‘I thought the main guy was hot,’ Jane said.
Ellie made a face. ‘He didn’t look well-bathed.’
‘And with that seventies porn moustache?’ Pixie laughed. ‘But I suppose you also like Tom Selleck and Sam Elliot.’
‘Do you also have a thing for seventies porn, Jane?’ I asked.
‘Bow chicka bow-wow!’ Ellie said. ‘It’s making a comeback you know.’
‘Seventies porn?’
She nodded. ‘It’s vintage now that everybody’s waxing off all their body hair. Some men still like a full muff.’
‘How do you know that? Does lovely Thomas like a hirsute woman?’
She blushed to her roots. ‘I read it in Cosmo. And I know where this conversation is going, so don’t even bother.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ said Jane. ‘But you’re the only one around here with an active sex life. I love Andy but with two children, we’re lucky if we remember to kiss good night. I’m afraid you must share with the group.’
But Ellie wouldn’t be drawn down that road. ‘Jane, something tells me that you’re protesting too much. You and Andy are probably still ten times more romantic than the rest of us could hope to be.’
‘Infinitely more,’ said Pixie. ‘Speaking for myself.’
Jane had one of those relationships that inspired envy in both singletons, the smugly wed and, as Pixie just proved, the extremely disgruntled. Andy was practically an urban legend, a type often discussed but never seen in real dating life: intelligent, funny, sexy and kind. His equanimity was legendary, but then Jane was just as warm and supportive. Whenever she talked about how she and Andy met, she grinned like a lunatic. It seemed a match made in heaven.
It had actually been a match made in Ibiza, sweaty and knee-deep in foam. Jane was there for her cousin’s hen weekend. Andy was there hoping to snog hens. They danced into each other in the early hours of Sunday morning and by the time they kissed at the airport that night they knew their good-byes would be hellos within the week back in London.
Holiday romances rarely work out, but Andy and Jane weren’t your normal twenty-three year olds. Only two years into her fledgling BBC career, Jane had already bought her own flat. She had a pension and knew exactly what she wanted in life. Unlike most of her friends, whose views on procreation were ambivalent at best, Jane wanted a big, noisy, happy family like the one she came from.
Andy’s future was no less clear, and just as clearly focused on having a family. He was an IT programmer, weekend rugby player, and the friend that everyone trusted with their spare keys. Within a month, he had Jane’s keys too, and she had his. They were deliriously in love with each other and tried their best not to be smug about it. They spent the next two summers taking most of their holiday to go to music festivals and on Jane’s twenty-fifth birthday, they married in a small summer ceremony in Jane’s hometown. Her birthday party cum wedding reception was a huge BBQ in a muddy Suffolk field. Jane wore wellies with her dress. Her wedding photos, which she kept all over the house, looked like they were ordered straight from beautifulbohemianweddings.com.
Children were always part of their plan and they didn’t waste time. Andy knew Jane would be the most perfect mother, and told her constantly how excited he was to see her holding their very own baby one day.
Unfortunately though, nature wasn’t taking direction from Andy. As the months passed and her periods remained regular, Jane started to suspect something was wrong.
Of course, being Jane, she read every book, article and blog she could find. There had to be a way to fix what was clearly broken. She’d always been fit. She ate healthily, took her vitamins, avoided preservatives and mercury-laden tuna. Was she too healthy? Maybe the body functioned best in the middle of the range rather than at the extremes.
Everyone around her seemed to be getting pregnant. Even the teenage daughter of the corner shop owner was knocked up, the stupid girl, and her cousin, the hen weekend raver, was already pregnant with her second child.
At first Jane loved seeing her cousin, but as the months passed it got harder to smile convincingly when she held her cousin’s tiny baby. With every sniff of that delicious little head, Jane felt more despondent, and surer that her insides weren’t functioning like everyone else’s. She didn’t tell Andy about her fears. She wasn’t about to blow his illusion of her perfection so early in their marriage. So she kept it to herself, and it festered.
Andy was the first to bring up the ‘I’ word.
‘But we’re young,’ Jane said, panicking to hear her biggest fear from Andy’s lips. ‘We can’t be infertile.’
‘I’m sure we’re not,’ he said, smoothing the hair from her face. ‘There’s probably a very simple explanation.’ His IT-programming brain knew there must be an answer for this run-time error. ‘Maybe we should just get checked out to make sure everything’s okay. If you like, I can make appointments for us.’
Dear Andy was willing to wank in a cup for the love of his life. But Jane kept putting off the appointments, and hoping, until finally Andy confronted her.
All her fear tumbled out in a wave that threatened to wash away what they had together. But Andy wouldn’t let it. He held on, anchoring them both, and convinced Jane to go for tests with him.
CHAPTER SIX
‘You’ve lost two pounds. Well done, Katie,’ gushed Pam the next week at Slimming Zone as she updated my chart. Pam was a gusher, which made her the perfect slimming coach. She acted like we’d found a cure for PMT every time we dropped a bit of weight.
The last time I’d lost two pounds was when Jane made us do the Caveman Diet. It was no compensation for the eggy burps. Thankfully, womankind then left the caves and evolved to discover baked goods.
I grinned at my friends. Ellie pulled a face. Sore gainer.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Jane said when I joined them. ‘How did you do that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I didn’t do anything unusual. Ellie, you know I had at least two do-over days last week.’ I wasn’t gloating too much. Two pounds is a drop in the sea when you’re a woman of larger proportions.
Besides, I was starting to see Pixie’s point. If we spent as much time and effort actually losing weight as we did talking and thinking about it, we’d all be size eights. I’d never noticed how much our conversations revolved around weight. It was just a normal part of my life with my friends.
But something had begun to shift in my head over the past month. Each time we went out together, I found myself becoming less conscious of my size. For those few hours I forgot I was Fat Katie. I was simply a normal woman having fun with her best friends.
But as we were at the meeting to talk about weight, I couldn’t begrudge Jane her congratulations when Pam announced that she’d dropped three pounds, even if her methods were suspect. She’d been pill-popping her way to weight loss.
‘Do you know I can actually imagine getting back to my goal weight?’ she said. ‘Two and a half stone to go. I can do this. Alli, I love you!’
‘But isn’t it making you poo all the time?’ I asked, knowing the answer. ‘I wouldn’t be as unconditionally in love with something that made me incontinent.’
‘And it’s not just the frequent poos, is it?’ Ellie raised her eyebrow. ‘I looked it up too. It sounds like there can be some other nasty shocks. Jane? Would you like to tell everyone what’s really been happening?’
That got my full attention.
Jane’s peaches-and-cream complexion reddened. ‘Well, you really do need to eat a low-fat diet or there are problems. The warnings are all over the instructions. So it’s no magic pill to make up for going overboard. In fact, it’s the opposite. You definitely shouldn’t take them when you’ve eaten too much fat. I didn’t believe that, until it happened …’ She shook her head. ‘I shat my pants. I thought it was just wind. It was more.’
‘Oh god, that’s disgusting!’
‘Did you shart?’
Her shoulders shook as sh
e covered her face. ‘I sharted!’ she said through her fingers. ‘Thank god I was at home so I could shower and change.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The pills keep you from absorbing fat. If it doesn’t get absorbed, it’s got to go somewhere. That means the poos are more … juicy than normal. A bit greasy.’
‘Jane, are you sure about this?’ I said. ‘Slippery bowel movements can’t be worth the weight loss.’
‘I think they are,’ she said quietly. When I saw her expression I let the topic drop.
Rob hurried into the meeting, shrugging his coat off as he headed for Pam. His face lit up when he saw us at the back. ‘I’ll be right with you,’ he said, loping to the scales for his reckoning.
I wasn’t sure why Rob came to the meetings. He was one of those men well-suited to his size – big and comfortingly solid. He always wore jeans that flattered his long athletic legs and favoured band tee shirts with linen jackets, and Converse trainers or those brown leather bowling shoes. Because of his height he had the look of a gentle bear. A friendly, handsome, gentle bear.
‘You’re the talk of the meeting, you know,’ he said as he flung himself into a chair with all the grace of a walrus on land. ‘Rumour has it you’ve started some kind of club.’
‘Oh, but it’s not a club,’ Jane said. ‘It’s just us. We’ve been going out together lately. We went to an improvisational acting class last night!’
As she told Rob about it I found myself grinning madly. When Jane suggested the evening taster class, I’d cringed at the thought. And acting in front of my best friends? My feelings on the subject flip-flopped between excitement and dread.
‘If we’re made to roll around on the floor and get in touch with our inner child, I’ll meet you at the pub around the corner when you’re done,’ Pixie had said as we’d made our way down the primary school’s corridor, where crayoned artwork decorated the walls. We passed the children’s Ikea-bright blue and yellow lockers and found our classroom.
There were around a dozen women already there. The desks and chairs had been pushed into the corners and a woman of about fifty stood in the centre of the room. She was wearing a leotard. I moved between Pixie and the door.
‘It’s not exercise, is it?’ Jane whispered, scrutinising the woman’s hand-knitted legwarmers. ‘Because I haven’t got the right clothes.’
‘I haven’t got the right frame of mind,’ Pixie added.
‘Let’s see if it’s weird. If it is we’ll make an excuse and leave. Agreed?’ Everyone nodded.
Despite her penchant for Glee-inspired attire, the instructor, Alexandra, wasn’t at all weird. Within minutes we all wanted to be her friend. She explained what we’d be doing, with a huge disclaimer about not being able to make us award-winning actors in a single evening. Everyone laughed at the very idea. Few serious actors began their careers at an adult learning evening in the local primary school.
‘Okay, we’ll start with a few warm-ups,’ said Alexandra, sparking Pixie’s suspicion once again. ‘Everyone please make a circle. This is called The Shakes, and it’s meant to help with any performance anxiety we may feel. I’ll explain as we go.’
Alexandra slowly looked at her hand, which began to twitch. She raised it in front of her, where her fingers started to spasm more regularly. The spasms became shudders, then judders until finally her fingers were toodloo-ing, giving her a very enthusiastic jazz hand.
‘Now, I’m going to look at someone and throw them my shakes. When they catch them, their fingers will also start to shake like mine. Then the shakes will move from their fingers to another part of their body, any part. They’ll look at someone else and that person will catch the new shakes.’ She jerked her head and looked straight at Ellie.
‘Oh, already? Well, all right then, I’ll try.’ She quivered admirably before throwing a bobble head at me.
I caught it, and my head began a side to side movement to rival that nodding dog off the Churchill advert. Then I let the shakes settle into my shoulders. I could feel the backs of my arms jiggle, and my boobs began to bounce despite wearing a support bra that could shore up a landslide. Back and forth my shoulders went, as my arms went out by my sides, palms facing forward. Then my shoulders shook in smaller and smaller movements as my breasts began a dangerously pendulous sway. I looked at Pixie.
‘You are joking, love.’
I shrugged, briefly throwing myself off my rhythm.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for everyone who has to watch this.’ With that she began to shimmy. By the end of the exercise everyone was definitely warmed up, if out of breath. The night flew by as we played Pinocchio – ‘awakening’ each body part from our foreheads to our toes – and something called Freeze, where we actually got to act a bit. By the end of the evening it was safe to say that none of us was destined for the stage, but my sides ached from laughing (and my boobs hurt).
‘So we just meet once or twice a week to do something fun,’ I explained when Jane finished recounting the night.
‘That sounds like a club to me,’ Rob said.
Ellie laughed. ‘A club of four. We don’t exactly need to hire out the O2 for our annual conference.’
‘So it’s very exclusive,’ he said amiably.
‘I suppose not,’ Jane said. ‘We haven’t really discussed whether more people could come along …?’
‘The more the merrier,’ I said. ‘Depending on what we’re doing.’
‘I agree,’ said Ellie. ‘But we’d want to check with Pixie too, in case she’d rather stick to just us four.’
Rob smiled at her apologetic look. ‘Where is Pixie?’
‘She quit.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘Good for her. She hasn’t seemed happy here for a while. Make sure it’s okay with Pixie and if everyone agrees then I’m sure the others would love to join you. The rumour mill has been grinding. They think you’ve been out on champagne-soaked excursions. Amanda said she heard you went to Monaco.’
‘Ha! We’ve gone to Hackney,’ I said. ‘It sounds like we’ve got a lot to live up to.’
Rob suddenly looked bashful. ‘If it’s not an all-girls’ club, maybe I could come along too?’
‘It’s not a club!’
‘I suppose it could be a club though,’ Ellie said. ‘Would you want to come out with us, Rob?’ I could see her eyes asking us if that was all right.
‘Fine with me,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ said Jane. ‘Rob, I’d love for you to join us.’
‘Then we just need to see if Pixie objects.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pixie didn’t object. In fact she thought it was a marvellous idea to welcome everyone. Which was how we found ourselves dancing salsa with two dozen other Slimming Zone friends in the back room of my local pub the following Sunday afternoon.
The pub landlord was more than happy for us to work up a thirst in his otherwise dead pub, and there were plenty of out-of-work salsa instructors in London to choose from. I explained that what we lacked in fitness we’d make up for in enthusiasm, and everyone pitched in five quid to pay Ricco the Snake-Hipped Wonder.
‘I haven’t laughed that hard since Trevor did a headstand in the lounge on a piece of Lego.’ Pixie laughed again at the thought. ‘Pure comedy genius, though he obviously didn’t see the humour.’
Pixie didn’t often talk about Trevor without swearing. ‘You sounded almost fond of Trevor when you said that.’
‘Did I? It must be the wine. Although he has been rather fond of me lately.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s become a randy old git. It’s all I can do to keep out of his reach.’
‘Well, you are in separate bedrooms,’ I pointed out. ‘Can’t you just lock your door?’
She smiled at me. ‘Dear, innocent Katie, so much to learn. The trick to a happy marriage is—’
‘But you don’t have a happy marriage,’ Jane said.
‘The trick to a marriage, then, is to make the man think he’s getting what he wants, when in
actual fact, you’re getting what you want.’
‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘And how are you making him think he’s having sex with you?’ This ought to be good.
‘I’m making him think I want to have sex with him. It’s nearly as good. He’s usually so pissed when he comes home that if I can stall him, he forgets what he’s after. Then I tell him in the morning, just before he has to leave for work, when the children are still at home, that I went into his room but he was asleep. That way he can’t try for a quickie.’
She looked very pleased with herself.
‘How long do you think you can keep that up?’ Ellie asked.
‘Hopefully until I hit menopause. Oh, thanks, love,’ she said to Rob as he set our drinks down. ‘Ellie, I’ve got to say, you were busting some moves in there. It’s like there’s sangria in your blood.’
Ellie stopped fanning herself with her beer mat. ‘You are joking!’
Pixie nodded that yes, she was joking. ‘Love, you’ve got dos left feet.’
‘How would you know? You were too busy staring at the instructor’s crotch to notice anybody’s feet.’
She shrugged. ‘Didn’t he look like he had a nice chorizo?’
‘Please stop,’ Jane said. ‘You’ll put me off my drink.’
‘The thought of chorizo probably makes you want to poo.’ Pixie poked her side at around intestine-level.
‘Not as much as the thought of you and that man’s chorizo,’ she said.
Amanda, one of the Slimming Zone veterans, sidled up to the table. ‘Katie, please say we can do this again! I feel … wonderful. Really, that was the most fun I’ve had in ages.’ Her round face glowed with exertion and happiness. ‘It doesn’t have to be dancing again. It can be anything, really, just count me in, okay? I’ve got to dash to pick up the children. Thanks again for including me. See you next week at the meeting!’
I recognised the feeling that swelled in me, though it wasn’t a common one. We’d pulled off a great event, if I did say so myself. Inside I was glowing with pride.
The Curvy Girls Club Page 4
