Simon Ashcroft was just finishing off his second pork chop when his finger, almost of its own accord, scrolled through his phone. In his social feed, a black-and-white photo caught his eye. A group of young women from the 1980s laughing, slender, all short skirts and big hair. The caption underneath read: I remember when girls ate whatever they fancied and laughed without a care in the world. No one counted calories back then. Girls were beautiful and genuine. They were slim, but not because of diets. Where did they all go?
Simon paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Just below it, some so-called expert had chimed in nastily: Those nymphs all became chunky aunties because they didnt care to swap out the mayo for avocado and stick to their five a day.
Simons gaze shifted to Gillian, then to her faded old dressing gown, then back to his phone. He glanced across the small dining room at the wedding photo behind glass in the sideboard. Back then, Gill had been just like those girls graceful and dazzling, bright-eyed with a swanlike neck.
Gill, Simon started carefully, do you remember what you were like back in 90?
I do, Si, she answered, not turning around, I had no idea Id end up frying up forty schnitzels to feed this mob of yours. Want some more?
Simon sighed. An odd, stinging feeling welled up inside him. All he could see was her soft middle and worn-down slippers. His own growing paunch and the hint of baldness? That didnt trouble him at all men ageing was simply like the change of seasons, but women letting themselves go? That, he thought, was just lazy.
Over the next few days, Simon couldnt help but notice other women. In the Tube, he saw trim women his age, all smart coats and confident walks. At work, he spotted incredible Angela from next door single, impeccably put together, like something out of an architectural drawing. Her tailored suits were razor-sharp, her perfume expensive and cool, citrusy. Simon began holding doors, dropping comments about her amazing figure. Angela, for her part, took the hint shed smooth her perfect hair and mention how discipline kept her looking thirty at almost fifty. By Friday, a bouquet of scarlet roses sealed that mutual admiration.
Im leaving, Gill, he announced that evening with a shaky sort of pride, as she served up cottage pie.
Gillian froze, ladle in hand. Where to, Si? We havent even eaten yet.
Im leaving you, he repeated, as if she was the slow one.
Alright, she shrugged, scraping his portion back into the dish. Pick up a loaf and a pint of milk on your way back, then. I forgot.
I mean Im properly leaving! For good! Youve really let yourself go, Gill. You dont care about yourself anymore. Youre just a woman in a dressing gown. I want to be with someone who respects herself.
Gillian lowered the ladle slowly. She didnt shout, or faint. Instead, she just looked at him, as though needing a moment to take it in.
So, youre not fixing the bathroom tap, then? she clarified. Youre leaving right now? Careful, its icy your soles are worn thin.
Simon didnt answer. He grabbed his suitcase, pre-packed by the spare bed, and marched out into the twilight, off to a new, flawless life.
Left alone, Gillian was surprised at how calm she felt. She wandered into the bathroom, dropped the dressing gown and surveyed herself in the mirror.
Yeah, bit of a belly, she said, patting her side. But its not a crisis. At least everythings still where it should be. Bit of grey? Thats nothing a box of dye cant sort. Haircuts due, thats all. Face? Some crows feet, but I suppose Ive laughed more than most these thirty years.
She sat back down and finished the cottage pie. If he really doesnt come back tonight Gillians face suddenly lit up with an excitement she never wouldve expected, that means I dont have to make stew tomorrow. Or the next day. Or, honestly, bother cooking at all! Good grief, thats hours and hours freed up!
Only now did she realise her life had revolved around the kitchen for nearly three decades. Suddenly, she was free.
Meanwhile, Simon was moving in with Angela. Hell began promptly the next morning, at 5am.
Up you get, Simon, Angela barked, looming over him in neon running gear. Weve got a run through Hampstead Heath. Got to clear that city smog from our lungs.
Afterwards, Simon stumbled into her gleaming kitchen, starving. Angela placed a greyish bowl in front of him.
Thats sprouted buckwheat with chia and almond milk.
Simon tasted it and asked for sugar.
Sugars poison.
He tried, A bit of salt?
Salts white death. Eat up, darling, it gives you energy.
To Simon, the energy tasted of damp cardboard. He choked down a spoonful, dreaming of steaming mash with butter.
At work, Angela packed him containers of steamed broccoli and celery. He felt embarrassed just opening them in the office at lunchtime. The place reeked of roast chicken and homecooked fishcakes, and it drove Simon halfway mad. Evenings brought yoga and pilates.
Point your toes, Simon! Youre getting lymph build-up in your groin! Angela commanded as he creaked into happy baby pose, feeling every joint protest.
After two weeks, he began to dream about steak and kidney puddings. His life turned into guerrilla warfare: on the way home, hed sneak off to a chubby-cheeked lady at the pie shop, hands shaking, and buy a proper Cornish pasty. Hed devour it on the spot, hot grease blessing his chin a taste of salvation. Then he chewed extra-strong mints so Angela wouldnt detect food rubbish on his breath and headed home for herbal tea.
One morning, while Angela swanned off on some silent yoga retreat for aligning the gut microbiome, Simon steeled himself to run his scheduled 5k in the park. It was cold, misty, the jogging paths half-deserted, and everyone looked equally glum. Then he spotted a familiar figure on the path.
It was Gillian. Sporting a brand new tracksuit in blush pink, a sharp new bob, and her face actually looking quite fresh and bright. She strolled by with such ease that Simon suddenly realised: she wasnt fat at all. She was, well, sturdy. Cosy, sweet, real. No makeup, no fuss.
Gill! he shouted, rushing up. Gill, wait up!
She turned calmly to look at him.
Oh, Si. Running as well now? Never pictured you the sporty type.
Gill, Im an idiot! he confessed, breathless, right there among the dog-walkers. I messed it up, I was wrong. I want to come home, if youll have me. Im so sorry.
Gillian agreed suspiciously quickly. Alright, come back then, Si. Im not angry.
Simon practically floated as he dashed to collect his things, imagining the moment hed walk through their door and be greeted by the smell of proper mashed potatoes and Sunday roast.
When he arrived, Gillian met him at the door, eyeing his worn face.
You look terrible, Si. Pale as skimmed milk. But never mind, a week of decent meals and youll be right as rain.
Simon nearly cried with relief. He dropped his suitcase and ran to the fridge then stopped short.
Instead of a pan of stew, the shelves boasted neat rows of jars, greens, and something suspiciously bright. The fridge gleamed with the same cold order as Angelas.
Whats this? he whispered.
Oh, let me tell you! Gillian beamed, fetching a bunch of coriander. I had plenty of time to think, and Ive worked out why our lives went off track: we were energetically toxic! Im on a quantum cleansing diet now. Had to quit heavy food to forgive you and clear my aura. Im eating raw, in line with the lunar cycle, and its honestly fabulous.
Simon stared at the salad she started making.
Gill What about, um, beef burgers? he ventured weakly.
Burgers are low energy stuff, Si. Anger and aggression. Were above that now. Wash your hands, and properly please, dirty hands interrupt the subtle flow.
Simon trudged to the bathroom. The mirror reflected someone hollow-eyed and hungry. He turned the tap full blast and stared at a bar of old-fashioned soap for a minute.
Over the rush of water, nobody heard him open the front door. Simon took the stairs two at a time, suitcase abandoned. He didnt need the extra weight for this final sprint.
He raced for the Tube, for his salvation in the form of a hot pie from that blessed shop. In Simons famished imagination, the rosy-cheeked pie lady in her spotless apron was now nothing less than a household goddess the patron saint of everything normal, sinful, and glorious about real English life, where there was no place for quantum karma or chia seeds.
