sit down on the Eames office chair in front of his antique desk.