MICHELE GORMAN
The Curvy Girls Club

Copyright

AVON

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Michelle Gorman 2015

Cover image © Roxanne Lapassade 2015

Cover design © Nicandlou 2015

Michele Gorman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007585625

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007585632

Version: 2015-12-09

Dedication

For all women of every shape and size. There’s so much more to us than meets the eye.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Curvy Girls Club Book Club Questions

Keep Reading: Match me if you Can

Read on for an exclusive extract from Match me if you Can

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Pixie rejoined our little group, muttering as she shot dirty looks at Pam, our Slimming Zone consultant and weekly bearer of bad news.

‘I’ve had it,’ she said. ‘Do you know how much weight I’ve lost in the last four years? Do you? I worked it out over Christmas. Seventy-six pounds. That’s two hundred and sixty thousand calories I haven’t enjoyed,’ she continued, saving us calculating that depressing equation. ‘And do you know how much weight I’ve gained back?’ Her hazel eyes glinted.

Glances bounced between Ellie and Jane and me. I wouldn’t answer that question if water-boarded.

‘All but seven pounds. It’s taken me years to lose what I could have flushed down the loo with a minor bout of dysentery. I’d have been better off drinking the water on holiday in Morocco.’

‘You’ve just hit a wall, that’s all,’ said Ellie. ‘It happens to everyone. You’ll feel better next week.’

‘It feels like the Great Wall of China, love.’ She shook her head. ‘Why should next week be any better, or the week after that?’

Ellie was flummoxed by such blasphemy. ‘It just will be. You’ve got to stick with it. Pam says—’

‘I know what Pam says, Ellie. I’ve been coming here for four years. Four years. I’ve lost seven pounds. I’m sick of it. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?’ She gestured around the room, to the crowd of new faces. Post-Christmas optimists. By Easter they’d be as bitter as Pixie.

‘Because we love each other and get to see each other every week here,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re my best friends. Katie and I wouldn’t have met you if it wasn’t for Slimming Zone.’

We’d joined not long after Pixie did, and I couldn’t have been more grateful to have Ellie at my side. I’d looked forward to that first meeting about as much as my family’s annual visit to Great Aunt Bernardine, who smelled of cats and liked to explain to me why I was single.

We’d entered the church hall fearing the worst. Would they announce our weight in booming voices tinged with judgement? Would everyone laugh? Was the rest of the group only there to lose those stubborn last five pounds, making us the elephants in the room?

We needn’t have worried. Everyone was friendly and supportive. Nobody announced pounds gained, only pounds lost. And as Ellie just pointed out, that’s how we met Jane and Pixie. They were already friends, Jane having joined about a year before Pixie. They might seem like opposites but Slimming Zone had brought them together, as it had us all.

I scanned the packed hall, thinking about Pixie’s question. ‘We could be anywhere together,’ I said.

‘But we have fun here,’ Ellie said.

‘No we don’t,’ Pixie scoffed. ‘We have fun at dinner after we leave here.’

‘I like these meetings,’ Jane said, staring at the growing pile of knitting in her lap. ‘I feel like they help me. And we’re … amongst friends here.’

‘I’m with Jane,’ Ellie said. ‘I feel better for coming.’

‘And it has worked for you, Ellie.’ As her flatmate, work colleague and best friend I knew how hard she tried. She was only twenty-five, with all the lovely elasticity that brings, so hers was puppy fat rather than the established fat of us older dogs. She’d lost a fair amount of weight but still saw no beauty in her size sixteen frame.

‘I love you girls,’ I said. ‘But Pixie’s right. Our friendship is built mostly around how many Maltesers we’ve eaten.’

Being overweight does tend to preoccupy one. Like having a hangnail, it’s always there to irritate you. Sometimes it’s painful but usually it’s just tedious.

‘I think we need more than this.’

‘I gained a pound,’ said Jane at the next meeting. ‘And I’ve eaten nothing but Special K for a week.’ She glared at her thighs. ‘My wee stinks of wheat.’

Jane was no stranger to unpleasant side effects. When she was on the cabbage soup diet none of us could be in the car with her unless the windows were down.

‘That’s not healthy, Jane,’ I said.

‘Neither is being two stone overweight,’ she snapped back. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’

Ellie bounded over to Jane for a hug. She reminded me of a half-grown sheepdog when she moved, with her blondish-brown flyaway curls that always found their way over her eyes. She was just as friendly and gawky and I often had the urge to pet her.

‘How much Special K are you eating?’ she gently enquired.

Jane shrugged her off. ‘So shoot me, I get hungry! Those serving sizes are for children.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.

‘Oh Jane, I didn’t mean to upset you. I only asked. Maybe something a bit more well-balanced than cereal might work better?’

‘It’s just till I get started,’ she said. She always said that.

Dieting was an extreme sport for Jane – the more outrageous, the bigger the potential payoff. There wasn’t a fad, plan, pill or potion that she hadn’t tried since having her children, but nothing shifted the baby weight. Those babies were now nine and seven. Her house was full of photos of her pre-child days, when she wore wispy dresses and wasn’t afraid of shorts. Her friendly, heart-shaped face beamed at the camera, wide blue eyes sparkling and long, thick blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She didn’t pose for the camera any more.

‘But those adverts!’ she said as she pressed her double chin with the back of her hand. She hated that chin. Last year she spent hours making kissy fish faces in a bid to tone it. Pixie threatened to demonstrate her Kegel exercises if she didn’t stop doing it with us in public. ‘They couldn’t run the adverts if they weren’t true. Trading Standards wouldn’t let them. Would they?’

Our expressions answered her.

‘I knew it. Poxy adverts.’

‘It’s not the adverts,’ Pixie said. ‘It’s just human nature. If we stuck to exactly what they told us to eat we’d lose weight. We’d also lose the will to live.’ She shook her head. ‘A woman can’t live on no-fat, no-fun food alone … which is why I’ve made a decision. Ladies, this is my last meeting.’

‘No!’ Jane and Ellie said together.

‘You can’t quit!’ Jane said.

Pixie shrugged. ‘Of course I can. I’m sick to death of letting my entire life revolve around every calorie I put into my gob. I told you last week it wasn’t worth it for me.’ She crossed her arms. There was no budging her when she did that. ‘I say bollocks to weekly weigh-ins.’

‘But what about us?’ Ellie’s voice hitched in her throat.

‘You could always quit too. Then we can do something fun together instead.’

‘I’m not ready to quit,’ said Jane.

‘Me neither,’ Ellie said.

Was I ready to quit? As veteran slimmers on the scale of World War soldiers, we’d all seen several tours of duty. Heads of state should lay wreaths before the scales each November to honour our bravery in fighting the 100 Pounds War. I was battle-hardened.

But as I thought about what Pixie had said I realised I was finally ready to resign my commission.

‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘I’d rather spend the evening with you doing something fun than be judged by the calories I’ve eaten. But there’s no reason you couldn’t do both for a while if that makes you feel better. Let’s plan something in addition to Slimming Zone.’

‘I’m in!’ Jane said, her hands flying over her knitting. ‘What shall we do?’

In London, the options were endless. Film, theatre, comedy, music? A night stuffing fivers down male strippers’ G-strings? No, none of us was rich. They’d have to settle for pound coins.

‘I’ve been dying to see Thriller Live,’ Ellie finally said.

‘I thought you were going with Thomas?’ I asked.

She reddened. ‘I thought he was going to surprise me with tickets a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t yet.’ She smiled, no doubt thinking about lovely Thomas. They’d snogged at our company Christmas party and, unusually, didn’t spend the next month avoiding each other in the kitchen.

‘I wouldn’t wait around for him,’ Pixie said. ‘Why don’t you book them?’

‘Well, if we want to go together,’ she said, ‘then let’s book tickets for us.’

Pixie grinned. ‘We’ll have a girls’ night out. Jane, could Andy watch my two on the night as well?’

‘Of course, I’m sure he won’t mind.’

‘Thanks, love. It’s bad enough that Trevor’s got to mind them tonight.’

Ellie, Jane and I bounced our usual looks between us. Trevor was a waste of space. Unfortunately he was wasting space in Pixie’s house, as the father of her children.

‘Are things any better at home?’ Ellie asked as we collected our coats and bags.

Pixie nodded at first, then shook her head. ‘Darts have started again so he’s out after tea most nights.’ She sighed. ‘A point to the temple is probably too much to hope for.’ We smiled at her lame joke, recognising the honesty in it. ‘At least by the time he gets home, the children and I are in bed.’

They’d had separate bedrooms for years on account of Pixie’s sleep apnoea. Trevor claimed to need a good night’s sleep since he worked. Given how sporadic that work was, he should have been okay with sporadic sleep as well.

Pixie had a new plan to leave him at least twice a year. Her list of reasons was endless, and totally justified. Not that he physically abused her. She’d knock his teeth out if he laid a finger on her or the children. But his constant complaints and insults were a slow form of torture.

The problem was, since she hadn’t worked in years, she was a bit stuck. So she stayed with him, hoping things would get better. As her friends, we added our hopes to hers.

CHAPTER TWO

Ellie and I splurged on takeaway sushi on our way home from the meeting. Eating tiny bits of fish and rice made us feel virtuous on a par with the Buddha. Which justified the ice cream we bought for dessert. Life was a balancing act, after all.

Ellie got the good wine glasses from the kitchen and threw herself beside me on the ancient sofa. Mum and Dad had brought it from home when I bought the flat. Lucky for me, as I was so skint by the end of the process that even Ikea was out of my reach.

I loved our sofa. It was old and worn but its scarlet velvet cushions held countless memories. It was where I was sitting when Mum announced she’d been appointed headmistress of her school. I threw myself on it when opening my university acceptance letter. And it was where I first had sex … a detail I’d skipped when reminiscing with my parents on moving day.

How I’d loved Rory McAdams, ever since Year Nine when he offered to help me with maths. He wasn’t the most popular boy, or the sportiest or smartest or funniest. He was a bit on the short side, and failed to grow the peach fuzz that our classmates managed. But he was incredibly nice, and he became one of my only friends at school.

It would be generous to say that I went through an awkward phase at school. It was more like a pariah phase. I slowly outgrew it at uni, away from the bullies who’d tormented me, but it was a slow process and I never did gain a big group of friends. Since meeting Ellie, Jane and Pixie, I hadn’t felt I needed any more.

But Rory wasn’t put off by my leper-like status at school. We became such good mates that our parents started referring to us in the plural. We were Katie-and-Rory. Naturally this convinced me that we were as good as going out, in a non-kissing, non-hand-holding, one-sided way.

But while I pined for my friend, he pined for a tall girl on the hockey team who didn’t know he was alive. Sometimes I wondered if anyone got to go out with the person they liked.

One night, just before leaving sixth form, we went to the pub. We’d both had too much cider and before I knew what was happening, Rory kissed me. Or I kissed him. The details were fuzzy but the fact was, we kissed. I was snogging the boy I loved. We left the pub holding hands, and he kissed me again when we got to my door.

Mum and Dad didn’t usually leave me alone overnight but as I was now eighteen (I reminded them of this every chance I got), they’d taken a rare trip without me to visit my cat-wee auntie. When I invited Rory inside I knew exactly what I was doing and wasn’t at all nervous about having sex for the first time. I was, however, self-conscious, aware that my body wasn’t slim like the girls in the magazines. I was probably around the same size as Ellie is now, with the same puppy fat coating my five-foot-five frame. Rory switched the light on. I switched it off. He laughed and said I was being silly, but left us in the dark.

The sex mostly involved fumbling with the condom he optimistically carried in his wallet for Miss Jolly Hockeysticks. We both tried to hide our surprise that he was using it with me. The velvet cushions weren’t great for traction and we slid to the floor more than once.

My head was too full of our new relationship to sleep after kissing Rory good-bye. By morning my imagination had us nearly engaged. Unfortunately Rory’s sleep hadn’t been disturbed by similar fantasies, and when he said he wanted to talk the next day, I knew he wouldn’t be proposing. I managed to hide my dismay when he apologised for taking advantage of me, and he managed to hide most of his awkwardness. I was his best girl mate, he said, and a right laugh, and he didn’t want to lose me as a friend. I pretended not to mind and we did stay friends as we went off to university. I saw him in London a few years ago and finally told him of the torch I’d carried all those years. He swore he’d had no idea of my feelings. He was, of course, just being kind. He’d have had to be blind not to notice. Infatuation isn’t a subtle emotion.

Now, at thirty, I wasn’t yet consigned to spinsterhood, despite Great Aunt Bernardine’s theories. But I had to be realistic as I looked in the mirror. Sure, my face was okay. A teacher once even likened me to Elizabeth Taylor (presumably in her early years), probably because we had the same colour eyes and dark wavy hair. My nose and lips were about the right size and I wasn’t too spotty. But not everyone wanted to go out with a woman who carried the equivalent of a seven-year-old under her dress.

‘I feel ill,’ Ellie said, chucking the spoon into her empty bowl with satisfaction. ‘I can’t believe we ate the whole thing.’

‘It was light ice cream,’ I pointed out, patting my own tummy. ‘And we did only have sushi.’

‘We should definitely go for a walk.’

‘Are you sure? It’s kind of cold out there.’

‘Shivering burns calories.’ She went for her trainers. ‘Come on. Get off your arse.’

I made a face, which she ignored. Ellie was one of those annoying women who enjoyed exercise. She had a gym membership that she actually used, whereas I spent thirty quid a month to feel guilty that my gym shoes sat in the wardrobe most of the time.

Ellie’s phone rang just as I locked our front door. ‘It’s Thomas,’ she said. ‘Hi, Thomas. I’m fine, thank you. Katie and I are just going for a walk. Can I call you back in about an hour?’

‘An hour?’ I mouthed. She nodded sadistically as she hung up.

‘Will lovely Thomas survive that long without you?’

‘He’ll manage.’ She scrunched her face up in a smile.

‘He really is lovely, isn’t he?’

‘I think he is. I know it’s early days—’

‘Not such early days, Ell, when you consider that you’ve known him, non-biblically, for years. You’d have a pretty good idea by now if he was a knob.’

‘Who’d have thought I’d get together with someone from work?’ she said. ‘At the Christmas party no less?’

‘You’re a walking cliché.’ I stuck my arm over her shoulder and hugged. ‘In the best possible way. I really am so happy for you.’ Ellie was the kind of woman you wanted nice things to happen to.

‘Mmm, I suppose,’ she said, glancing sideways.

‘Ellie, I’ve warned you. Don’t overthink things. You know how he feels about you. He’s told you. And he shows it all the time. You’ve got to forget about her.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. Your boyfriend doesn’t have a crush on his colleague.’

‘Christ, Ellie, he never should have told you. It was a crush. Was. All the way back when they were in school together. You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s not a big deal but you’re going to make it one if you keep dwelling.’ I stopped, and made her stop too. ‘You know I’m right. You’ve got to relax about this. Don’t make problems where there aren’t any.’

She nodded. ‘I know, but I can’t help how I feel. I hate her.’

‘You can’t hate someone who’s never done anything to you. That’s silly. She doesn’t even know that he liked her, does she? They’re just mates.’

‘No, but what if she finds out about his feelings and decides she likes him too? Then what’ll happen?’

‘Well, let’s see. Maybe he’ll shag her on the desk during his lunch break. And while we’re in the world of “maybes”, maybe the Queen will abdicate in favour of Prince Charles, and the bee population will recover and Wayne Rooney will grow an afro. All of those things are possible, but are you really going to worry about the possibility that they might happen at some point in the future?’

‘I’m not going out with Prince Charles or Wayne Rooney, and I’m allergic to bees.’

‘You’re being purposely obtuse. Honeybun, lovely Thomas is nuts about you. He’s going out with you and you’re happy together. If you don’t dial up the crazy, that’ll continue to be the case. Believe me, I know about crazy.’

‘You don’t still blame yourself for Alex, do you? Anybody would have misunderstood the situation. That was totally not your fault.’

Maybe not, but my face burned just thinking about the Christmas party.

Everyone had looked forward to it. Our company, Nutritious, always put on a fantastic party whether it was a record year or a terrible one. Ostensibly it started after work at the pub on the corner, but most of us went out for a very long lunch beforehand. By the time I saw Alex sitting alone at the table, it was latish and the room was a bit spinny.

He looked amazing. But then he always looked amazing to me. An unbiased observer might have noted that his shirt was untucked and he was wearing that fixed smile he got when trying to look sober. I’d seen it enough over the years. It never put me off. He’d have to soil himself unrepentantly to fall in my estimation. And even then I’m sure I’d find an excuse to love him again.

I’d had Rory-like feelings for Alex for years. They started nearly the first time we spoke, a few weeks after Nutritious hired me. When he asked me out to lunch I could barely eat (proof of my feelings if ever there was any). But I sussed pretty quickly that it wasn’t a date. As the company’s finance director, he was also on the board of directors. They took it in turns to welcome the new recruits with lunch. It was simply the luck of the draw that I got Alex instead of our balding middle-aged CEO.

Alex wasn’t balding or middle aged. He was thirty-six (birthday November 4th), from a middle-class family in Surrey (only child), and had a two-bedroom flat in Pimlico where he lived alone (the address of which I knew by heart). To me he was perfection on legs. Tall, but not too tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His strong jawline suited the stubble he usually wore. He had swoon-making thick dark eyelashes that framed his vivid blue eyes. His skin was sun-kissed even in February thanks to his skiing obsession, and his big straight teeth were practically American. I fantasised about getting my hands into his thick, straight, flaxen hair. I’d never tire of looking at him.

So when I noticed him sitting in that booth, alone as the rest of our colleagues danced and drank, naturally I went over to say hello.

He smiled when he saw me, and patted the bench beside him. ‘Katie. Katie Katie Katie. Happy Christmas,’ he slurred. ‘It’s not been a bad year, eh, considering? Still a lot of work to do though, tough nuts to crack and all that.’

I laughed, thinking of my problem client, Jenny. ‘I will get Philips Pharmacy on board next year,’ I declared. ‘In fact I called Jenny before lunch.’ I didn’t need to tell him who Jenny was. She was a company legend.

‘Hoping for some last-minute Christmas cheer?’ he said.

‘False hope. She told me not to stuff my face full of mince pies because the extra pounds would be hard to shift come January.’ In other words, a typical conversation with Jenny.

‘Ouch. Still, at least you know it’s not personal. She’s never met any of us.’ He leaned forward. ‘So all you want for Christmas is a deal with Jenny. I wonder what else Father Christmas will put in your stocking this year, eh? Have you been a good girl?’

Was he actually flirting with me? I could barely breathe. Maybe my support pants were too tight. We sat awkwardly facing each other in the booth.

‘I’ve been pretty good,’ I said, leaving room for interpretation.

‘Oh? Have you been a little bit bad, too?’ He leaned closer.

I wasn’t sure where he was going with his line of questioning, but tonight, I was going to find out. I took a deep breath and raised the stakes. ‘I’m so bad that I’m sometimes very good.’

He smiled. It was a filthy smile, full of the kind of promises I dreamed about. He leaned still closer. He closed his eyes. I closed mine too, leaning in to meet him. Our lips met. His were warm, soft and as perfect as I imagined. We stayed like that for a second, two, three … five, six … ten. He didn’t move. I peeked. His eyes were still closed. Slowly I broke our kiss. He remained motionless. Then, slowly, he leaned forward until his head rested on the edge of the table.

Frantically I looked around to see if anyone had spotted us. But they were too drunk. As was Alex, apparently. He slept peacefully on the table. With humiliation flaming my cheeks, I fled the party. I could only hope he really had been too drunk to remember anything.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Do I look okay?’ asked Ellie, making a face at her electric blue jersey dress.

‘You look lovely. Now please hurry, we’re late as it is!’ We had less than an hour to get to the theatre to meet Pixie and Jane.

‘Don’t the leggings look funny with these shoes?’

‘How about boots then?’

‘Ah, of course!’ She rushed off to find her boots.

It was useless trying to rush Ellie when she got like this. She approached dressing like Sir Edmund Hillary approached Everest. I was her Tenzing Norgay, there for critical support.

Eventually we emerged from Piccadilly Circus Tube into a swirling throng of people. Girls in various states of undress despite the frigid January air teetered in shoes that would keep chiropodists in business for years. The boys swaggered with bravado and lager. Excitement coursed through me at the thought of the night ahead.

‘There’s Pixie and Jane,’ Ellie said, quickening her step as we approached the red-brick-fronted theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was mobbed.

‘You look pretty!’ I said, admiring Pixie’s striking eye makeup and sheer lips. I was glad to see her making an effort. She rarely bothered any more.

‘Well, it’s not every night we get to go out on the town. Will you look at this? It’s a proper Saturday night out! I’m well excited.’

We joined the buzzing crowd to make our way inside, where the usher directed us to the stalls.

‘Wow,’ whispered Jane as we walked down the side aisle toward our seats. ‘This is grand.’

‘I’m glad we’re not up there,’ Ellie said, nodding to the three ornately painted gold and burgundy balconies above us. ‘It looks cramped.’

‘I’m not sure this is much better,’ I said as I realised where our seats were. It was pretty clear that four large ladies weren’t going to be able to squeeze past the theatregoers already in their seats. ‘Erm, excuse me,’ I said to the couple on the end. ‘It might be easier if you …’

The older woman took a split second to take in the situation before her eyes slid away and she shifted into the aisle with her husband.

‘Oh,’ said Pixie behind me, a look of uncertainty flashing across her face.

The next couple realised they’d need to come out into the aisle too. Apologetic murmurs escaped us as we shuffled along. Then, again, we were at an impasse.

‘What should we do?’ Ellie asked with dismay.

‘Should we see if there are seats at the back?’ Jane wondered. She hated making a scene.

‘At the back?’ Pixie said. ‘We paid sixty bloody pounds for these tickets! I’m not sitting at the back.’

She was right. Of course she was right. That didn’t make the situation any easier.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I said to the couple who were shuffling along the row towards us. ‘Could you possibly ask the people next to you to come out too? And maybe ask them to tell the people next to them? We’re seats eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen.’ In other words, directly in the middle of the blooming row.

I felt my face go hot. Of course everyone around us noticed the commotion. How could they not? Some avoided eye contact. A few whispered. Others smiled in commiseration. Those embarrassed looks of sympathy were the worst.

Perhaps we should have turned at the first hurdle and cut our losses. But how were we to know that the theatre’s seats couldn’t accommodate a sixteen-stone woman with curves like Pixie’s?

She called them her saddlebags, and joked that she liked to keep her weekly food shopping in them. But it was no joke when she lowered herself into her seat.

‘Bloody hell, I don’t fit!’ she whispered. She tried angling in sideways. There just wasn’t enough room. Or, to be precise, there was just too much Pixie. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to see if they’ve got another seat at the back. This is going to be too uncomfortable.’

‘You can’t leave!’ Ellie whispered.

‘I’m not leaving, love. I’ll just find a more comfortable seat.’

‘We’ll go with you,’ Jane said.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, you lovely daft cow,’ Pixie smiled, shaking her head. ‘There’s no need for all of us to go. I’ll meet you in the bar at the interval, okay?’

She smiled brightly, but I wasn’t fooled. I saw the flush creeping across her cheeks before she turned away.

‘’Scuse me, love,’ she said to the man next to her. ‘I hate to disturb you again but I just got a call from George Clooney. He’s dying to take me to dinner. That man just will not take no for an answer. ’Fraid I’ve got to go. Can you maybe ask the others to scoot out again? For George’s sake?’ That raised a chuckle from the man as he passed the message down the line.

A few minutes later the lights went down and Jackson’s best-loved hits washed over us. But I kept thinking about Pixie. I wasn’t sure we would see her at the interval. If it had been me I probably would have sneaked away.

But Pixie wasn’t about to let a little thing like mortal embarrassment get her down. She was there by the bar during the break, chatting amiably with an old couple wearing matching purple jumpers that made them look Starburst.

‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ she said as we approached. ‘Though I couldn’t see if he actually looks like Michael. You lot are closer. Does he?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Where are you sitting?’

‘Oh, just at the back. One of the box office ladies found me a chair. We just drag it out into the aisle after everyone has sat down. I’ve got VIP seating … Will you stop looking at me like that?’

‘Like what, sweetheart?’ Jane asked.

‘Like I’ve got terminal cancer and don’t know it. Like you feel sorry for me.’

‘Sorry!’ we all said at once, knowing how that look can undermine a poorly constructed façade.

‘Drink?’ I said, pulling out my purse.

By the time the bells rang for us to sit again, we’d nearly forgotten the seating difficulties. Pixie had been right – it felt wonderful to be out like normal people instead of confessing our chocolate transgressions to one another.

We were all in high spirits when the theatre doors disgorged us into the cold night. There was no question of us heading for the Tube yet. None of us wanted the evening to end.

The bar we settled on, close to the theatre, was heaving with noisy drinkers.

‘So what should we see next?’ Pixie shouted when we found a spot to huddle with our drinks near the men’s loos. Every time the door opened, our night was perfumed by the whiff of urinal cake.

‘Or do? We could do something next time,’ I said. ‘Maybe go somewhere nice like Kew Gardens? Or Windsor or Bath on a weekend?’

Ellie nodded. ‘I’d love to go to Windsor. Could we do a tour of the palace?’

‘I’m not sure in the winter, but we can check,’ Jane said. ‘As long as we don’t go back to that theatre.’ I knew that Jane would hold a grudge on Pixie’s behalf for a long time. She was a good friend like that.

‘There should be a way to know beforehand whether seats will be comfortable,’ Ellie said. ‘A nice easy rating system like they do with the food in restaurants.’

‘Maybe we should make one.’

‘No way,’ said Pixie, laughing. ‘I don’t fancy jamming my arse into seats all over London.’

‘Okay, so we don’t jam our arses into that theatre’s seats,’ I said. ‘We just need to find some that are more accommodating for the larger lady.’

‘That would be useful information to have,’ Jane said. ‘Not just for us – for lots of people.’

‘I guess we could ask when we book the tickets,’ I said. ‘Send someone down from the box office with a measuring tape. Get him to bounce on the seats, assess springiness, see if his knees hit the seat in front.’

Jane wasn’t laughing with the rest of us. ‘Jane?’

‘That’s a really good idea,’ she said. ‘Seriously, why don’t we ask these things before we book again? After all, we want to have fun, and it’s not fun when one of us has to sit on an office chair at the back.’

This reminder sobered us. ‘So we’ll ask next time,’ said Pixie. ‘Cheers, ladies. To us.’

‘Here’s to many more nights like this!’ Ellie said. ‘With comfortable seats.’ We all clinked to that.

Later we walked towards the Tube feeling very merry. I offered to find the next performance with roomy seating and I knew I’d book it as soon as possible. I hadn’t felt this good in ages. It was so much better than stepping on the scales every week.

‘Hang on,’ Ellie said, steering us towards the cash machine. ‘I need to get some money for tomorrow morning. It’s my turn to buy the office treats.’

Jane was getting her groove on while we waited, singing one of Jackson’s hits while she danced in place.

Two young men passing by glanced over. Then one of them started singing, ‘I’m fat, you’re fat, come on, you know, woo!’ They laughed as they carried on up the road.

‘Beat it!’ Pixie shouted, catching my eye.

‘You don’t wanna be starting something!’ I said.

‘That’s all right, it doesn’t matter,’ Jane said. ‘They’re out of my life anyway.’ But she slouched into her coat with her hands in her pockets and we didn’t talk much on the walk to the Tube.

CHAPTER FOUR

I wasn’t about to lose momentum with our girls’ nights out, and spent most of the next morning between work phone calls googling theatres with roomier seats. I was quickly able to whittle down my list. To my surprise, people did take the time to gripe about their bad experiences online. Unfortunately there was no centralised whingers’ repository, which made the process a bit slow.

I kept watch for Cressida. She had a knack for popping up over the cubicle wall like a censorious jack-in-the-box whenever I faffed around. As my boss, I suppose she had the right to do this but given that most people didn’t even want to do my job, she should really have been grateful that I was there at all. Calling up strangers with money-saving offers put me just above a Jehovah’s Witness in the social acceptability stakes. Sure, I called pharmacies, nutritionists and health food shops, not people in the middle of dinner. But that still meant I got hung up on. A lot.

Even so, I liked my work, though I’d had my doubts when they first hired me. They sent us on a week-long training course to learn the science behind the nutritional supplements we were selling. Men in white lab coats explained everything in mind-numbing detail. Luckily I had a head for mind-numbing detail. It didn’t take long to start managing my own client list, but it wasn’t always easy. Oversharing clients sometimes admitted to heinous bodily irregularities before I could remind them that I wasn’t a trained professional in that sense. Then I spent weeks worrying about their health.

Eventually I got used to being tethered to my desk by the sleek headset that made us all look like Justin Bieber’s backup singers. It took some practice to learn to ignore the other sales reps’ patter, to concentrate only on my own call. But now it was completely normal. What a funny word that was: normal. It was all a matter of perspective.

I spotted Alex before he reached my desk, and used those few milliseconds to remember I hadn’t plucked the chin hair I noticed in the mirror that morning.

‘Hiya!’ he said, oblivious to my chin. ‘Want to try that new Japanese place for lunch?’

‘That depends. Are you buying?’

‘I’ll spring for the green tea if you’ll consult on the sushi. I never know what to get besides California rolls.’

‘Well, I do know my way around a bento box.’ What was I saying? There’s no sushi in a bento box.

‘One o’clock?’

‘Make it twelve-thirty.’

That still gave me enough time to nip to Boots for tweezers.

It wasn’t unusual to go to lunch with Alex, which meant I’d had ample opportunity over the past month to feel awkward about the Christmas Kiss. He never let on that he remembered, but he could be cagey like that and I was constantly alert for clues. If we were proper friends I’d have just asked him, but as things stood I didn’t want to spook him. It had taken me six years to get to the friendly acquaintanceship stage with him. Given enough time and luck, we might just become something more exciting one day. I lived in hope.

The restaurant was packed. We wedged onto a cramped table in one corner. The large plate-glass window at the front ran with condensation and the menus were already spotted with soy sauce. The prices were good and if the food was even mediocre, it was the kind of place that’d do a brisk lunchtime trade amidst the sea of sandwich shops in the area.

Alex closed his menu. ‘I won’t pretend to know what I’m looking at,’ he said with a grin that loosened my insides.

‘You just asked me here to order for you.’

‘I did warn you. And I’m paying you handsomely in tea, don’t forget.’

I sighed dramatically. ‘I’m not just brains you know. I’m also a pretty face.’

‘Of that,’ he said, raising his tiny tea cup, ‘there’s no doubt. Now order quick, I’m starving.’

There seemed to be just one waitress in the restaurant, a gangly young woman with long blonde hair tied haphazardly into a loose bun so that tendrils escaped to frame her pretty face. When I tried to do that I looked like I’d been in bed with ’flu for three days. Finally she approached our table.

‘Are you ready to order?’ she asked, looking at Alex, who nodded to me.

‘Yes, please may we have two orders of spicy tuna roll, one California roll …’ I stopped talking when I noticed she wasn’t looking at me. ‘One soft-shell crab roll and one salmon nigiri … did you get all that?’

She nodded, finally looking my way before heading for the kitchen.

‘Thanks for ordering,’ Alex said, oblivious to the waitress’s rudeness. ‘Everything sounds great.’

‘Now you know what to order for next time.’

‘Nah, I won’t remember,’ he said.

‘Will I have to come with you every time you want sushi? That might be awkward on a date.’ Even as I joked my heart skidded at the thought of Alex on a date. Steady on, girl, I told myself. You’d think I’d be able to look at the man without wanting to lunge over the table. Not even Rory had this much hold over me. And that was at least based on a solid friendship.

I glared at the waitress for the rest of the meal but she remained unaware of my loathing, not even once glancing in my direction. She was all smiles for Alex though. She must have thought he was paying. Or else she had a crush on him. Or … as I suspected, I was Invisible Katie.

The worst part about being a fat woman isn’t that people look at you with judgement in their eyes. It’s that most don’t look at you at all. You cease to be a person for whom they need to account. They look over your shoulder, or at the ground in front of you, or they glaze their eyes and look directly through you. It’s like being a ghost, but with none of the fun of haunting. That waitress wasn’t ignoring me. I was simply inconsequential.

Alex and I went back to the office and straight into our meeting together, as if lunch hadn’t just happened.

I made it sound nonchalant, didn’t I? Our meeting together. Like I had them all the time and hadn’t taken nearly an hour to dress this morning.

Our company was always on the lookout for ways to get more work out of us without breaking EU employment law. So instead of just asking, they liked to make it look like overworking was our idea. We’d had personality tests that told us it was okay to be a workaholic. We’d been given motivational tee shirts and posters. There was a weekly prize for Awesomeness. We were on a slippery slope, one group hug away from going on retreats together to chant affirmations and weave everlasting friendship lanyards.

When Alex asked for a volunteer last month to help implement their latest improvement (vision boards stuck with aspirational magazine images to help us reach our goals), I had to fight the urge to shout Pick me, Pick me with my hand in the air.

Of course it was a stupid idea. But it was our boss Clive’s stupid idea, so everyone had to show willing, at least to his face. My face didn’t garner the same respect. I was now known as Karma Katie around the office.

In the conference room, I tried to shake off that henchman feeling as I double-checked my notes. Yes, Herr Commandant, everything was carried out as you instructed.

Alex pointed to his steaming cup. ‘No coffee for you?’ The very idea baffled him.

It smelled delicious. ‘I’d love to but I’m off coffee at the moment. My heart’s been doing something funny lately.’ As I hadn’t dropped dead from it I wasn’t overly worried about a heart attack. It was more of an unusual rhythm – da-da-da-da-da-da-kerthunk! Sometimes it made me out of breath.

‘It’s not dangerous, is it? You should get it checked.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing really wrong.’ I tried not to get carried away with fantasies of him kneeling at my bedside, holding my hand to declare his love.

He nodded, unaware of the role he was playing in my imagination. ‘Let’s try to make this quick. I’ve got another meeting at two.’ He rolled his eyes.

This was his way of letting me know that he might be on the board, but he wasn’t one of The Establishment. He was far too cool for that. He windsurfed, for goodness sake. Just imagine him emerging from the sea, streaming with water, sun glistening …

The vision popped as he opened his notebook to get down to work.

‘Yep, agreed,’ I said. ‘Let’s make it a quickie. I mean … well, I didn’t mean that.’ Well done, Katie. Cool as usual. I pushed a thick lock of hair out of my face, accidently sticking myself in the eye as I did so. ‘Ouch.’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. I waved away his concern, squinting attractively. ‘So, tell me then. Have you made your vision board? Are all your darkest desires pasted on cardboard for the universe to fulfil? It only accepts paper requests you know.’

‘Every single one is documented for the Fates to act on,’ I said. ‘I even stuck the Philips Pharmacy logo on there. If I could find a photo of Jenny, I’d add it. Maybe with a lock of hair and a voodoo doll.’ Jenny’s latest objection was that we tested the products on animals. We didn’t, but once she was on a roll it was hard stopping her. ‘And I used staples on the really important ones … calorie-free cupcakes and world domination.’

‘Lofty goals. I’m glad you didn’t waste time on trivial things like cancer cures or filthy riches.’

‘Without calorie-free cupcakes, what’s the point of the rest of it?’

His throaty laugh gave me bedroom visions. ‘You always brighten my day, Katie Winterbottom. ’

That’s me, the day-brightener. If I’d had a quid for every time I’d heard that from someone I fancied, the calorie-free cupcake research fund would be nearly full. I suppose being appreciated for my conversations was all right, if he wasn’t going to love me for my body.

‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to make our last meeting,’ he said. ‘A good mate got us last-minute tickets to the rugby. Promise not to breathe a word of it to the higher-ups. They think my mother needed a ride to her chiropractor.’

I held up my hand in oath.

‘Your email was very thorough though. I didn’t expect graphics.’

I knew I’d gone overboard when I found myself in the office after eight p.m. trying to animate tiny pencils to march across the presentation.

‘You must let me take you out for a drink,’ he continued. ‘You’ve saved my arse once again. And I suppose you’ll have to save it today too. We need something to show the board. We can’t really monitor progress, can we? I mean without violating HR policy. The damn things are probably supposed to be confidential.’

‘I suppose I could ask everyone if they’ve done it. That’d give you something to report back on. Maybe a few people would be willing to show theirs to the board.’

‘Would you be willing to show me yours?’ he asked.

I’d show him mine right there on the conference table. ‘I, erm.’

‘That sounded rude, didn’t it?’ He smiled, not making any effort to correct it. Did he mean what he’d said?

Then he laughed a deep, rich chuckle that made my reproductive system wobble with glee.

‘Don’t you need to get to your next meeting?’

He ran his hand through his gorgeous hair, blowing out his cheeks. ‘In my next life please remind me to study architecture or film-making, not finance. Honestly, Katie, I don’t know what I did in my past life to deserve this.’

‘You must have been very naughty,’ I said before I could stop myself. Oh. My. God. I sounded like a MILF from some nineties porn movie. ‘Karma, I mean. Bad karma transformed into a career in finance. You should watch yourself or you’ll come back as something even worse next time. Maybe an ambulance-chasing solicitor. Har har.’

‘My parents are both solicitors,’ he said. ‘Personal injury.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it! I’m sure they’re very nice people and they probably didn’t do anything horrible in a previous life to deserve to be solicitors. I mean, it was just—’

‘Katie, relax, I was only joking. My parents are doctors. Shall we get on with this?’

I left the meeting in a muddle. He didn’t mention anything about the Christmas party. Still no hints that he might remember more than he was letting on. No lovely innuendos. I’d carried a torch for this man for six years, which hadn’t dimmed one iota. I must have used extra-long life batteries. It couldn’t go on like this.

CHAPTER FIVE

Our overdrafts wouldn’t survive sixty-quid theatre tickets for very long, so our girls’ nights were interspersed with thriftier options.

‘I’ve never seen so many skinny jeans in one place,’ Jane said, shifting in her chair to tuck her legs further beneath the table in the cinema’s foyer. ‘Have we walked into a Topshop advert?’

‘They’re hipsters,’ Ellie whispered, as if observing them on safari. Maybe she was afraid they’d stampede if spooked. ‘They all dress like this in the East End. It looks good on teenagers but I could never wear jeans like that.’

‘Oh, but Ellie,’ Jane said, ‘of course you can, you’re only twenty-five! I’m the one who’s probably too old to be trendy.’

‘You make yourself sound like a granny, Jane,’ I said. ‘You’re only thirty-five. And a young-looking thirty-five at that.’

‘She’s right,’ Pixie said, smoothing her hands over her thighs. ‘I’m thirty-five and I’m wearing them. I am! You don’t have to be a size zero you know. Skinny just means they fit your body … whatever body you’ve got. I can’t stand those baggy ones they always stock in big sizes. They make me look like a postie. My calves aren’t too bad. I may as well show them off.’

She did have pretty calves, and slender ankles. She often said her parents had some spinning top mixed in with their Yorkshire heritage. I loved that she could see the good in herself, even when sometimes others didn’t.

‘I don’t know how you do it, Pixie,’ Jane said. ‘I admire you so much. I can’t even let Andy see my wobbly bits, let alone the wider world. I make him turn all the lights out when we’re in bed.’

How I wished some of Pixie’s confidence would rub off on Jane. ‘Doesn’t he get cross about that?’

She smiled. ‘If he does, he doesn’t let on. He’s too good a husband.’

Ellie was keen to find our seats, even though we’d already reserved them. I hadn’t seen her so excited since the Selfridges shoe sale last year. But then it wasn’t every day that her favourite film director offered to do a talk after his film.

There was a collective intake of breath when we saw the huge cushy green velvet armchairs. Pixie made a face. ‘They’re not big enough …’

‘Very funny,’ I said. It was nap-worthy seating. ‘This could be the perfect cinema experience, thank you, Hackney Picturehouse!’ I imagined all the cold, rainy weekend afternoons we could spend lounging in cinematic splendour. In seats like that I’d even watch Vin Diesel without too much of a grump.

Within minutes of the opening credits though, I was yearning for Vin. Instead we sat through two hours of bleak inner angst. As if I needed any more of that, after the day I’d had. My mind replayed the afternoon’s meeting while the actors wept on-screen. Stupid arthouse film.

Every month the entire Nutritious sales team met in the big conference room to divvy up new client prospects and report on progress with existing clients. Everybody lied, of course (occupational hazard), but it was important to go through the motions to give our bosses the illusion of control.

As usual, Clive (he of the vision boards) chaired the meeting and, as usual, we played Buzzword Bingo. Trading the cards around each month made sure that everyone got an equal chance over time.

Nobody could sling vacuous office speak like Clive, and he never disappointed. Ellie jumped when he said ‘Let’s focus on the bottom line, team’ and I knew she had my card from last month. Focus and bottom line in one go. Well played, Ellie.

‘All right, last order of business,’ he said as I ticked off one of my boxes. Just touch base and game plan left to win. ‘New account visits. We’ve got sixteen this month. Who can take Camelot in Northampton?’

I raised my hand with lots of others.

‘Steve, thanks. Cohens in Leeds?’

Again my hand went up. ‘Susan, great. Faith Fitness, also in Leeds? Susan, do you want to take that too? Thanks. Havens Chemist? Matt.’

Each time my hand went up. Each time Clive chose a colleague to take the meeting. By the end of the list, my arm was tired. So was I.

‘Right,’ said Clive. ‘Thank you, ladies and gents. Same time next month. Any questions, just touch base with me.’

‘Erm, Clive? Isn’t there a client I could take?’ I asked, subtly ticking off my touch base box.

He smiled his grandfatherly smile. ‘I’m sorry, Katie, that’s the end of the list. Next time you should volunteer earlier.’ Ellie grimaced her support as she took the minutes. She was lucky. As the company secretary and all-round indispensable person, she didn’t have to fight for client meetings with the rest of us.

I didn’t bother pointing out that my hand was in the air the whole time. I could have danced on the desk and he’d have passed me over. It was a long-standing fact. I was one of their top salespeople on the phone. I never got client meetings.

Once Ellie’s moany film ended we had to stay for another twenty minutes while sycophantic fans stroked the director’s ego. Even she looked ready for a drink by the time we finally made for the pub down the road.

‘You know what I really want?’ Ellie asked as we carried our wine to an empty table. ‘Cake. I could murder a slice of gooey chocolate gateau.’ She licked her lips thinking about it.

‘I could eat two slices,’ I said. Lately my appetite had been colossal. ‘With ice cream.’

‘God, don’t!’ moaned Jane. ‘I haven’t had anything sweet all week.’

‘You’re not still on your stinking wee cereal diet?’ Pixie said. ‘Love, give it up. There’s no reason to put yourself through something that clearly doesn’t work.’ When Ellie protested this rather blunt statement, she said, ‘What? Jane has said as much. It’s been over a month and she hasn’t lost any weight.’

‘I gained a pound,’ Jane confirmed. ‘But I’m going to try something new. Katie, you might know about this too, from work. It’s called Alli. Have you heard of it?’

‘We don’t sell any diet aids.’ I made a mental note to ask the science types around at the office about it anyway.

‘You take it with meals,’ she explained. ‘And it keeps your body from absorbing fat. The best part is you can eat whatever you like!’

‘It sounds too good to be true,’ Ellie said. ‘Is it safe?’

‘I bought it at Boots, so it must be,’ she said. ‘This could be the miracle I’ve been looking for.’

I hated seeing Jane get so excited about the latest fad only to be disappointed.

‘Are you finished?’ Pixie glared at us. ‘Jesus, will you listen to yourselves? We may as well just go to Slimming Zone. It’d be cheaper and we can have the exact same monotonous conversations. Aren’t you tired of always thinking about what you ate yesterday, what you can eat today? It’s exhausting. I quit Slimming Zone to get away from all that and you’re bringing it with you on our nights out.’ Her look softened. ‘Ladies. We are more than the sum total of our BMIs. Honestly, I’m sick to death of it all. Aren’t you?’

Actually I was. And Pixie was right. We had better things to talk about than our waistlines. ‘Well, I thought that film was a load of old donkey’s bollocks.’

‘How can you say that?’ Ellie asked. ‘It was beautiful.’

‘It was boring.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Pixie said. ‘Donkey’s bollocks aren’t boring.’

‘Not all films move along at the pace of Love, Actually.’

Ellie knew I judged all cinema against the Richard Curtis classics.

I shrugged. ‘That storyline was Jurassic. Glaciers move faster.’

‘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 she 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.

Amanda’s words were echoed by the others as they said their good-byes and rushed off for the rest of their Sunday afternoons.

‘I’d say your club is a success,’ said Rob.

‘It’s not a club!’ Jane and Ellie said together.

‘Maybe it could be though?’ I mused. ‘Why not? I mean, if we want others to join us anyway, then why not make it a club?’

‘That sounds very formal,’ Pixie said.

‘Well, I guess there’d be some organising to do, but I could do that … of course, we could all do it too.’

‘You did such a great job with this,’ Ellie said. ‘I’m happy to go along with whatever you plan. Unless you want me to help?’

‘Only if you want to,’ I said, realising how quickly the conversation was descending into ridiculously polite territory. ‘I could look into something for the next night out and we can decide who wants to plan after that.’

‘We could set up a Facebook page to tell the others,’ Jane said. ‘At the meeting next week we’d just need to tell them to like the page.’

‘What about people who don’t use Facebook?’ Rob asked, raising his hand. For an IT programmer he was remarkably unconnected in cyberspace. Even I used Facebook and my computer skills peaked before Jedward could drive.

‘We could make a simple website,’ he proposed. ‘We could even do one on Blogger. It’s free.’

‘When you say we,’ I began.

‘I mean me,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t make you step out of your comfort zone. I know you only use your computer to read celebrity gossip. I can knock up a website at work in just a few minutes. I’d be happy to.’

‘It would be good, right, to make it official?’ Jane said. ‘I have felt like I’ve been part of something these past few months. Like we’re stronger together when we go out.’

‘I feel normal,’ said Pixie quietly. ‘For the first time in years I’m not the freak with the elastic waistband. We’re all the freaks with the elastic waistbands. There’s safety in numbers.’

‘Exactly.’ Ellie nodded, her hair flying over her eyes. ‘I don’t feel self-conscious. Just … normal. That feels so good.’

‘That’s because we are the norm here,’ Pixie said. ‘Actually we’re the norm out there too. You’ve seen the news; most people are overweight. It just doesn’t seem like it, looking around. Maybe it’s time to be loud and proud.’

‘The Loud and Proud Club,’ Rob said, raising his glass. ‘You’ll need a name for the website.’

‘The Loud and Proud Club sounds like a gay band,’ Pixie said. ‘What about the Loud Proud Social Club? Then you know what we are.’

‘Now it sounds like a gay social club,’ I said.

‘The Big Girls Social Club?’ Jane proposed.

Ooh, I liked that very much.

‘What about big boys?’ Rob said. ‘Don’t be sexist.’

‘But you’re like a girl,’ Ellie said.

‘Thank you for emasculating me.’

‘I just mean that you’re a friend, like us girls,’ she clarified. ‘What about the Big Boned Social Club?’

‘God, no,’ Pixie winced. ‘That’s what people call you when they think they’re being nice. It makes me think of women shot-putters. Besides, not everyone who’s fat is big-boned. Some of us are just curvy.’

‘The Curvy Girls Club?’ Jane proposed.

A tremor of enthusiasm coursed through me. The Curvy Girls Club. That was it. ‘I love it!’

‘Me too!’

‘But it’s not just for women, right?’ Ellie asked, glancing quickly at Rob.

‘No way, everyone is welcome,’ Jane said. ‘That’s the whole point.’

‘Do we need to account for that in the title, then?’ I asked.

Pixie laughed. ‘Katie, you’re in sales. Since when are you worried about a little thing like accuracy?’ She thought for a moment. ‘We can put a little asterisk in the title and add a disclaimer in tiny writing at the bottom, like they do with payday loans and volumising mascara.’

‘Problem solved then,’ I said. ‘We’re the Wonga of social clubs. Rob, you’ll join us, right?’

He grinned. ‘Sure. Only I probably won’t tell people I’m a member of the Curvy Girls Club. Maybe the CGC. That sounds much manlier.’

Jane lifted her drink. ‘To the Curvy Girls Club.’

‘Asterisk … and men!’ said Rob.

We all raised our glasses to our new club. I hadn’t been so excited since my Rory days, and this didn’t even involve the potential for sex.

My friends placed great trust in me and once we were officially a club, the planning seemed doubly important. Besides, Rob made good on his threat and created a website that would feature our nights out. Plus, everyone who’d gone to the salsa lesson wanted to know what was next. So no pressure then.

Luckily I talked on the phone for a living, so nobody noticed the dozens of calls I made to help figure out whether events and venues would be suitable for our members. It took a lot longer than I imagined but by the end of the week we’d added half a dozen events to the website and Facebook page.

Funny how quickly perspectives can change. It was probably a similar feeling to that experienced by the newly engaged or pregnant, who suddenly notice things like bridal shops and stretch-mark creams for the first time. Those were still off my radar but every theatre marquee, restaurant review and band poster sparked my interest. I went to bed each night thinking about possible events. And I awoke every morning with excitement gently fizzing in my tummy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next few weeks flew by in a whirlwind of activity. One minute we were dancing salsa with friends, the next we were organising nights out for more than fifty people, and getting bollocked for not doing enough. Speaking for myself, anyway.

‘I did try to book,’ said the woman with her arms crossed over her ample bosom as we waited for Pam to start the Slimming Zone meeting. She was acting like I’d purposely kept her from seeing Jersey Boys with us. ‘I got an error message saying that it was sold out.’

I could tell from the consternation lining her over-tanned face that she wasn’t going to let it go. I tried again. ‘I’m really sorry. We’ve been getting a lot of interest in the theatre. If you try booking a bit earlier next time …’

‘I know some people are bringing their friends. That’s why there wasn’t room for me. That’s not right when I’m a member here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘But the events aren’t just for Slimming Zone members. In fact we don’t have members. They’re for anyone who wants to come.’

Her sense of entitlement really pissed me off. The Curvy Girls Club was ours. She was lucky we’d opened it up to other people at all.

I looked across the room at Jane and Ellie as they laughed with a group of women who’d come with us to Kew Gardens last weekend. Jane was awkwardly accepting a compliment on the club’s behalf. So how did I end up as head of the Complaints Department?

‘Excuse me a minute,’ I said to the whinger, cutting her off mid-indignation. ‘I think Jane wants a word with me.’

‘Fiona was just telling us about a Thames river cruise,’ she said when I approached. ‘Some of the boats have Dixieland jazz bands. Doesn’t that sound fun?’ I hadn’t seen Jane so animated in a long time. She’d even abandoned her needles and yarn for this conversation.

I nodded, already thinking about the questions I’d ask the organisers – how big are the life jackets? Are there many steps? Will people be helped onto/off the boat? I could make a few calls tomorrow morning before my review.

Finally Pam rapped her hand on the table, dragging our attention away from boats and bands. ‘I know everyone is excited, but can we please start the meeting? Who’d like to come up and pop on the scales?’

A few of the women made their way to the front. Ellie and I hung about at the back as usual.

‘Jane, I figured you’d run up there tonight,’ I said when she made no move. ‘Aren’t you curious to know how much you’ve crapped out this week?’

She shook her head. ‘I know the answer. It’s zero pounds. I stopped the pills.’

‘Good!’ Ellie and I said together.

‘You don’t need them. Tell her, Rob,’ Ellie said as he joined us.

‘Tell her what?’ He shrugged out of his heavy wool coat.

‘Tell Jane she doesn’t need diet pills.’

‘But I do need them,’ she said. ‘I just can’t stand the side effects any more. I’ll think of something else. What?’ she demanded when I rolled my eyes.

I did love her but sometimes I wanted to shake her. ‘Why don’t you try changing your mind set instead of your waistline? That seems healthier to me.’

‘What should I do, Katie? Tell me, please. Should I just give up and grow into a huge blob that Andy will eventually have to winch out of bed?’

‘God, you can be dramatic sometimes. You know you could stop starving yourself and going on these crazy diets without turning into a blob. You eat healthily most of the time. You do exercise. I just think we should all stop beating ourselves up because we’re not models.’

‘Katie’s right,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Pixie said. If I’m honest I’m tired of always worrying about my weight. These last couple of months have … I don’t know, they’ve made me see things a little differently.’

‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it more important to be happy with ourselves than to constantly think we should be doing better? Every time I promise myself to do better, eat less, cut carbs, exercise more, that’s saying that I’m not good enough as I am. I don’t want to do that to myself any more.’

‘So you’re just going to give up, slob out and embrace your inner fattie?’ Jane asked, jutting out her chin. ‘That’s irresponsible. You have to take responsibility for your size, Katie … it’s lazy.’

Her judgement hurt. It wasn’t a surprising message – I’d heard it my whole life in one form or another, often as friendly advice, sometimes as a hostile declaration – but it still hurt. As if I hadn’t sadly wondered myself how it had come to this. A pound here, an extra few inches there. Over the years, gradual changes became the new norm. Who amongst us hadn’t grabbed handfuls of tummy just to feel its squidgy bulk? Or shimmied naked in the mirror to watch the seismic shifts happening below her waistline? I just didn’t want to let that define me any more.

‘I’m not saying I’m going to totally slob out, Jane. I’m just saying that while we may not be perfect, none of us is getting bigger, right? We packed these pounds on years ago, and we’re still punishing ourselves for them. You wouldn’t still blame Andy or the children for something they did years ago, would you?’

‘Of course not,’ Jane said.

‘Then why do you keep blaming yourself? We do eat a balanced diet and exercise and do all the things we’re supposed to. Our lifestyles are healthy now. We should respect ourselves as much as we do other people.’

The fight left Jane. ‘I do try.’

Ellie hugged her. ‘I know you do. But cutting three and a half thousand calories out of our diets just to lose a pound is hard! Katie is right. We need to stop beating ourselves up for what we aren’t doing and be happy with what we are.’

I drew myself up in my chair. ‘I’m quitting Slimming Zone. I joined to learn how to be healthier and to find support. Well, now I know how to be healthy, and you give me all the support I could ever want. And lately when we’re out together, I have so much fun that I don’t even think about my weight. I feel … well, not pretty, exactly. But normal. I don’t need to come to these meetings any more … and if you think about it, you might realise that you don’t either.’

I watched their faces for a reaction. Jane was the first to speak. ‘I can’t promise that I’ll ever love my fat, but I’m willing to try.’ Her hands reached for her knitting. ‘On one condition. The Curvy Girls Club has to continue. I’ve been happier these last few months than I have been for years.’

‘Me too,’ Ellie said. ‘And I do think we’re ready to go it alone. Together, I mean, but not here. What do you think, Jane?’

She smiled. ‘Well, it’ll be no fun coming here without you lot. And what Katie says is true … so yes, I’m ready. Besides, it’s not like we don’t all have scales at home.’

‘You’re missing the point a bit though, Jane,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to learn to be happy as we are instead of constantly worrying about how we’d like to be. That’s what I’m going to do from now on.’

Rob grinned at me. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ I said. ‘What about you? Want to quit with us?’

He shrugged. ‘I only come here for the women anyway. And I think it’s safe to say that the club will keep going, Jane, at least if demand is any factor. Take a guess at how many unique views you’ve had on the website and blog.’

We all shrugged. I had no idea what a good number might be.

‘You’re averaging nearly three hundred a week.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you’d better get some more events lined up. Your club is starting to get very popular.’

Two years earlier, when Nutritious pared back the whole company’s hours to four days a week, there was very little silver lining in that ominous thundercloud. But the company needed to save a lot of money or we wouldn’t have had any chance of keeping our jobs, and in the middle of a recession nobody felt much like arguing above a disgruntled whisper.

It didn’t actually have much of an impact on us salespeople, since most of our pay cheques came from commissions. So we just squeezed a bit more work into the remaining four days to keep the clients happy, and once again the company got more work out of us for less money.

Ellie survived a month of Jeremy Kyle before getting herself work at the café around the corner on her day off. She preferred getting paid to serve the down-and-outs to watching them for free on TV. Besides, she didn’t have sales commissions like the rest of us, so the cut in hours hurt.

I shared neither her urge to work nor her aversion to daytime telly, which, as the club business accelerated, was turning out to be a good thing. I started splitting my Tuesdays between the equally important tasks of napping, watching old films and club business. Invariably, though, I still had to make some calls from the office.

I’d just hung up with the river cruise people when Alex appeared beside my desk. ‘I’ve got something for you. Want to grab a coffee before my next meeting?’

Of course I did. Despite all my unsubtle hints, we hadn’t been to lunch again. Still, there was no doubt we were on more familiar terrain now.

‘I’ll need some caffeine,’ I said. ‘I’ve got my appraisal this afternoon.’

I was willing to make an exception to my no-caffeine rule to get me through that meeting.

When it came to my comfort and enjoyment, reviews were on par with smear tests. True, no tears had been shed during them in the entire six years I’d worked at Nutritious. Yet no matter how hard I worked, I’d never been more than Adequate. Five grades to choose from and my boss always put me in the middle. What kind of motivation was that? Adequate was a nice way of saying meh. It was so-so, a verbal shrug. They claimed it meant I was doing everything I was supposed to. It meant they had no complaints. Was it any wonder I always walked away with a sense of disappointment?

But today I was going to make my stand (not my normal modus operandi). I knew I was better than adequate. I just had to grow the meatballs to tell Cressida why.

Alex made me wait until our steaming takeaway cups were in hand before pulling a small white envelope from his jacket pocket.

Inside were two tickets for the orchestra at the weekend. ‘Wow, thank you!’

‘You mentioned that you like classical music, and there were some extra tickets going, so I thought …’ He grinned, watching my expression.

‘I’d love to, thanks!’ I nearly dropped my coffee as I lunged to hug him. It was an unusual feeling, and, being honest, slightly awkward. ‘I had no idea you liked the symphony. You never said.’ I added that to the list of his perfect man credentials.

‘That’s because I can’t stand it. I’d lose the will to live halfway through the performance. I thought you and Ellie could go. Like I said, we’ve got the extra tickets so someone may as well use them.’

Then this wasn’t a date. It was a nice gesture from a work colleague. ‘Well, thanks very much, I’m sure she’d love to. Really, this is very kind of you.’ I kept my voice bright to hide the disappointment that suddenly hit me.

How much longer was I prepared to let this stupid crush go on? Snap out of it, Katie. Perhaps it was time to heed six years of evidence that he’s not into you.

I’d got some perspective again by the time we reached the office. Alex had, after all, remembered that I liked classical music. And he had thought to give me the tickets. Those were the actions of a friend. So he wasn’t interested in me romantically. I could live with that. I had lived with that for over half a decade. And we were friends, of a sort. No, I wouldn’t call him to discuss weekend plans (although this was mainly because I didn’t have his phone number, not because I exercised any restraint), but we were friendly. It was time I let that be enough.

The office kitchen was abuzz an hour later when I went in to microwave my cooling coffee. A large dark chocolate cake sat on the table. Next to it was an envelope, scrawled with the invitation to Help yourselves you greedy sods. A few people had hacked into it, revealing layers of chocolate sponge held together with creamy cocoa icing. My mouth watered.

‘That looks delicious!’ I said to my colleagues. ‘Have you tried any?’

Mark and Matt both nodded.

‘I’m having seconds!’ said Stacy, our HR bod. Everyone called her Racy Stacy behind her back, thanks to her talent for seducing most of the men in the office. She stuck her finger into the slice she’d just cut, licking the icing off while Mark and Matt tried to calm their erections. ‘Mmm, I could swallow the whole thing.’

I had no doubt about that.

‘Are you having any?’ she asked me.

‘Oh, no thanks. I’ve got my cappuccino here.’ I waved my unsatisfying-by-comparison drink, determined to practise what I preached since quitting Slimming Zone. ‘That’s my treat for the day.’ Moderate Katie, that was me.

‘You’re doing it right,’ she said. ‘My cousin lost thirty pounds just by cutting out carbs. They’re really bad for you.’ She forked in another bite.

‘Exercise helps too,’ said Matt. ‘I can eat anything as long as I run. You should try running, Katie.’

‘Swimming is better,’ Mark said. ‘There’s less strain on the joints, so anyone can do it, regardless of their siz— fitness.’

I smiled politely while my colleagues debated the best ways to slim me down, while shovelling in more cake. The fact that I hadn’t asked for their advice never occurred to them.

CHAPTER NINE

I tried to calm my nerves as I walked towards the conference room, where Cressida waited with my employee file. She was an okay manager (some might say Adequate), and generally a nice lady.

‘Hey, all right?’ she said, smiling through the bright red lipstick she always wore. She was a fit woman of a certain age who’d been with Nutritious since it was founded twenty years ago. She was always impeccably presented. Her makeup never wore off, her hair stayed where it was supposed to and her chin didn’t sport the stubborn hairs the rest of us worried about when the sun shone.

‘How was the meeting yesterday?’ Cressida asked.

Our company liked to keep us abreast of the latest ways to legally harass people. Everyone else had gone to the sales techniques meeting.

‘Tuesday is my day off, remember?’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ve been so tied up with reviews that I’ve been a total scatterbrain. So, you know the drill by now.’ I nodded. ‘We talk about how you’ve done these past six months … but first, there’s something else.’

I waited.

‘As you know, the company has been doing everything it can to get through the downturn. Unfortunately our revenues have still fallen off, so we have to make some adjustments. I’m sure you can appreciate that these decisions aren’t easy, and I wish I was able to give you better news, but Katie, we need to ask you to go down to three days a week. But that does mean that you can have Fridays off!’

She said this like she’d just given me a free holiday, not an unpaid one. I did a quick calculation to see if I could live on three days a week. I could, just about.

‘Is this permanent?’

‘Hopefully not!’ Cressida said, sounding relieved that I hadn’t burst into tears. ‘We’ll assess in a few months and if business has improved, we’ll look to bring people back on board.’

Sure they would. That’s what they said after cutting our hours last time.

‘After all, productivity will be affected with the reduced hours, so we don’t want to make these cuts,’ she continued. ‘Don’t worry about that though, we’ll adjust your objectives accordingly. Do you have any questions?’

‘Yes, one. Does this affect all the staff like last time?’

She shook her head. ‘Luckily we didn’t have to be that drastic, so we’re only forced to make some cuts.’

In that case, actually I had two questions. ‘Why me?’

‘It’s nothing personal, Katie. We looked at everyone and had to make some difficult decisions. Now, if there are no more questions we can move on to your appraisal.’

She waited to see if I’d object further. There wasn’t any point. Asking more questions, or complaining about the decision, wouldn’t change her mind.

‘How many others have lost a day?’

‘Around twenty.’

That made me feel better. Misery did love a bit of company.

‘Is Ellie one of them?’

‘I can’t discuss other employees with you. But no, she’s not.’

I nodded, happy for her at least.

‘I’ve no more questions.’

‘All right then, let’s continue,’ she said, clearly relieved to be back on solid ground. ‘How do you feel you’ve done these past six months?

In the few moments before I answered I tried to calm my racing thoughts. In the lead was My Mortgage Payment, who always ran well in difficult conditions. Following closely behind came Why Me?, looking like a strong contender for the prize. But then on the inside rail, Day Off was making up ground, and Could Be Worse began passing the field on the outside. It was going to be a tight race.

All right, Katie, old girl, enough daydreaming (nightmaring), concentrate on the question. Now’s your chance. Ignore the fact that you’ve just lost a day. You can do this; remember you’ve got the meatballs. Mmm, meatballs. My tummy rumbled.

‘I’ve done well.’

Cressida’s face remained impassive.

‘I think I have. I mean, I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to.’

‘You have.’ She nodded, speaking slowly. ‘Your performance is as good as it was last time round.’

‘No!’

She jumped in her chair.

‘I mean, it’s better than last time. Look.’ I pointed to my last appraisal. ‘See here? My goal was to renew five client contracts. I renewed six. And here, I signed up two new accounts.’

‘How’s Jenny?’ she asked.

I cringed at the thought of my nemesis. ‘No change,’ I admitted.

Most people just put the phone down on me when they didn’t want to listen to my spiel. And they didn’t take my calls when I tried again. Not Jenny. She always took my call. They usually went something like this:

Her (in her nasally Australian accent): Go ahead, I’ve got five minutes. What are you going to tell me that I haven’t heard before?

Invariably I rose to the bait, launching into the features and claims about our newest products. I always listened to our weekly product briefings with Jenny in mind, optimistic that one day I’d win her over.

Her, after listening in silence: And you claim this works? It sounds like another one of your gimmicks.

I’d explain that they weren’t my gimmicks, that we had an entire team of scientists who developed the products. Then I’d point to all the studies that proved their efficacy. Our company armed us well like that.

Her: You fund those studies. Of course they’re going to give you the results you want.

We didn’t fund the studies, I’d explain (every time). They were independent studies.

Her, changing tack: People today are just lazy. They’re happy to stuff pills down their gob instead of addressing the underlying issues.

Me, breathing deeply through my gob: Our products are for people who need some help staying healthy.

Her: Lazy people. Would you use this product?

Me: Yes.

Her: Then you’re one of the ones I’m talking about. Why would I buy from you? Clearly your company is only interested in shortcuts. Maintaining health is a lifelong process, not a quick fix.

At which point the conversation would veer off into a philosophical debate about the psychology of our culture today. That’s the part I rather enjoyed, and the reason I wouldn’t give her up when Cressida asked if I wanted to take her off my list.

‘Jenny aside,’ Cressida said. ‘You’ve done very well with your prospects, though you haven’t quite met your client meeting target, have you?’

‘But I’m never allowed out to see clients. Clive doesn’t give me the new clients and you never approve travel expenses.’

‘It’s tough right now. Finance checks every expense.’ She looked sad to have to tell me this. ‘You know we have to look at each request based on the cost-benefit of the meeting. If one salesperson can see several clients in the same area, we have to do that. It’s a cost-efficiency decision.’

It wasn’t, but I needed to stay on-point. ‘Then why am I being penalised for not meeting that target?’

‘You’re not penalised. Not at all. I’ve still given you Adequate on your client meetings, even though you haven’t hit the target.’

‘But it counts as a negative when I point out where I’ve exceeded the target.’

Cressida sighed. ‘Katie. Your overall grade is based on your aggregate performance.’ She spoke as if to a dim-witted child. ‘In order to exceed expectations you mustn’t be behind in any of your goals. I’ve really given you a very good review, considering …’ She shifted in her chair. The mood changed suddenly. ‘There is just one thing we need to discuss.’

I got the feeling I was about to find out why I’d been the lucky winner of another day off.

‘Our records show that you’ve been using company resources for your own personal use.’

I racked my brains for something to say. ‘I, I might have taken a pen home, accidentally.’

‘I’m not talking about pens.’ She fished in her folder. ‘Your telephone records show a lot of personal calls.’ Dozens of phone numbers were circled in purple pen. They never used red pen these days, since the consultants came in last year and declared it to be a shouty colour. ‘These aren’t clients, and they’re not on the cold-call lists. Are you making personal calls from work? I don’t mean the odd call home to check your messages. This looks like much more. ’

It was a rhetorical question. The evidence sat on the table between us. Is ignorance a valid self-defence? Your honour, it never occurred to me that these were crimes. Everyone made personal calls on company time. Like everyone took pens home (I had a stationery cupboard in my handbag).

‘I’m really sorry, Cressida, and I’m very embarrassed about this. I didn’t think it was a problem. And I didn’t realise I’d made quite so many calls. Of course I won’t do it again.’ Though I wasn’t sure how I was going to keep that promise. I’d have to find someone else to make the club calls on the days I worked. Maybe Pixie could do it. She was at home, though with her children and husband there, it wasn’t a very conducive work environment. Maybe Rob.

Cressida smiled. ‘It’s fine. I just had to mention it, as your boss, that’s all. Really, don’t worry about it. It’s definitely not a big deal.’

‘Did it factor into your decision to cut my hours?’

‘No, not at all!’

I exhaled with relief. ‘I feel really foolish.’

‘Please don’t. You’re right, everybody does it. It just got flagged up because there was a pattern. You know how the company likes its exception reports. Seriously, don’t think any more about it. Have you got any more questions about your review before we set your goals for the next six months?’

I shook my head, feeling stupid for trying to argue my way out of the Adequate box. She took my final review from her folder and slid it over the table.

Needs Improvement. My face burned. ‘But I thought you said it was no big deal?’ I whispered.

‘Oh, it’s not, believe me. We just had to put you there since the reports were flagged up. HR policy. But in reality it’s not an issue as long as you don’t turn up on any more reports. Your performance has been fine. Now, shall we talk about your goals?’

She talked through the rest of the review, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I Needed Improvement.

Alex’s email was waiting for me when I returned to my desk.

You okay?

Did you know about the cut in hours?

Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t say anything until everyone was told. It’s a companywide decision. Hopefully it won’t mean a big cut in income as long as you keep up with your commissions. Seriously though, are you okay?

I guess so, thanks. I’m trying to see it as a positive – I get an extra day off!

That’s my girl. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.

As I typed smiley faces in response, something occurred to me. Were those sympathetic symphony tickets he gave me, to cushion the blow?

CHAPTER TEN

Whether they were pity tickets or not, Ellie and I enjoyed the symphony tremendously. By the time the last note faded away I wasn’t thinking about my change in circumstances at all.

But of course, being told you’ve been singled out for partial redundancy does prey on the mind, so after the concert I obsessed about it all weekend. Dress it up any way you like, it hurt to know I’d been singled out. Cressida had said it wasn’t because I Needed Improvement, but if not that, then why?

Alex was at my desk when I got into work on Monday. He whisked me away to the coffee shop, his face creased with concern as we sipped our steaming drinks.

‘Will you fight it?’ he asked.

I shook my head. I’d spent the weekend figuring out what I wanted, and how I might get it. When I told Alex, he smiled.

‘You’re a very sharp woman,’ he said, touching my hand as my tummy cartwheeled.

Back at the office I put on my game face and told Cressida that if they insisted on taking work away from me, then I wanted my days off to be Thursday and Friday. Given that I was the one being underemployed, I reasoned, she should accommodate my wishes. Plus, it would be easier to find part-time work when I didn’t have to split my days. At the mention of another job, Cressida flinched and easily acquiesced. I was glad she felt guilty. She bloody well should, having given me the Judas kiss.

Not that I had any plans to get a part-time job. Ellie worked through my budget with her Worst Case Scenario hat on and I’d still have just enough money with the pay cut. Besides, I had a better idea about what to do on those days. So I called our first official Curvy Girls Club meeting.

A smattering of the regulars sat at stools along the bar in our local, while most of the booths were colonised by the trendsters who’d moved into the area in the past few years. As a quasi-local (four years in the neighbourhood), of course I pretended to commiserate with the pub landlord’s rants about the Uniqlo-clad newbies ruining the character of the place. But given that the estate at the end of my road was raided weekly and the strip club on the corner had to install blue lights outside to keep the addicts from shooting up on the property, I welcomed the fact that our new neighbours raised my property value and didn’t usually carry concealed weapons. And if the owner saw fit to use some of his windfall to replace the burgundy paisley carpet that still stank years after the last fag was puffed in there, all the better.

‘I have news,’ I said as Ellie and I returned to the booth with everyone’s drinks. ‘I’m down to three days a week at Nutritious. They’ve cut my hours again.’

‘Oh no, that’s terrible!’ Jane’s hands paused over her knitting. ‘Both of you?’

Ellie shook her head.

‘Bastards.’ That was Pixie.

‘Well, it’s not completely bad news,’ I said, hoping that was true. ‘Looking on the bright side, it’ll free me up to do other things … like maybe work more on the Curvy Girls Club?’

‘Well of course, sweetheart, you can, but can you afford not to work that day? I mean not getting paid for doing it. I know doing the organising is a lot of work.’

‘Well, that’s the thing. Maybe I could get paid for doing it.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking and it is a lot of work to put the events together. So maybe it’s reasonable to charge a small booking fee – just a few quid to cover overheads. Rob designed the website and is running it for free. If we had a bit of money coming in then we could afford to pay for the time everyone puts into the club.’

I watched my friends’ faces as they mulled this over. A little smile played around Ellie’s lips. She already knew of my proposal, of course. I’d told her as soon as I’d thought of it.

‘Then it would be a business?’ Jane asked, sounding uncertain.

‘Do we want it to be a business?’ asked Pixie.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t, not really. But it does seem to be getting more popular, and I’m excited about where it could go. It’s been so fun, but I also feel like it’s important. I suppose we could just plan events as and when we’ve got time … It’s just that we’ve started something now. I really want to keep it going.’

‘Me too,’ Pixie said. ‘These past few months have been great. Every time we go out I feel like I find a little piece of myself again. I can’t remember when I was so chuffed with my life. Sometimes I even forget about that bloody man at home. That’s worth more than a couple of quid to me.’

We laughed at her statement, but I recognised the sad honesty in it. ‘Is he still trying to get into your knickers?’

She nodded. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. He’s bloody keen for someone who constantly tells me how fat and ugly I am. Last night he called me a … and I quote, a “shit-filled pig”. He was angry that we ate tea without him. As if I’d starve myself or the children just because he’s two hours late back from the pub. But he’s a walking contradiction. One minute he’s saying things like that, pointing out the fat rolls on my tummy or jiggling the backs of my arms, and the next he’s pointing his erection at me and telling me how much he loves me.’

‘Pixie, you can’t let him do that to you!’ Ellie said. ‘I mean making you feel bad about your weight, not the other thing.’

‘He’s not hurting me.’

‘Maybe not physically,’ I said. ‘But mentally he is. Ellie’s right. You can’t let him do that.’

She sighed. ‘I pick my battles, love. He’d never dare lay a hand on me or the children. Believe me, that would be going too far.’ She chuckled. ‘And now I think I’ve got a way to keep him from laying anything on me …’ Her eyes glinted as she dug her mobile phone from her bag and scrolled through a few screens. ‘Look what I’ve just bought!’

‘Oh my god,’ Jane said, as we all looked at the photo. ‘Are you planning to wear that?’

‘I got three of them. They arrived in the post today. I’m going to try one tonight. Sexy, eh?’ She grinned wickedly.

Pixie seemed to be suggesting wearing a puke-green, thick terrycloth onesie around the house as birth control. The one she showed us had a hood and feet and zipped up the front. She was right. I didn’t imagine Trevor would unzip that unless she was going into cardiac arrest.

‘I hope it works,’ Ellie said. ‘But you really should think about leaving, Pixie.’

‘I do, every waking moment, love, but I’d need to find work or the children and I won’t be able to live. Right, thank you for depressing me.’

‘Sorry!’ we all said.

She smiled. ‘That’s all right. I know you’re just watching out for me. Now, where were we, before you convinced me to share my fashion advice with you?’

Pixie often snapped shut as quickly as she opened up, so I wasn’t surprised to hear her change the subject.

‘Charging for events,’ I said. ‘I did the maths. If we’d charged two quid for each event we’ve had so far, we’d have over six hundred quid now.’

‘That is interesting,’ Pixie said. ‘It actually could be a business if we wanted it to be.’

‘Assuming people will pay,’ Jane said.

‘Assuming people will pay,’ echoed Pixie. ‘We could also expand the events.’

‘That’s what we’re saying, sweetheart.’

‘No, I mean we could expand the range of events we host. They don’t all have to be things we want to do ourselves. If it’s an official club now, and a business, shouldn’t we think of things that will be popular even though they may not be our cup of tea?’

I nodded. ‘Like what?’

She thought for a moment. ‘What about speed-dating?’

My face told her my thoughts on that.

‘Why not? A lot of the people coming are single. They might like it. We could call it something fun, like Find a Chubby Hubby.’

‘Wasn’t that a brand of ice cream?’ Jane wondered.

‘Right. Copyright issues. How about Fat Friends?’ she proposed. ‘I don’t know, something fun.’

I definitely didn’t like that idea. ‘That was a TV programme … besides, there’s nothing fun about Fat Friends. It’s insulting.’

‘Oh, get off your high horse. We’re fat. We’re friends. It does what it says on the tin.’

‘All right,’ Ellie said. ‘We don’t have to decide right now. The important thing is that we agree we’ll charge a fee, right? So we can grow the Curvy Girls Club. The sky’s the limit, ladies.’

Everyone nodded and I felt like I’d just watched our child take her first step. How had this become so important to me? Sappy Katie.

We’d just sat down to dinner a week later at Pixie’s favourite pizza place when Jane dropped her bombshell on us.

‘I can’t wait any longer,’ she said. ‘Look!’ She yanked a copy of the Evening Standard from her cavernous bag, dragging out most of her knitting in the process.

London’s ‘biggest’ social club?

There’s a new kid on the block in London’s entertainment industry, and it’s not for everyone. A group of fed-up slimmers have come together to launch the Curvy Girls Club, an entertainment resource for the larger lady.

The long article went on to describe how we’d started and some of the events we’d done so far.

‘Ooh look, we’re named!’ Ellie wriggled. ‘I had no idea we were going to get into the newspaper!’ She said it like our names had appeared written in the night sky. ‘And Katie, you’re quoted!’

I pulled the paper closer.

‘I hope you don’t mind, sweetheart. They wanted a quote and I remembered what you said at Slimming Zone. It seemed perfect so …’

I read the line twice. The point is to learn to be happy the way we are, says co-founder Katie Winterbottom, instead of constantly worrying about how we’d like to look.

‘You sly bugger,’ said Pixie. ‘How did you do this?’

Jane blushed. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It happened by accident, really. One of the mums at Abigail’s school writes for them, and one afternoon last month we got talking when we dropped the children off. Actually I was surprised she spoke to me. She’s part of the immaculate crowd who drive up in their huge sparkling clean SUVs, looking like they’ve just come from the salon. They don’t usually talk to me, just stare like I’m something they’ve accidently stepped in. They probably go off to their gyms afterwards to perfect their already perfect bodies. Meanwhile I turn up in the same tracksuit from the day before, with no makeup and dirty hair, shove the children out the door and go home to eat the remains of their breakfast. Plus all the biscuits I can find in the house. It’s depressing. If we had the money I’d hire a nanny just to do the school runs.’

Ellie squeezed Jane’s hand.

‘Oh, it’s all right, sweetheart. I’m not the only slummy mummy at the school gates. It just feels like that sometimes. So anyway, I’d accidentally boxed her car in and instead of just telling me to move, she mentioned that her daughter loves Abigail and it went from there, really. When she mentioned her work I thought I had nothing to lose by telling her what we were doing. She loved the idea and pitched it to her editor. So then we did a telephone interview about the club. She told me not to get my hopes up, so I didn’t mention anything, but then it came out tonight.’

‘I wonder if anyone went on the website to have a look.’

‘Call Rob!’ Pixie and Ellie said at once.

‘Okay, okay.’ My hand was already on my phone. ‘Though it’s dinnertime. I’ll text him in case he’s eating.’ I tapped the short message about the article and pressed send.

‘We could try getting into other papers,’ I said. ‘If the Evening Standard were interested then maybe the other local papers will be too.’

‘The Evening Standard isn’t local,’ Ellie said. ‘It’s national!’

‘No, Ellie, it’s London’s local paper.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not national? I just assumed.’

‘Spoken like a true southerner,’ said Pixie. ‘No, my love, it’s just for London. Katie’s right though, we could try other locals like the Ham & High.’

‘And maybe the nationals would be interested too,’ said Ellie. ‘Imagine getting into The Times or The Guardian. Jane, do you think it’s possible?’

She nodded. ‘It’s possible, but probably more likely for the local papers. I’d be happy to write a short PR piece and send it round to the editors. I can get contact details from work.’

‘Then it’s official,’ I teased. ‘You’re our head of PR.’ With Jane’s connections at Channel 4, where she worked as a programme developer, I couldn’t think of a better candidate.

It was funny how we’d slipped naturally into the roles that suited us – Rob on the website, me organising the events and now Jane handling the PR. Pixie and Ellie didn’t have as much free time as we did – Trevor resented any time Pixie wasn’t slavishly looking after him or the children, and Ellie’s time was tied up between her second job and lovely Thomas – but they came to most of the events and had become the de facto hosts.

‘Sure, I’m happy to be our publicist,’ Jane said, looking chuffed with her new role.

‘This is all starting to become official now, isn’t it?’ Ellie said. ‘I mean, the Curvy Girls Club is a going concern.’

‘Do we need to formalise anything?’ I asked. ‘Now that we’re charging a fee, do we need to register somewhere, or tell HMRC?’

Pixie shrugged. ‘We’re not exactly Philip Green yet.’

‘No, but we should probably set up something simple,’ Jane said. ‘When my brother started his business he did have to register with HMRC, even though he wasn’t making any money at first. I can ask him about it. We’d probably just need to nominate ourselves as directors and file some paperwork.’

‘Does that mean we get to be on the board of directors?’ Ellie’s eyes shone. ‘And have a president and everything?’

‘I nominate Katie for president,’ Pixie said. ‘After all, you’re doing most of the work, love.’

‘I second it,’ said Jane and Ellie at the same time. ‘All in favour?’

‘Aye!’

My phone pinged with a text just as the waitress set the results of our first executive decisions before us. (I chose the cheese-less seafood pizza.)

Website is going nuts, Rob’s text read. As Chief Brody once said, You’re gonna need a bigger boat. Let’s talk about upping the bandwidth. Off work tmrw, let’s meet.

I showed everyone the text. ‘I guess that means the article has worked,’ I said, grinning. ‘Maybe it’s time to think about an official launch.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was after eleven the next morning by the time I met Rob. He’d suggested an address in Hackney that I had to use my iPhone to find. Not that I felt particularly comfortable waving it around in the desolate neighbourhood.

Come through the red door under the arches, he’d said. Yeah right. That was how sadistic horror films started. Tentatively I knocked, ready to spring into the road if necessary.

‘Hello!’ Rob said, looking at his watch. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I’m really sorry I’m late. I didn’t sleep well again last night.’ I stifled a yawn, which sparked him off.

‘Come inside,’ he said, throwing open the big metal door. ‘I got you a coffee but you probably want to heat it up.’

It took me a second for my brain to register what my eyes were seeing. ‘What the heck is this place?’

‘It could be your bigger boat,’ he said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Technically it’s my cousin’s studio, but it’s huge and he only uses a little bit. He said we can use it for meetings whenever we want.’

We were in a damp, strip-lit space with a very unusual décor. I stared at the seven-foot-high grizzly bear wearing a jaunty bowler hat.

‘That’s Pete,’ he said, making introductions.

‘And your cousin does what exactly?’

‘Taxidermy. I’d have thought that was obvious. Should we warm up your coffee? Come on, I’ll show you around.’

I followed Rob to the makeshift kitchen as he explained about his cousin, David. He liked to work at night, he said, so we’d probably never see him. David’s clients usually picked up their newly stuffed pets quickly but every so often they’d fail to return for their dearly departed. Which explained the menagerie around the place. A rather angry-looking Pekingese wearing a tiara stood guard on one of the desks.

I shifted a tiny mouse orchestra to the side with my now-too-hot coffee cup.

‘I didn’t expect you to have a cousin who stuffed animals for a living.’ Rob looked warm-blooded, for one thing, with thick brown, lively looking hair and sparkly blue eyes. ‘Don’t you find all this a bit ghoulish?’

He laughed. ‘I’m used to it. You should see my cousin. He looks like Marilyn Manson. But he’s a nice guy and I thought this might work as an office space for the club. As you can see there are loads of desks and David is fine with us being here. He just asks that we replace the teabags if we use them.’

I couldn’t argue with a bargain like that. ‘Well thanks, I think it’s great. And I suppose I’ll get used to the dead animals eventually. Lucky none of us is vegetarian.’ Still, I didn’t think Ellie would be crazy about this place.

I stifled another yawn as we brainstormed PR ideas for the club’s official launch in a few weeks. It would soon be six months since we went to see Thriller together.

‘Fireworks?’ Rob suggested.

‘Mmm. Maybe with something else. It needs to be big, something that’ll draw in new clients from the whole of London.’

‘Unlimited free doughnuts? We’d have a stampede on our hands. Or maybe a concert?’

‘We don’t have any money,’ I said. ‘We could serve day-old doughnuts or maybe get some Morris dancers for free.’ I shook my head. ‘But we need to think big.’

‘With no money.’

‘Right.’

We stared at each other, willing inspiration to come.

‘We might need to spend some money,’ he said eventually. ‘You’ve got the chance to grow the club into something huge. The website had nearly seven hundred unique visitors this week.’

‘You’re talking IT again. I don’t speak that language.’

He laughed. ‘It’s the number of actual people that went on your site. Seven hundred, all looking at the events. Do you want me to send you weekly stats?’

‘Only if you translate them first.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t blind you with science. I can text you the number of unique visitors and the number of people who’ve signed up for events each week.’

‘How many people signed up this week?’

He held up his finger, took out his phone and started texting.

My phone pinged.

196 signups, 700 unique views. Next update in a week. Rob

‘You couldn’t just tell me?’

‘If this is a business, we should follow protocol.’

‘What does protocol say about more coffee?’

‘I’d need to check the handbook but I think it says we should have lunch if we’re going to go to the wine tasting at three. I’m pretty sure that section was amended after what you told me about last time.’

I knew I shouldn’t have told him the details about the club’s first wine tasting last month, when I’d made the mistake of not eating beforehand. The hotel’s sommelier, a dapper Frenchman with handlebar moustaches, had poured me a glass of bubbly when I arrived. I’d felt very Continental, swanning around the grand rooms to check on the arrangements. But planning events for the club was a little trickier than doing it for ladies-who-lunched. London socialites demanded low-GI food or a certain brand of bottled water. Our clients needed wide doorways (for the occasional mobility scooter) and sturdy chairs. We didn’t want anyone crashing to the ground amidst the splinters of Louis XVI furniture.

The hotel had followed our instructions to the letter – sturdy banqueting chairs surrounded the enormous polished wood table. Armless and indestructible, they were the overweight person’s friend.

So there hadn’t been much to do in the hour before the guests arrived except flirt with the sommelier, whose accent was pant-strippingly sexy. By the time everyone turned up we’d finished most of the first bottle.

I fell off my chair some time around the Loire Valley Chenin Blancs. I’d hardly felt the bump on my head when I hit the table. One minute I was eye-to-eye with thirty people. The next I was giggling on the floor. It hadn’t been my finest hour.

Rob and I made our way to the wine tasting after a stomach-lining lunch. It felt like a typically dreary January morning. Which would be fine except that it was mid-May. The dank, stained arches and industrial rubbish bins blocking the narrow pavement felt better suited to Dickensian London than East London.

Rob and I saw the problem as soon as he held the restaurant door open for me.

‘We’re all ready for you,’ said the manager, gesturing to the long table in the middle of the narrow restaurant.

‘Thank you,’ I said, preparing my diplomatic approach. ‘There’s just one thing. There’ll be eighteen of us.’

He looked at the table, bobbing his fingers as he counted. ‘Yes, eighteen, that’s right. We’ve arranged enough chairs.’

Well done on being able to count to eighteen. ‘It’s just that they’re a little close together. Could you add a couple more tables to the end?’

‘I don’t see how I could.’ He looked around the room as if he couldn’t imagine where he might find another table in a restaurant full of them. ‘It’s a very small restaurant.’

‘Yes, but we’re not very small people. I’m sure you can see the issue.’

‘There should be enough room.’ His manner turned chilly. For someone whose restaurant wasn’t usually open between lunch and dinner, who didn’t even have to pay any chefs or waiters, and who was pocketing our wine tasting fees as pure profit, he could have toned down the attitude.

‘Fine, then I’ll show you what I mean,’ I said. ‘Rob, please sit here.’ He did as he was told. I sat beside him, scootching my chair close to his. ‘Now,’ I said to the manager. ‘Why don’t you sit beside us?’

Being no mere slip of a man himself, his position at the table put him halfway between two place settings. ‘Do you see our problem? We’re the curvy girls … and boys club. We need a bit more room. I’m really sorry about that. We did mention it in our emails.’

He reluctantly hauled over two more tables, clearly put out that we really did live up to our name.

Everyone arrived within half an hour. A few were Slimming Zone regulars, and felt like old friends. A few others, like Arthur, were regulars and felt like pains in the neck.

‘Katie! This should be a fun afternoon. Although it would have been better perhaps to concentrate on the lesser known French regions. But never mind. You did the best you could. Shall I sit here next to you?’

This was Arthur’s idea of a compliment. He could make me cry when he wanted to be mean.

‘Thanks, Arthur. And I’d love for you to be next to me, really, but I thought you might like to sit next to, erm,’ I looked quickly at my list, ‘Jade. You remember her from the book club meeting?’ I felt bad (momentarily) about inflicting him on a perfectly nice woman like Jade, but I’d put a lovely man on her other side. One hand giveth, the other taketh away.

Despite what Arthur said, the wine tasting proved almost incidental to the afternoon. I’d noticed this over the past months and at first it bothered me. I lost sleep over the plans I concocted. They bloody well should appreciate them. It took some time for me to realise that they did appreciate them, very much.

Sometimes being fat was isolating and sometimes isolated people got fat. It didn’t matter which was chicken and which was egg. The end result was that for some of our members, these outings were their social life. They were just as happy to taste wine in the company of others as they were to watch a film or listen to music in the company of others. People naturally focused on the curvy part of our name, but it was a social club at the end of the day.

I sneaked a glimpse at Jade. She didn’t look too angry about Arthur. In fact, she looked …

‘Rob. Are you noticing what I’m noticing?’

Rob was staring down the table. He smiled, then quietly started a passable Barry White rendition.

Everyone was talking to, nay, flirting with their neighbour. ‘Is it the wine? What have we started?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But this might be the highest-rated event yet. Did you have a method in your seating plan?’

‘Of course not. I threw it together on the Tube ride over to you this morning based on who I knew.’

I had noticed that more than the usual number of men had signed up for today. Maybe the high male quotient was making everyone randy. Even Arthur was talking to the woman opposite him, and she seemed to be answering of her own free will.

While it was nice to see everyone getting along, it reminded me of an uncomfortable development. ‘Pixie thinks we should start a dating business,’ I told Rob as the wine guy poured us another red.

‘Remember,’ said the wine guy, who looked about eleven. ‘Swirl, swish, spit!’ He demonstrated. Everyone at the table defiantly swallowed. He didn’t know his audience at all.

‘She’s mentioned it a few times,’ I said quietly. ‘And again last week.’

He nodded. ‘I can see the sense in it. We’ve got men, we’ve got women. They might like that kind of thing. Well, just look around. Maybe we should think about launching that for the anniversary.’

‘No way. She wants to call it Fat Friends.’ I whispered, rolling my eyes. A couple of specialist dating websites had popped up in the past few years. I wasn’t one to judge if someone got off on fireman uniforms or wearing nappies. But my gut told me that running a dating business for our clientele risked stigmatising them further. That’s the last thing they needed. ‘We’ve got to come up with a better idea than that. There must be something better we can do for the anniversary.’

‘What’s this?’ Amanda asked, overhearing us.

‘Oh, we’re trying to think of ideas for our anniversary,’ I said.

‘You and Rob are together? I had no idea, congratulations!’

‘Oh no, we’re not—’

‘We’re not a couple,’ Rob said smoothly.

‘What a shame. You’d make a lovely couple.’

‘I think so, but Katie won’t hear of it,’ he said as I reddened further. He grinned to let me know he wasn’t being serious. ‘We’ve got too many cultural differences. She’s a McVitie’s fan and I’m loyal to the Garibaldi. It would never work. We’ve managed to bridge the biscuit divide in friendship though. No, we were talking about an event to officially launch the Curvy Girls Club. Any thoughts?’

Luckily the conversation turned to the launch and my face slowly returned to its normal colour. It wasn’t strictly true that I didn’t want to go out with Rob. He was such a lovely man. Who wouldn’t want to? I’d definitely had fantasies about us strolling together hand in hand along the South Bank, or being wrapped up in his big arms in front of the telly on a Friday night. But things weren’t that simple. We were working together for one thing. We were mates for another. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Alex. Nail in the coffin. Not exactly a recipe for happily ever after.

‘You should plaster yourselves on billboards across the country,’ the man next to Amanda said, eying her appreciatively. We didn’t need a dating website. We should just run more wine tastings.

‘Nah,’ said the man to my right. ‘Nobody pays attention to billboards unless there’s something really eye-catching on it.’ Eyebrows all along the table shot into the air as he realised what he’d just said. ‘I don’t mean you’re not eye-catching! You’re lovely, really! I just meant that people would stop and stare if they saw something out of the ordinary. Though you wouldn’t want them stopping and staring on the M4. Imagine. Pileups across the country from staring at four naked women!’

‘Who said anything about naked?’ Rob asked as the man reddened again. He was on a foot-in-mouth hot streak.

‘Well, that would certainly be eye-catching,’ I said, showing I had no hard feelings about the man picturing my arse above the motorway.

‘Like that programme on Channel 4, How to Look Good Naked. I love that one,’ said Amanda as she glanced at the wine bottle a bit further down the table. Her afternoon suitor obliged, topping up her glass. This was less of a wine tasting than an approved drinkathon. ‘Though those women don’t have anything to worry about. A few extra pounds around their middle and they think it’s the end of the world. They should feature us instead. We’d give Gok Wan a run for his money!’