eleven

Over the next few days, I summoned up the strength to put my good resolutions into practice.

“Just saying the word ‘diet’ makes one put on weight,” Claude had warned me. “You need to learn to find pleasure elsewhere.”

That was a good one. As if anyone had ever found pleasure in steamed broccoli or broiled fish!

“Think about spices, Camille.”

Why not, after all? What had I got to lose? (Apart from a few pounds . . . ) So I raided the local supermarket and came back with an armful of spices that would add flavor and, I hoped, raise the troops’ morale. Garlic, coriander, turmeric, paprika, curry powder, garam masala. And gray, black, and white pepper: I didn’t care what color it was, provided the taste was intoxicating. The enemy was tastelessness.

In the cold war of hot food, I learned how to use the secret weapons of healthy eating. The trick of using fat-free yogurt; the heroic part white meats could play in my special dishes.

Low fat, that was the challenge, because there were enemies lurking in every dark corner of the cupboard: cans of Pringles and shortbread cookies lying in ambush, waiting slyly for their moment of glory.

Their greatest ally? My own son! There was no way I could sacrifice his appetite on the altar of my good intentions. So I had to suffer and carry on buying all those forbidden fruits that he wolfed down so innocently in front of me, while I stoically ate an apple.

But the worst hour of the day was not his snack time. No, that came at nightfall, when the call of the wine rack became pressing, even irresistible. The danger of a calorie bomb attack was at its height. Temptations rained down on me, threatening to destroy all my best intentions. And what about the Macaroni Syndrome? It was as perverse as its cousin from Stockholm, leading me to sympathize with the enemy, to do a deal with my conscience: just a tiny spoonful to finish up my boy’s plate . . .

Even so, my bravery paid off. In a few days I could already see some real improvements. Encouraged by these early victories, I held fast, silently muttering to myself the hymn of the slimming experts to the glory of lower fat, less sugar, reduced salt . . .

Alas, hardly had the trumpets of victory begun to sound than an enemy I had underestimated mounted a counterattack: boredom.

In the office, we were going through a lean patch, and my boss preferred to give what work there was to my full-time colleagues. Each hour seemed like 360 minutes, maybe even 500. Sometimes 1,000. I could hardly wait for the four o’clock break. In other words, I was stagnating.

It was then of course that the idea of surrendering raised its pointy little head. What if I forgot my diet just this once? Just for today? Who would ever know?

I went down to the vending machine, that little shop of calorific horrors. Just a tiny bar of something . . . After all, where was the harm? I was just about to slip a coin into the slot when my mobile began to vibrate. It was a text message from Claude. How was it possible? Did he have a sixth sense or something? I cursed him under my breath.

How are things? Are you bearing up?

I replied with a casual lie:

Of course. Fab. Have a good afternoon. Cam.

He’ll never know, he’ll never know, I kept telling myself as I turned back to the machine, money in hand. But it was too late. I could feel Claude’s presence all around me, as if his eyes were prying into everything. Big Brother is watching you! I was living the diet version of 1984.

Thwarted, with one last sad glance at the machine, I dragged my feet back to my desk. I opened my drawer, where a packet of almonds awaited me. I allowed myself five, plus an apple. Bingeing like an ant.

Then suddenly a sense of revolt surged within me. His advice about “health and well-being” was starting to get on my nerves. Nothing but the worst hypocrisy.

Take the stairs instead of the elevator, go out for a walk at lunchtime, blah. You can also firm your buttocks sitting down: you simply have to clench and then relax them discreetly, blah blah. Bored waiting for the Métro? Stand on tiptoe, then lower your heels down again! As for your abs, why not pull your stomach in whenever you pass a door, blah blah blah? Easy-peasy. Yada yada yada . . .

Yes, I know. Doubtless I’d reached the resistance stage. But who wouldn’t feel rebellious at the idea of giving up all those sweet temptations paraded in front of us all the time? Nonetheless, I needed to take care if I didn’t want to feel like a hopeless failure when it came to filling in my “Promises Notebook”: another of Claude’s ideas to make me more committed to my resolutions and avoid any backsliding. For every promise I made myself, he told me I had to tick the box “kept” or “not kept.” And there was no way I was going to see him in a few days’ time with a long list of “not kept”s in the book.

I was thinking about all this when my dear colleague Franck (in reality, my office enemy number one) called out, “Are you OK, Camille? You’ve got a very strange look on your face.”

“Oh, yes, everything’s fine . . . I’m trying to concentrate, that’s all.”

“Ah, it’s just that you look as if you’re about to lay an egg.”

Ha-ha. Very funny.

There was no way I was going to tell him I was clenching my buttocks. He never missed an opportunity to bait me anyway.

“Talking of eggs, take a look at the top of your head.”

Take that! One all, Baldy. From the way his cheeks flushed, I could tell I’d hit home. I wasn’t very proud of myself, but he shouldn’t have started it. He was forever going at me, and I always dreaded his jibes. I would have to talk to Claude about it.

As if there were some telepathic link between us, at that very moment I got a chat request on my computer.

—Well, Camille, how’s your “mind over body” exercise going?

—Not bad . . . Sometimes it’s hard to resist temptation though.

—But you have?

—Yes.

—Good! Don’t forget to write that down in your Positive Notebook. Have I mentioned that to you already?

—No, not yet . . .

—Ah, it’s very important. Buy a small address book and jot down in alphabetical order all your triumphs, big and small, and all the things that make you happy, big and small. Soon you’ll have a whole collection of positive anchoring. You’ll see; it’s excellent for your self-esteem and personal satisfaction.

—Interesting! OK, Claude, I’ll think about it.

I saw the little pencil icon wobbling, showing he was busy writing me a long reply. A ping told me he had finished:

—I’m counting on you to not simply pay lip service to this. Each resolution has to count. Many people know what they’re supposed to do to lead a happy life but never really put it into practice. It’s not always easy to keep one’s promises. Laziness, tiredness, discouragement are all enemies lying in wait. But keep going: it will be worth it!

I took his word for it.