Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “Is that you going into the kitchen to help yourself to stew in secret?” he asked.
Mma Ramotswe sat down. “I was not going into the kitchen,” she said hotly. “I was just adjusting my dress. It’s feeling rather loose, you see.”
She looked up at the ceiling. She had heard that dieting was not easy. Some time ago, before any question of a diet had arisen, she had seen an article in the paper about how diets encouraged people to become dishonest with others—and with themselves. There had been a survey conducted at one of the places where people went to diet, and it was revealed that just about everybody who went on the course took with them a secret supply of snacks. She had found that funny; the idea of adults behaving like children and smuggling in sweets and chocolate had struck her as being an amusing one. And yet now that she herself was on a diet, it did not seem so funny after all. In fact, it seemed rather sad. Those poor people wanting to eat and not being allowed to. Dieting was cruel; it was an abuse of human rights. Yes, that’s what it was, and she should not allow herself to be manipulated in this way.
She stopped herself. Thinking like that was nothing more than coming up with excuses for breaking the diet. Mma Ramotswe was made of sterner stuff than that, and so she persisted. As the others ate the pudding she had prepared for them—banana custard with spoonfuls of red jam in the middle, she sat as if fixed to her seat, watching them enjoying themselves.
“Are you sure you won’t have some of this custard, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“No,” she said. And then said, “Yes. Yes, I am sure that I won’t. Which means no.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “It is very good,” he said.
This is how we are tempted, thought Mma Ramotswe. But at least some of us are strong.
She closed her eyes. It was easier to be strong, she thought, if one had one’s eyes closed; although that would only work to a limited extent. One could not go around indefinitely with one’s eyes closed, especially if one was a detective. Quite apart from anything else, that was in direct contradiction of the advice which Clovis Andersen gave inThe Principles of Private Detection , one chapter of which was entitled “The Importance of Keeping Your Eyes Open.” Had Clovis Andersen ever been on a diet? she wondered. There was a picture of him on the back cover, and although Mma Ramotswe had never paid much attention to it, now that she brought it to mind, one salient feature of it leapt out. Clovis Andersen was traditionally built.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MR POLOPETSI TRIES TO BE HELPFUL
MMA MAKUTSI was already in the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency when Mma Ramotswe arrived there the following morning.
“So, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, after formal greetings had been exchanged. “So, there you are chasing after our friend, Mr Cedric Disani. What have you managed to uncover today?”
Mma Makutsi picked up a piece of paper and brandished it. “There is a small farm down near Lobatse. I have the details here. It is meant to be the property of his brother, but I have already spoken on the telephone to the people down there who sell cattle dip. They say that it is always Mr Cedric Disani who comes to buy the dip and it is always his name on the cheques. The lawyers will be interested to hear this. I think they want to show that he is really the owner.”
“They will be very pleased with your work,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “And Mr Disani will be very displeased.”
Mma Makutsi laughed. “We cannot please everybody.”
They chatted for a few minutes more before Mma Makutsi offered to make Mma Ramotswe a cup of tea.
“I have brought in some doughnuts,” she said. “Phuti gave me some last night. He has sent one for you and one for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.”
Mma Ramotswe’s face lit up. “That is very kind of him,” she said. “A doughnut …” She trailed off. She had remembered about her diet. She had eaten one slice of toast that morning, and a banana, and her stomach felt light and empty. A doughnut was exactly what she wanted; a doughnut with a dusting of coarse sugar on the outside, enough to give a bit of a crunch and to line one’s lips with white, and a layer of sweetened oil soaked into the dough itself. Such bliss. Such bliss.
“I don’t think that I shall have a doughnut, Mma,” she said. “You may eat mine today.”
Mma Makutsi shrugged. “I will be happy to have two,” she said. “Or should I give it to the apprentices to share? No, I don’t think I’ll do that. I will eat it myself.”
Mma Makutsi rose from her chair and began to walk across the room towards the kettle. Mma Ramotswe noticed immediately that she was walking in an unusual way. Her steps were small and she appeared to totter as she put one leg before the other. The new shoes, of course; she had collected her new shoes that morning.
Mma Ramotswe leaned forward at her desk and looked. “Your new shoes, Mma!” she exclaimed. “Those beautiful new shoes!”
Mma Makutsi stopped where she was. She turned round to face Mma Ramotswe. “So you like them, Mma Ramotswe?”
Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “Of course I do,” she said. “They look very good on you.”
Mma Makutsi smiled modestly. “Thank you, Mma. I am just breaking them in at the moment. You know how that takes a bit of time.”
Mma Ramotswe did know. And she knew too, but did not say anything, that there were some pairs of shoes that would never be broken in. Shoes that were too small were usually too small for a reason: they were intended for people with small feet. “You’ll get used to them,” she said. But her voice lacked conviction.
Mma Makutsi continued her journey to the kettle—painfully, thought Mma Ramotswe. Then she went back to her desk and sat down, with relief. Watching this, Mma Ramotswe had to suppress a smile. It was her assistant’s one weak point—this interest in unsuitable shoes—but, as failings went, this was not a great one; how much more dangerous was an interest in unsuitable men. And Mma Makutsi did not show any sign of that. In fact, she showed herself to be very sensible when it came to men, even if her last friend had been misleading her. He had not been unsuitable in any way, apart from the fact that he was already married, of course.
Once the kettle had boiled, Mma Makutsi made the tea—Tanganda tea for her and red bush tea for Mma Ramotswe—and she took Mma Ramotswe’s cup over to her. Mma Ramotswe suppressed the urge to offer to help her by getting the tea herself, in view of the obvious pain which walking now caused Mma Makutsi. It would not be helpful, she thought, for Mma Makutsi to know that she realised how uncomfortable she was. It would be difficult enough for her to acknowledge her mistake to herself, let alone to others.
The doughnuts were then produced from a grease-stained paper bag, and Mma Makutsi began to eat hers.
“This is very delicious,” she said as she chewed on a mouthful. “Phuti says that he knows the baker at that bakery up in Broadhurst, and he always gives him the best doughnuts. They are very good, Mma. Very good.” She paused to lick the sugar off her fingers. “You must have had a big breakfast today, Mma Ramotswe. Either that or you’re getting sick.”
“We don’t have to eat doughnuts all day,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are other things to do.”
Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. It was a bit extreme of Mma Ramotswe to suggest that doughnuts were being consumed all day. Two doughnuts in one morning was not excessive, surely, and Mma Ramotswe would not normally turn up her nose at the possibility of a couple of doughnuts. Unless … Well, that would be an extraordinary development. Mma Ramotswe on a diet!
Mma Makutsi looked across at Mma Ramotswe. “You’d never go on a diet, would you, Mma Ramotswe?” The question was asked casually, but Mma Makutsi knew immediately that she had guessed correctly. Mma Ramotswe looked up sharply, with exactly that look of irritation mixed with self-pity that people in the early stages of a diet manifest.