How To Lose Weight And Alienate People. Ollie Quain

after another. The sort you might want to record for posterity … so on occasion, we have. When I watch the footage back, I am always amused – and rather impressed – by the assorted surfaces we manage to utilise.

      Tonight, we end up on the new island unit in the kitchen, possibly the most uncomfortable material in the flat – no, Europe – but Luke likes it. Probably so he can give me a knowing smile whenever Adele is using it to assemble one of her authentic ethnic dishes, as if to say, We both know it’s not just cumin seeds that have been pummelled up there … It’s good. Really good … and when it’s over, we stay sprawled on the granite, the endorphins that are pelting round our bodies easing the pain in Luke’s spine and my cruciate ligaments. That’s when I look across at him – his unkempt hair in an (entirely unintentionally) sexy mess – and at that very moment I think about what a nice addition he is to my life right now.

      Then I look over to the fridge and stare at the photograph stuck to the refrigerator of Adele and James grinning manically as they cradle an orphaned baby orang-utan in the Bornean rainforest. It reminds me that I must must must remember to remove her stone-coloured Max Mara tank top from its dry-cleaning cellophane, unpin the yellow ticket from the care label and replace it in her wardrobe. Ditto her LnA white V-neck tee. And grey Equipment shirt. (Adele’s closet is a haven of high-quality basics that I like to borrow – without asking – on a regular basis.) I also need to sweep up the fag butts on the patio, buy some Pantene shampoo and conditioner to put in the shower so she doesn’t think I’ve been caning her Aveda Colour Conserve, and then I need t—

      ‘Vivian?’

      ‘Mmmm?’ I twist to face Luke. ‘Christ!’ His eyes are one centimetre away from mine. ‘You gave me a shock.’

      ‘Sorry.’ He pulls back a little awkwardly. ‘I was figuring out whether I should talk to you about something. Something quite … serious.’

      ‘Serious? Like what? You’ve acquired an STD …’

      ‘Ha! No, nothing like that.’

      ‘You’ve got a wife back home in Australia and she drives a “yoot”…’ I smile.

      ‘I don’t.’

      ‘You’ve been to prison?’

      ‘Would that be a turn-on?’

      ‘Possibly, if it was an act of selflessness that got you sent down – like Wentworth Miller in Prison Break. But if it was manslaught—’

      He interrupts me. ‘What are your feelings about reproduction?’

      ‘Reprod …’ I tail off.

      ‘… uction. Reproduction.’ He visibly relaxes as he says the word a second time and stares directly at me.

      I tense and look away. ‘The heavy wooden French furniture, you mean?’

      ‘Not that, Vivian. Human reproduction, as in the creation of another being. It’s something that I’ve been meaning to get your thoughts on for a while,’ he says, as if he were casually requesting my opinion on which actor has been the most convincing James Bond. ‘Well, not a while as in ages and ages, we’ve only been together for a year so it would be pretty scary if I had been thinking about it for too long. Don’t panic, I’m not some sort of psycho-sperminator who’s simply been biding his time for the right moment to impregnate you.’ Definitely not Pierce Brosnan – too self-conscious. Or Timothy Dalton – too self-righteous. ‘And even though I said it was a “serious” subject, it doesn’t mean I “seriously” want us to think about doing it right now, but it would be good to know your feelings about the subject, generally.’ I know this is controversial but I wasn’t mad about Sean Connery – too hairy, and I can’t even remember the name of the actor in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. George someone? ‘I can tell you’re a bit surprised, but I’ve surprised myself by even wanting to approach the whole issue. I certainly didn’t think I’d be asking you about it tonight, but …’ Lazenby! George Lazenby, that was it. As for Daniel Craig – way too shaggable. Distractingly so, it’s impossible to concentrate on the plot. ‘… sometimes it’s hard to plan when you’re going to talk about the things in life that need the most planning, and you don’t get something that needs more planning than a … baby.’

       ROGER MOORE! There’s your answer. He was the best 007. Yes, he was cheesy, but I like cheese. (The sentiment not the dairy product.) Plus, he made my favourite movie of the entire franchise …

      Luke shakes his head at me. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

       ‘Moonraker.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘Eh? Moon-what?’

      Luke is confused. I go into the lounge and stand in the nude for a few seconds staring aimlessly round the room, before grabbing his grey hooded top and putting it on. It’s long enough to reach past my mid-thigh but I still feel weirdly bare, so I find my knickers and put them on too. When I return to the kitchen Luke is aimlessly opening and shutting cupboard doors.

      He stops when he sees me and smiles, tentatively. ‘I’m guessing by that reaction you would have preferred it if I was actually diseased, hitched or an ex-con. I’ve caught you unawares, haven’t I? Maybe it would have been best to wait.’

      ‘Wait?’

      ‘Yeah, wait.’

      Or rather … weight. Because that’s what you actually gain, isn’t it? As well as a child, I mean, you gain weight during the storing and development of the foetus. Even if you have the dollars to pay an illegitimate Miami surgeon to perform one of those sneaky Caesareans where Junior gets whipped out six weeks early to avoid Mom piling on the last trimester of bulk, for the other six and a half months hormones will send your taste buds loony tunes. Some women are lucky. They get savoury cravings along the lines of pickled onions or gherkins. (At least over-consumption can have a laxative effect.) Some not so, and spend the entire gestational period with their head in a catering-sized pot of peanut butter. Or maybe even that special variety – based on Satan’s own recipe – which comes with swirls of milk chocolate spread woven through it. After the expulsion of the fully formed anthropoid, the only way they are going to ‘ping’ back to their pre-baby size is to surround themselves with a crack team of nutritionists and exercise specialists like the top models do. Miranda Kerr’s were fucking efficient. When she stalked down the catwalk at Paris Fashion Week for Balenciaga eight weeks after giving birth, she didn’t even look as if she’d had a bowl of porridge, let alone a son.

      But obviously I don’t say any of this to Luke. He wouldn’t understand what I was saying. Nor would I want him to try. Because then he may try to understand something else. Me. I clear my throat to buy myself some time to think. I am baffled as to why he would have even thought to approach this subject. At some point, I must have started behaving in a way that has triggered him to start seeing ‘us’ in a way that was not intended. This unnerves me, because none of the other ‘Men I’ve Been With’ have misread the signals. I am angry with myself. So, obviously, I channel the anger towards him.

      ‘Are you completely fucking unhinged, Luke?’

      He doesn’t reply to my question. He shakes his head at me and stomps into the lounge. I follow him in and watch as he puts on his boxers inside-out, yanks on his jeans and buttons them up incorrectly, then puts on his T-shirt back to front.

      ‘And you reckon you could handle a nappy?’ I taunt.

      ‘Forget I even mentioned it, Vivian. We need to clean up. I’ll turn the sofa back round and you do the cushions. You’d better get a cloth too. There’s Dr Pepper all over the carpet,’ he mutters.

      ‘Don’t sulk,