The Curvy Girls Club. Michele GormanЧитать онлайн книгу.
let it. He held on, anchoring them both, and convinced Jane to go for tests with him.
‘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,