The Food of Love

Life’s too short for neurosis, readthe plastic sign next to the doorbell. And why spend a fortune on analysis? Check out our pit-stop and you’ll be sorted and on your way in no time.

The woman read the words repeatedly, glancing anxiously up and down the dingy suburban side-street, trying to recall the wording of the advert that had brought her here. How much did it say it cost? And how had it all come to this? Desperation, she concluded. Sheer desperation had driven her to seek out this undoubted shyster. 

She was not a pleasant sight. ‘Fat’ would not have covered it, more like ‘obese’. The rest of her didn’t help. Under a pink plastic mac she was swathed in a loose bell tent of a dress. Her hair, though attractively auburn, was piled up in a frizzy rook’s nest of split ends, her lipstick looked as if it had been put on with a paint roller and the mottled sausages of her legs terminated in a pair of crocs through which her large ungainly feet were only too evident. But her pale face was delicately pretty and her eyes quick and determined. 

Another sign by the doorbell read ‘Press and enter’. Finally the woman plucked up enough courage to press the bell. She pushed through the door and heaved herself up the scuffed pink treads of a staircase, the folds of her flesh swaying and rippling with the strain. At the top she paused for breath before tapping nervously on the cream door confronting her.

‘Yes,’ someone said. ‘Come in.’

The woman stumbled in and found herself facing a shortish fit-looking young man in a bright blue suit and crisp white shirt behind a large polished desk. He had close-cropped red hair and a square-ish jaw lightly shadowed with stubble. Hair colour apart, he slightly reminded the woman of the actor Tom Cruise. The room itself was bare except for a plaque on one wall displaying some sort of certificate, a small brass carriage clock on the desk, a pile of paperbacks by someone called Ayn Rand and a glossy hardback entitled ‘Twenty minutes to save your life! A one-step guide by Dr Terence Duggan’. The young man in his electric blue suit looked at her with his hard-boiled blue eyes and held out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Dr Terence Duggan. You can call me Terry. And you are?’

‘Moira,’ the woman whispered. ‘Moira McMullen.’ Brushing his palm with her fingers, Moira felt a faint tingle of physical attraction.

‘OK Moira. It works like this,’ he began. ‘Most psychotherapy, counselling, coaching – whatever you want to call it – is a complete waste of time. A long drawn out, expensive waste of time. You talk, they listen, you talk some more, they listen some more, and so it goes on. They won’t say anything – being “non-directive” is what it’s called – because they’re terrified to admit that everything comes down to you, and you alone. Then, when you’ve been milked of enough money, it ends. Either you’ve got better on your own anyway or headed off in search of another rip-off merchant. 

‘Well, I don’t do that. Instead, you tell me what your problem is and I’ll tell you straight up what I think. You’ll leave with a handful of hard, crisp portable takeaways. The rest is up to you. It’s new model counselling: a fast one-stop, one-step process. And with all the stress nowadays there’s a market crying out for it. People like the low cost, the anonymity and the instant feedback. 

‘It’s like speed-dating. No messing about. People don’t have time today to lie on couches endlessly drivelling about dreams and old hurts.  Who cares if Daddy and Mummy didn’t love you? Get over it! The problems are here and now, in the present not the past. Most problems in people’s lives are rooted in poor life management skills and bad strategic decisions. I look at things straight and flat and iron them out. It actually helps not to get too close to the client. You can get to grips with the main contours more quickly.’ he said, eyeing Moira’s hefty haunches somewhat uneasily. 

‘It’s like everything today,’ he continued, ‘instant communication everywhere all the time– surface, surface, surface, flick, flick, flick, fast, fast, fast. I’m in the business of democratising psychiatry. Like the internet did with knowledge. And, come to think of it, I’ll be doing it over the internet soon – twenty minute counselling courtesy of Skype.’  The little man leapt out of his chair and began to prance, Cruise-wise, round his one-room office.

‘But I’m getting carried away. So, Moira, are you up for it?’

Moira hesitated. ‘I don’t really know. How much does it cost? Things are rather tight now, to be honest.’

‘£75 for the one session. And it will be just the one session that I promise you. I make it a rule never to see the same client twice,’ snapped Dr Duggan.

Moira thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. Dr Duggan at once pressed a switch on the clock. ‘OK, you’re on. Your twenty minutes start now. So what’s the problem?’ 

Moira looked round the room with wide frightened eyes and opened her mouth but nothing came out. Then words began to spill out in an uncontrollable torrent. ‘It all started when I left university four years ago. I read Physics with Chemistry.’

Dr Duggan circled his hand in an impatient, get-on-with-it motion.

‘My job’s devising and testing new lines at the food processing company down the road. It’s supposed to be creative but it’s horrible. I hate it! Everything has to be a variant on what’s gone before, using a fixed set of materials. And the pressure for results and cut costs down is terrible.’ Moira began to sob, fat tears trickling down her plump cheeks. ‘I just can’t seem to come up with what they’re looking for,’ she wailed. ‘My boss – the Dragon Lady I call her – hates my guts. I know she’s just looking for the chance to get rid of me.’ 

‘And work apart?’ 

‘A nightmare. I’m a single mum with two young children. My ex walked out on me a year ago, leaving me without a penny to bring them up on my own. On the pittance I earn it’s a real struggle. He said I was fat, repulsive, a slob. And he was right! Since then I’ve got even fatter. Comfort eating, I guess. Can’t seem to be able to stop myself. I’ve got no energy, can’t sleep, worry about money all the time. After work I just slump in front of the box gorging away.’

Dr Duggan interrupted. ‘Isn’t there anything positive in your life?’

Moira thought. ‘Well, the children obviously. That goes without saying. And food – not just mean eating but coming up with new ideas and recipes …’ 

Duggan held up his hand to stop her. ‘OK, half-time. Now it’s my turn. You’ve got to snap out of your self-destructive cycle. Only you can do it. So, stop snivelling and feeling sorry for yourself. For starters I want you to look in the mirror every morning, pull your shoulders back, take a deep breath and say, I’m a winner. Repeat that at least twenty times. Then work from the outside in. Start by losing some weight.’ He peered at her. ‘How much do you weigh exactly?’

‘Eighteen stone,’ Moira lied (actually the figure was far higher). 

‘Well, you look absolutely appalling. You’re what I call a “mattress woman”. They’re everywhere nowadays, women as broad as they’re long, blocking the supermarket aisles. And one glance at what’s in their trolleys shows how they got that way. They must have concrete reinforced loos in their bathrooms. So no more cakes and chocolates. Exercise. And try to make yourself more presentable. Get some new clothes. It’ll make you feel better inside. 

‘As to work, it’s no use sitting around on your backside waiting for others to do things for you or, worse still, to you. In today’s competitive work environment that’s like being a sitting duck with a target pinned to its arse. Try to climb the ladder, work round your bitch of a boss or, better still, get her job. Always keep moving, don’t give people time to get you fixed in the cross-hairs of their sights. Be flexible, agile, make sure your turning circle is as tight and fast as possible. Always have a goal. Focus on what’s really special for you and in you and keep it in front of your eyes all the time. Pitch your tent on the steepest learning curve you can find and climb up from there. Aim as high as you can. Become a brand, then get out there and sell it to the world. Brace yourself to fail. Failure isn’t an option, some say, but they’re dead wrong. It’s a necessity, a training exercise, an opportunity to learn.’ 

Was this guy for real? Moira wondered. Some kind of sick sadist who derived enjoyment from being offensive and hurtful? Or was it no more than a tactic: cruel to be kind – the electric shock, the slap of freezing water, the surgeon’s scalpel that cuts in order to cure. Well, she certainly needed some sort of wake-up call.

‘But don’t hang about,’ Terry continued. ‘Remember: that target’s still pinned to your arse. It won’t be easy, it won’t happen overnight. But if you keep at it, it will happen. That I can promise you.’

The clock on the desk pinged discreetly. ‘Well, that’s it, Moira. Time’s up. Good luck. Now as to payment I can take a credit card or a cheque if you’re old school.’

Dr Duggan was as good as his word. It was just the one session. Moira never went back and never saw Terry again, though she often thought about him.

                                                      *

So she plunged into her make-over. It seemed totally impossible at first like trying to push an Aga oven up a cliff face. However Moira let a kind of grimly determined blankness take possession of her and pressed on. I will survive, she told herself, one step at a time, baby steps for now. But keep going, at all costs keep going. She dutifully repeated Dr Duggan’s mantra into the mirror every morning, adding others of her own: the fat must go, the fat will go. 

She imposed a strict diet on herself, despite the terrible hunger pangs it initially inflicted. Ravenous spectres rose from the pit of belly to tempt her day and night with fantasies of food: huge bowls of cornflakes laced with syrup and double cream, moistly rich fruit cakes, toppling towers of Hobnobs, whole Fort Knoxs of ingot-sized chocolate bars, doorsteps of Cheddar cheese, eclairs obscenely bulging with cream, regiments of baked potatoes toasting cosily in their crisp brown jackets, thick bacon sandwiches their soft white bread dripping with fat, rustling screes of crisps, avalanches of chips, deep-fried and golden brown…

To distract herself Moira made herself walk, each walk a bit longer than the last, then – a wobbling jelly of self-consciousness – began some timorous, tentative jogging, stopping every few yards to gulp in air but always gradually pushing out the distance. Never do less, she puffed, never go back, never do less than last time. Encouragingly, the outer layers of flubber slithered off quite spectacularly at first. Reluctant to accept the improvement in case she jinxed it, she nevertheless followed Dr Duggan’s advice and treated herself to some new outfits. Then inexplicably she hit a wall, her body sullenly refusing to shed even a single pound. 

All the same Moira pressed on. Stick with the programme, no going back, no yoyo-ing she told herself, and to her relief the fat belatedly resumed its roll-off. A few months later she plucked up enough courage to go to the local swimming baths. Feeling like a female Moby Dick in her tight new swimming costume, she slipped hesitantly into the pool and experimented with a few lengths and found to her surprise not only that she could manage them but positively enjoyed herself as she splashed around. The fat actually seemed to help her float more easily. Next, she enrolled in a gym where the instructor tortured her with a terrible battery of machines and weights. But it worked. A new hard Moira began to emerge slowly from her suet-y chrysalis.

Months passed, a year, then more a year, during the course of which her children eyed her metamorphosis with uneasy fascination. As Moira slimmed, her spirits rose, and the first sprigs of ambition sprouted. At home she began to experiment with a range of new recipes. Then a light came on in her brain: the Great British Bake-Offs. Why not? Aim high Dr Duggan had said. 

Moira duly checked out the Bake-Off website, read the instructions carefully and applied online, fully expecting to be turned down. But a couple of weeks later a letter plopped through her letterbox inviting her to a preliminary interview at the television offices in London. Trembling with nerves, she braced herself and tottered along to suffer scrutiny. But her fears proved groundless. The interview went well enough for her to be asked to do an audition involving skills tests and the presentation of some of her own dishes. That too went well, and in what seemed next to no time Moira found herself standing in the ‘Big Tent’ alongside eleven other contestants being introduced to the celebrity judges.

The production team did its best to allay the contestants’ fears. They’d soon forget about the lights and cameras when they got cooking, they said. It was all a bit of fun. They should just relax and enjoy it. No-one believed them for a single second. This was a gladiatorial battle fought to the grim death (well, instant media oblivion) under the glare of millions of unseen but watchful eyes – all in pursuit of that glittering prize: national fame and its cornucopia of opportunities it carried with it. Several of the contestants were so overwhelmed with nervous excitement – Moira included – that they had to trot repeatedly to the sani-loos strategically positioned right next to the Big Tent. I can still walk out, the tempter inside Moira whispered. But Moira dug her heels in. I’m a winner, I’m the winner shetold herself.

Over succeeding days round after round was recorded – kicking off with the Signature Bakes and progressing through the hurdles of the Technical Bakes. Weeded out, contestants fell one by one dejectedly by the wayside. Moira, however, hung in there – despite a soufflé that stubbornly refused to rise and a disobliging panna cotta that would not wobble to the touch. Finally the contestants were whittled down to three, all of them braced for the main event: the mighty Showstopper Bake. 

Moira had created what she called her ‘Chocolate Vesuvius’, a tall cake in the shape of a mountain crammed with figs and raisins and coated with marzipan and dark chocolate. Its lower slopes dusted with green sugar to simulate vegetation, were circled by a bay of azure-tinted curds rippling with wavelets of piped cream. Tiny villas, complete with pillars and courtyards of salted almond biscuit, dotted the shoreline next to miniature vineyards complete with miniscule globes of real fruit juice. Inside the cake was liquid chocolate, and a tube containing compressed CO_2. When Moira clicked a control in her hand, the gas was fired into the middle of the cake releasing a swirling shower of crumbled white chocolate and speckles of cinnamon – the rocks and ‘pumice’ ejected from the ‘volcano’. Another click triggered an eruption of molten chocolate out of the top of the ‘cone’ which tore down the slope and drowned the tiny ornaments below in a sweet brown ‘pyroclastic flow’.

When the chocolate spurted from the mountain, the judges emitted a collective ‘Wow!’ ‘It’s a work of art!’ one gasped, ‘a masterpiece!’ Greedily, they dug their spoons in. ‘Perhaps you should call it sudden death by chocolate,’ another commented. ‘To be frank, it’s in absolutely appalling taste – but it tastes appallingly wonderful. It’s an ancient Roman spectacle – an ancient Roman triumph!’ 

Moira was miles in front of the other competitors, no question about it. And when the finalists and judges had trooped out of the Big Tent to face the crowd of friends and relatives, Moira’s two excited if somewhat bewildered children among them, she was duly acclaimed as the Winner of this season’s Great British Bake-Off. A round of victory interviews followed, with Moira doing her level best to creep out of her shy little shell and shine in the unaccustomed limelight.  

She returned to work, a creature transformed, a TV star. Her superiors threw a party to mark her victory, the sniping stopped altogether, she was given a raise and as much scope as she wanted to develop dishes. Offers also flooded in from other companies, but Moira had her own plans. While not deviating an inch from her diet and exercises she experimented tirelessly to develop a range of speciality dishes and themed desserts. Next, she mocked up some trial packaging, taking advantage of some guidance from a contact in the firm’s marketing department. It was time, she decided, for the next leap forward. Time for Dragons Den.

There they were, all the judges sat in a row, two men and two women – all of them staring at her, their eyes twinkling with amused scepticism. Moira, now down to a trim nine stone, threw back her shoulders, took a deep breath and looked them in the face one by one. You’re a winner, you’re a winner she told herself. 

Moira explained to the panel that she was seeking a capital investment of £50,000 in return for 5% of equity in order to manufacture and market a range of speciality dishes, especially celebration cakes and puddings for the child celebration market. Among the pudding samples arrayed on her display table were a Chocolate Volcano (a simplified version of the Chocolate Vesuvius), a Vampire Castle, a Big City Railway Station, an Alien Planet and a Pirate Island. Behind them were ranked the more adult specialities.

The presentation started well. The judges enjoyed the theatre of the exploding volcano and eagerly consumed the samples she passed round. Peter Jones even demanded seconds. It’s hard to go wrong with food, Moira decided. The judges recognised the products’ potential to children. Moira had decided well in advance to be completely open about her lack of expertise in marketing and distribution, something the judges appreciated. They – and especially the two female judges – also liked the fact that she was a woman trying to make her mark on her own. And it went without saying that her previous triumph in the Bake-Offs impressed them. TV loves to feed on TV. One of the women judges looked at her with a kindly smile. ‘You know, I like you. You’re really very credible.’

‘I was hoping you’d found me incredible,’ joked Moira – which got a light laugh.

One of the male judges broke in. ‘You’ve lost weight since the Bake-Offs, haven’t you?’ he said, then added, hurling himself headlong into political incorrectness. ‘You were a bit of a porker then. What’s your secret?’

‘No secret,’ Moira replied. ‘It’s all about persistence, not giving up. If I can do it, anyone can do it.’ She went on to tell them about her life and trials: how her louse of an ex had walked out on her, the struggle to bring up her children, her battles with her weight, her impossible job and awful colleagues (to hell with the law of slander!). But as she was speaking, she unexpectedly found herself tearing up. The judges sympathetically told her to take as much time as she needed. 

‘Focus on the face,’ murmured the producer in his booth. ‘Great emotion, great television.’

‘What about your long-term goals?’ asked the other woman judge. Moira outlined her plans to further extend her range of speciality dishes. ‘And beyond that I’m also thinking about developing health and diet products.’

‘So you’ll win both ways,’ scoffed the first male judge. ‘You make money making people fat then more money making them thin. And won’t that just encourage yoyo-ing?’ ‘No, that’s not the idea at all,’ said Moira placidly. ‘They’re two different things. I’m aiming to promote a healthily sustainable lifestyle but one lightened and lifted by the odd gorgeous treat.’

‘Any ideas about going vegan?’ asked one of the female judges.

‘I’m certainly open to it,’ Moira replied. ‘It’s a growing market I’d like to tap into in due course.’

‘£50,000 for 5% equity means you’re valuing your company at £1,000,000. That seems unrealistically high to me,’ said the second male judge. He was also worried that she’d underestimated the amount of start-up capital she’d need to market her products. ‘And you’re entering a very crowded market, one with very low entry barriers.’

‘I think you set the entry barriers through your own inventiveness and professionalism,’ Moira replied.

‘That’s a neat answer,’ the judge replied. ‘But unfortunately I’m not sure it’s always true.’

‘And where’s the intellectual property in all of this?’ snapped the first male judge, fixing her with a steely glare. ‘What’s to stop me making all these cakes and puddings?’

‘You’re very welcome to try,’ Moira replied – which got another laugh.

One of the women offered her all the money in return for a bigger chunk of equity but Moira, certain of the long-term value of her proposition, refused. Tempted, the other judges wavered and seemed almost on the verge of making offers but finally backed out. The hurdles, they explained, were just too high, her business experience too limited and the products just not unique enough. One by one, very reluctantly and sadly, they declared they were ‘out’.

Moira left, half disappointed, half determined to bounce back and show them. The next morning she went into work and resigned. She knew her colleagues wouldn’t want anything to do with her once the programme was screened and they heard what she’d said about them. After that she sat around at home. After all her efforts it was a low moment. So this was what her makeover and all her grand ambitions had come to! She wondered what smart Dr Duggan would advise now. But at least she still had her little darlings. 

Then, out of the blue a few days later, an investor, a woman business angel who described herself as ‘a recovered anorectic’, contacted her. She’d seen Moira on both the Bake-Offs and Dragons Den, had been impressed and was prepared to back her. They met, talked, agreed, and signed a contract. 

From that moment on it was all onwards and upwards. As the years rolled by, Moira rolled out her puddings and specialities, a line of high-end delicatessens and artisan bakeries, followed by a range of diet products and health food stores, then home exercise regimes, videos, gym clubs, health farms and spas. And finally to top it all off she launched her World Indulgence Cruises and Lose Weight Cruises. Moira had indeed become a brand, her empire MMM based on the three m’s of her name, as was her logo: Mmm – the Taste of Indulgence. From time to time, though, doubts crept in: had Jones been right? Was she simply stirring up abstinence and glut in the same mixing bowl? Then one morning another light came on in her brain …

                                                            *

The man with the huge mop of rusty grey hair and the torn mac wandered through the shopping centre, ignoring the hostile glances he attracted. He’d had quite a good morning. Enough for a helping of kebabs and some booze. He cautiously fingered the two bottles – sweet sherry and cheap whisky – weighing down the pockets of his mac, letting his fingers run over their reassuringly heavy rotundity. Out of habit, though this morning not of necessity, he worked through the concrete bins dotting the centre, swivelling his bulky body this way and that as he fished through them

Something caught his eye: a bright red neon sign flashing insistently, almost insolently, from an office window. ‘Take time out to maximise your potential. Step into our ground-breaking counselling clinic and take advantage of your free personally tailored introductory hour.’ Tossing back his rusty mane, the man sniggered, ‘Well, why not?’ and thrust through the door.

Sat behind a desk was a pleasantly plump middle-aged woman with auburn hair. She looked up and eyed him dubiously. ‘Sorry, both the qualified counsellors are out to lunch at the moment. They’ll be back very shortly. I’m the owner. Just dropped in to check some accounts.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure you’re in the right place? There’s a Salvation Army hostel at the edge of town, you know. Maybe you could try there …’

The man laughed. ‘Out of my area, am I? Actually I used to be in this game myself. Long ago and in another life-time. “Twenty minutes to change your life. The shiny new model of therapy”. What a joke that turned out to be! But you seem to be making a go of it. Good for you. I didn’t. The clients hated me. Too full of myself, I suppose. The business went down the plughole. Then the old, old story: drink, drugs, the wife left me, I lost my house and ended up on the street. So that’s me now, a real sight, aren’t I? You’d expect a tramp like me to be thin, but what with all the booze and junk food and lying about on park benches I’ve really porked out. Comfort eating, I guess.’

Suddenly he stared at the woman. ‘Hold on, I know you. Weren’t you the fatty from the food factory. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. ‘And didn’t I read about you somewhere: the Bake-Off lady who went on Dragons Den? Cakes, wasn’t it? Well, you’ve come a long way, baby. Maybe I should get some credit. After all it was me that got you started, wasn’t it? So now you’re in the counselling racket too. Well do tell, how’s it all working out? Everything coming up roses, is it? All your inner potential truly fulfilled?’

Moira looked at him trying to excavate from the shambling ruin confronting her the handsome young man she’d preserved in her memories. A strange sudden impulse took hold of her. Why not level with him? They say the truth sets you free. And what harm could it do? Who could he tell? It’d be like whispering secrets into the wind. He was nobody, a transient. Sooner or later he’d hit another town. And from the look of him he wasn’t going to last forever either, poor thing. 

‘I’m certainly a lot more secure financially,’ she began, hedging somewhat, then added, ‘Inside, well, I’m not so sure. Still not quite there, if I’m absolutely honest. You know, the loneliness of command and all that.’

‘So no-one to share the fruits of your success then?’

Moira blushed ‘Oh, there’s quite a queue of candidates, I can assure you. I guess the new model well-off me is something of a catch. But I’ve had it up to here with the smoothies, the spongers and wannabees. I need someone who knows what I’ve been through.’

‘But you’ve got kids, haven’t you? Two, wasn’t it? How’re they getting on?’

‘Well, they want for nothing now: clothes, holidays, private schools – only the best and the most expensive. Except that I don’t seem to know them anymore.’ Moira looked as if she was about to cry. ‘Deep-down, they don’t seem really happy. They keep asking for their old mum back.’ 

‘Sorry about that. So maybe I didn’t help you all that much then. 

‘Oh but you did. Just not enough. Not deeply enough. You armour-plated me but left me empty inside.’ She stopped and laughed nervously. ‘You know, I can’t believe I’m telling you all this! Anyway, you shouldn’t be so down on yourself. You had an idea: walk-in counselling. Maybe wasn’t the whole of the moon but there was something there. But you were too harsh and brusque. And what’s wrong with being a bit on the chubby side anyway? A lot of men like it. It isn’t all about surface. Appearances aren’t everything. You’ve got to listen – really listen – and give people space and time to grow. It’s a cliché but let them feel the love – or at least a tiny piece of it. That’s what I try to do here: be kind and patient without ever losing sight of the bottom-line – the outcome.’

‘Very neat! So what can you offer me? God knows, I need something.’

‘I could let you have some money if you want.’

‘That’d be welcome, but it’s not what I meant.’

‘You mean advice?’

‘Yes, if you’ve got any.’

A mischievous smile passed over Moira’s face. ‘OK, let’s see. You’ve got to snap out of the self-destructive cycle you’re trapped in. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Exercise and lose some weight. Cut out the booze, the burgers and the KFC. And smarten yourself up. It’ll make you feel better inside. Focus on what’s special for you and go for it. It won’t happen overnight but if you keep at it, it will happen. That I promise you.’

Terry looked hurt. ‘You’re just taking the piss, aren’t you? Having a laugh. Throwing my own words back in my face.’

‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend. It was just my little joke. All the same, you need to do those things. But there’s more. You – we – need to do some digging if you’re to get straight. And, who knows, if you succeed, I might even find an opening for you here.’

‘An opening? You mean as a counsellor? Some kind of business partner?’

 ‘Oh, much better than that. I might even marry you.’ 

Terry stood in front of Moira, stunned. Then his body began to heave and tears to trickle down his rough wind-kissed cheeks.

‘OK,’ he eventually whispered, ‘you’re on.’