When James left me, I cut my hair and changed my career.  Packing in my job was scary, but very liberating.  For the last ten years, the accounts department at the local council offices has been my security blanket – a rather dull one, admittedly, but secure nevertheless.  No one thought that reliable, old Maddy Knight would have the courage to quit.  Least of all me.
          I bought an ancient burger van off eBay, spent the weekend painting it a gorgeous shade of deep chocolate brown, called myself Chocoholics Anonymous and got a pitch at three different local markets.  I’ve wanted to do it for years, but we all get comfortable in our velvet-lined ruts, don’t we?  It takes some cataclysmic change in our circumstances to give us the courage to make that necessary move.  In my newly-painted eBay ex-burger van, I sell muffins, brownies, chocolate chip cookies – whatever takes my fancy, whatever chocolate delights I think will lure customers to my window.  I don’t expect that I’m going to earn enough to be able to retire early to the Bahamas, but it’s fair to say that business is booming.
            As you can see, I’m trying to move on.  I’m doing all the things that the broken-hearted are supposed to do in my situation.  It is, however, rather difficult when James is still living in the flat above me and I’m still in love with him. 
            Since James left me, I spend my long, lonely evenings melting, blending, baking, preparing my wares for the next day.  Opening my oven, I slide out a tray of chocolate muffins.  The decadent scent of baking chocolate fills my kitchen.  I close my eyes and inhale deeply.  Heavenly.  Aromas of vanilla and cocoa float on the air.  The muffins, rich and moist, spill temptingly over their paper cases making my mouth water.  
            As I’m taking my time selecting which muffin I should sample, my doorbell rings. 
            James is standing there.  ‘Hi,’ he says. 
His hair is ruffled, untidy and I long to smooth it down, feel its softness beneath my fingers once again.  ‘Hi.’
            My ex-boyfriend is uncomfortable.  We haven’t spoken to each other in weeks and he certainly hasn’t rung my doorbell since he told me that he wanted time to himself, to think about where he was going and what he wanted from life.  The subtext being that what he wanted from life clearly wasn’t me. 
            ‘I just thought I’d drop by to see how you are,’ James tells me.
            ‘Fine,’ I say with a carefree shrug.  I’m not.  I’m terrible.  I love him.  I miss him.  I will him to understand this without me saying it.  I want my pain to be conveyed through the ether to him.
            ‘Cool.’  He nods, thoughtfully.  Then a waft of the fresh-baked cakes drifts out of the door, like a curl of smoke from a genie’s bottle.  James sniffs the air.  ‘Wonderful,’ he says.  ‘What’s cooking?’
            ‘Oh.’  I wave a hand towards the kitchen.  ‘Chocolate muffins.  For my new business venture.’
            ‘I heard about that.’
            From one of our mutual friends, I presume.  Friends who are now having to consider which one of us they invite to dinner, to parties, to celebrations.
            ‘You can come in and have one if you like.’  I try not to sound too hopeful, but I know that James is a complete sucker for my baking.  Always was.  He can’t have changed that much in a few weeks.
            A smile flits across his face.  ‘Wow.  Chocolate muffins,’ he says with a wistful sigh.  ‘My favourites.’
            ‘Do you have time?’
            He checks his watch, but it’s an unconvincing gesture.  ‘Maybe I could just have one.’
            I go back inside and James follows me into the kitchen where he lurks just inside the doorway. 
            ‘Take your coat off,’ I instruct while I choose the fullest, tastiest-looking muffin and hand it to him.  ‘Do you want a coffee with it?’
            ‘Mmm,’ James murmurs as he bites into the muffin.  ‘Good grief, this is marvellous.’
            ‘Thanks.’  I put his coffee down on the table.  ‘Sit down.  If you’re not in a rush.’
            He lowers his long, rangy frame into the chair.  Maybe he’s thinner now that he’s living on take-away dinners for one rather than my home-cooked meals.
‘Another muffin?
            ‘Yes, please,’ James says and I know that I have him in my thrall once more. 

***

In my Chocoholics Anonymous van, I sell out of the chocolate muffins before the morning is over.  A big hit.  I must make more of them for next week.  My white chocolate éclairs have all gone too, plus the heart-shaped chocolate biscotti.  I can hardly keep pace with the demand for my chocolate banoffee pies.  If business carries on like this, then I’m going to have to draft in someone to help me with the baking. 
        It’s a bitterly cold day and sales of my hot chocolate with a hint of chilli and a generous topping of whipped cream are brisk.  Builders are renovating an old house at the end of the street, turning it into exclusive offices.  They’re among my most dedicated customers, coming for an order two or three times a day.  Today, they’ve completely cleaned me out of chewy chocolate and nut cookies.  I’ll have to up my output.  Though I’ve got a warm glow inside me, I rub my hands together to keep them warm.

***

The next night, James rings my doorbell once more.  ‘Boy, they smell good.’
            His gaze is falling on the kitchen door.
            ‘Marbled brownies,’ I say as I lean casually on the door frame.  ‘Cream cheese swirled through a dark chocolate sponge.  I’ve just this minute lifted them out of the oven.’ 
            ‘Oh,’ he breathes.
            ‘Want some?’
            James is unwinding his scarf before he’s even come through the front door.  My kitchen is already laden with cakes, cookies and biscuits ready for the next day. 
            James is on his second coffee and his third brownie when he says, ‘There was something I meant to tell you yesterday.’  He tentatively picks the last remaining chocolate crumbs from his plate.  ‘I’m seeing someone else.’
            The fork that I’m holding clatters to the floor and I fumble with picking it up. 
            ‘I thought I’d better let you know,’ James continues, looking slightly abashed.  ‘I wouldn’t want you to bump into Claire on the stairs and it be, well, embarrassing for you.’
            ‘No.  No.’  I shake my head.  ‘We wouldn’t want that.’
            James looks relieved.  ‘She’s lovely,’ he tells me as if I would be pleased for him.  ‘But I’ll never find anyone who bakes like you do, Maddy.’
            ‘Another brownie? I say. 

***

I see Claire on the stairs a few days later.  I’m taking boxes of cappuccino cheesecake down to the cool boxes in the Chocoholics Anonymous van ready for tomorrow when she’s making her way up to James’s apartment.  She smiles uncertainly at me, as well she might.  Clearly James has told her about the ex-girlfriend who lives downstairs. 
        I wonder has he also told her that he’s now popping into my place every night to taste my chocolate cakes.  He’s give up his regular evening run to make time to visit me, so I make sure that he isn’t disappointed.  On Tuesday it was chocolate cheesecake with salted caramel topping; Wednesday was honey and milk chocolate heart biscuits; Thursday was chocolate-coated flapjack.  Tonight James had four slices of chocolate rocky road.  He comes to me on his way home from work, stays for an hour, eats all the cakes I give him and then rushes off to be with her.
Claire is blonde, pretty, slender.  My love’s new girlfriend looks like she spends a lot of time in the gym and as if chocolate never passes her rosebud lips. She looks like she exists solely on lollo rosso, rocket and watercress. 
            ‘Hello,’ she says, shyly.
            ‘Hi,’ I reply.  ‘I’m James’s neighbour, Maddy.’
            ‘He’s told me a lot about you.’
            I wonder if he’s told her that she fails to live up to my standards in the baking department?  I wonder what else I do better than her and what she does better than me. 

***

Labenham has an old-fashioned high street, spoiled only by the rash of charity shops, estate agents and banks.  The market is thriving as it’s home to an organic butcher and a man who comes with freshly-baked bread and home-made pickles.  The elderly ladies who frequent the market love my spicy, white hot chocolate flavoured with cardamom – a dusting of cocoa powder sifted on the top.  They crowd round my Chocoholics Anonymous van and chatter about their grandchildren and buy giant chocolate cookies with Smarties on the top to takeaway for them. 
            ‘We wish you were here every market day, Maddy,’ they chorus as they leave.
Smiling to myself, I think I might look on eBay tonight – when James eaten his fill of my cakes and has gone to be with Claire – to see if I can find another dilapidated vehicle to do up.  I’d need another assistant to man that van, but we could cover twice the pitches, visit twice as many markets, sell twice as many chocolate delights.  I’ve got a rotund, middle-aged lady called Martha who comes in to help me bake three days a week.  I’m make sure that she’s long gone before James arrives.  I wouldn’t want him to think that anyone else was preparing his chocolate treats for him.  Perhaps Martha’s got a friend who’d like a few hours of extra work. 

***

My business isn’t the only thing that’s expanding. 
            ‘Do you think I’m getting fat?’ James asks as he devours a large slice of my mocha and coconut cake with its thick, coffee-butter icing and pieces of chocolate flake on top.  I think this will go down very well with my customers.
            ‘Do you?’ he says again.
            ‘What?’
            ‘Think that I’m getting fat.’ 
            The hollows of his cheeks have filled out to plump little apples and there’s a softening of around his waist.
            ‘No,’ I say, loyally.
            He smoothes his hands down the burgeoning curve of his stomach.  ‘Claire thinks that I’m getting a bit too chubby.’
            ‘She said that?’
            ‘Yes.’  James turns doleful eyes towards me.
            ‘Really?’
            His little paunch sits over the waistband of his jeans.  ‘She’s trying to put me on a diet.’
            ‘How awful,’ I commiserate. ‘Does she know that you come to see me every night?’
            James flushes.  ‘No,’ he says.  ‘That’s our little secret.’
            ‘And so it shall remain,’ I tell him as I slide a tray of chocolate walnut squares from the oven.  ‘More cake?’

***

Emily comes to collect the keys for the van and load up for the day.  There’s chocolate tray bake, caramel shortbread, chocolate lemon tarts, cappuccino fancies to name but a few of the delights on offer.  We stack them up and trail downstairs to the lock-up garages that house the two Chocoholics Anonymous vans. 
        I had some details from the estate agent’s this morning through the post.  It’s time that I moved out of the flat and into somewhere bigger.  I’m looking for a house, perhaps with a place that I could park the vans that doesn’t involve three flights of stairs.  Maybe somewhere that I could get a small industrial unit nearby.  It would have to be somewhere easily accessible for Martha and Dorothy as I couldn’t manage without them both.  Chocoholics Anonymous has now got a website and we take our vans to private parties, festivals and even on to film locations.  I could really do with another couple of vans to keep up with demand.

***

‘Claire’s left me,’ James says miserably, as he helps himself to yet another one of my chocolate macaroons.
            ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, taking a bowl of melted chocolate from the top of the cooker.
            ‘These are delicious.  I can’t get enough of them.’  James checks out one more.  There are chocolate and coconut crumbs on his lips.  ‘She said I’d let myself go.’
            ‘The diet didn’t work?’
            James moves onto the plate of chocolate and ginger Florentines.  ‘These things never do, do they?  Who can live on lettuce alone?’
            ‘No one,’ I sympathise.  While I drizzle dark chocolate over my chocolate and hazelnut cookies, I take a good, long look at James’s face.  The lean, handsome features have all but disappeared.  The plump apple cheeks have blossomed.  James’s chiselled jaw now carries more Chins than the Chinese phone book.  The little barrel of his stomach rests comfortably on his thighs.  Is that a hint of man-boobs, I can see?
            ‘I should never have left you,’ my ex-boyfriend and Claire’s ex-boyfriend continues.  ‘You always looked after me so well.  I don’t know what got into me.  I was hasty.  Foolish.’
            ‘We all do things we regret,’ I say.  ‘Try these.’  I push a tray of fruit and nut refrigerator fingers towards him.  They’re gooey concoctions of mixed fruit, hazelnuts, digestive biscuits and marshmallow hanging together in rich, dark chocolate. 
            I take a piece myself.  James and I eat together. 
            ‘Good,’ he says with a contented nod. ‘Very good.’  He demolishes another calorie-laden finger or two just to be sure.  ‘Now that Claire’s gone, perhaps we could spend more time together.  Get back to how we were.’
            Next, I think I’ll make some chocolate pecan pie – that’s always very popular with my customers.    
            ‘What do you say?’  James looks at me hopefully.  It’s an expression that has been on my face for so long that it seems strange to see my ex-lover wearing it.  There’s chocolate round his mouth and crumbs down the front of his shirt.
            ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell him.  ‘I’m moving out of the flat.  I’ve bought a new home and I’m leasing a small business unit so that I can increase production.  I’ll be gone soon.’
            ‘But you can’t go.’  James looks panic-stricken.  ‘What will I do?  I come here every night.  How will I manage without you?’
            I break a bar of rich, dark chocolate into tiny pieces and smile at James.  ‘You can have too much of a good thing, you know.’     

Copyright © Carole Matthews 2006