The Curvy Girls Club Read online

  ‘Rob! This isn’t an audience participation event, is it?’

  He grinned and patted my leg. Pleasant tingles turned to nervous ones.

  There were clowns prowling about. I had an uncomfortable relationship with clowns, thanks to a birthday party that went wrong as a child. One, dressed as a jester in a long-beaked bird mask, came closer to us. I did my best to look like a bad sport. ‘If he tries to make me do anything,’ I whispered to Rob, ‘promise you won’t let him, okay?’

  ‘And you’re going on national telly in a few months to bare it all?’

  ‘This is different!’

  ‘Okay, don’t worry. I won’t let them take you away.’ He reached over and grabbed my hand. I clung to it. They’d have to knock me out to make me let go.

  Luckily the bird-man had younger prey in mind. He chose a boy of about ten, who was soon surrounded by the clowns. As people laughed and cheered, the boy was hoisted onto the clown’s shoulders. He looked like he was having a fabulous time, the little show-off. I spent the last few minutes before the show started avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked like they might haul me on stage. It was worse than having front row seats at a comedy club.

  Then the lights changed and a pot-bellied stooped figure dressed in a scarlet frock coat marched down one of the side aisles. Behind him came about a dozen men and women dressed in white – the band. ‘Alegria!’ he shouted into the vast space. Accordions, basses and drums added to the suddenly surreal feeling. It wasn’t a show. It was an experience.

  By the time the hauntingly beautiful white-clad lady stepped gracefully on to the circular stage, I was prepared for anything to happen. Was she a bug? She had antennae. Her dress was part ballerina tutu and part bird cage. Despite her white curls she was quite young. Then she opened her mouth to sing and I was surprised once again. Her growly, twenty-a-day voice washed over us. Tears sprang to my eyes. It was magical.

  Rob searched my face. ‘I knew you’d love it,’ he whispered, taking my hand again. We stayed like that for most of the show. His hand was warm, enveloping and comfortable. Many times he stroked my thumb with his. When I peeked at him, he was completely lost in the feats of the acrobats, trapeze artists and contortionists. He had that rare ability to be present, whether watching a film or a show, playing football or talking to a friend. I’d often admired that about him.

  I jumped to my feet at the end of the show, clapping till my palms were numb. I couldn’t imagine a cast more deserving of a standing ovation.

  ‘That was … oh my god, that was amazing!’ I beamed at Rob. ‘Thank you so much for taking me, although … you probably should have ended the date with this, not started it. How on earth will we top it?’

  His mouth flew open in mock-affront. ‘Katie, as a gentleman I am shocked, shocked I tell you, to hear you hint so obviously at sexual relations. Really, what do you take me for?’

  ‘For the record, I wasn’t implying that any activity later would be less than deserving of a standing ovation.’

  ‘So long as we’re clear on that. Come on.’ He took my hand again. ‘We’ve got dinner reservations.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t be so nosy. You’ll see when we get there.’

  We took the Tube into Covent Garden where the streets were packed. The warm day gave everyone the urge to grab the nearest pint of beer or glass of rosé and run into the street. Eventually we stopped in front of a restaurant.

  It was more suited to a country village than London’s streets. I half-expected it to be filled with muddy-booted ramblers and shaggy dogs sleeping by the hearth. A riot of pink, red and blue flowers overflowed the enormous pots and hanging baskets. Flowering trees, palms and bay trees stood guard.

  ‘After you, Katie.’ He held open the door.

  There were no wellies or fleabitten mutts inside. If I had to find the opposite of a gentle countryside pub, this would be it. It was the world’s campest decorator’s wet dream. Rousing opera music boomed around the huge restaurant, which was swathed in gold. Gold lamé, rich purple and red brocades were draped over the tables. Strings of pearls hung from the chandeliers. Stone buddhas, Tiffany lamps and ornate crosses decorated the walls and ceiling. It was Arabian Nights meets the props room at the Royal Opera house.

  The waitress led us to a small table tucked into an alcove. Carmen could have sung her famous aria on the balcony above us.

  ‘I feel like I’m backstage at the opera,’ I said to Rob as he sat beside me on the bench.

  ‘I never pictured you as an opera groupie,’ he said. ‘Did you flash your well-developed vocal chords as a teenager and scream at the stage door for Carrera’s autograph?’

  ‘I do love me a bit of tenor.’

  ‘They’re the real role models for the Curvy Girls Club you know. Nobody expects a skinny soprano.’

  ‘It’s all a matter of perspective.’

  ‘And expectations,’ he said. ‘Five hundred years ago being thin was a sign of poverty.’

  ‘Then I’m rich,’ I said.

  ‘Getting poorer by the day though.’

  I blushed. Now that there was a bit less of me to clothe I’d resorted to the back of my wardrobe for my date outfit. Excavating through the last decade unearthed as many memories as frocks. Every billowing dress and stretchy waistband told the story of a girl who wanted to look better than she did. I’d had fun in some of those outfits, days and nights of laughter and even sometimes a little bit of lust. At times I forgot the body I wore. But there was always that moment before going out when I had to check myself in the mirror. No tucking in, sucking in, thrusting or adjusting was going to turn this duck into a swan. Only a lot fewer breadcrumbs could do that.

  Shaking out the pale yellow and red cinch-waisted, circle-skirted dress rekindled the night I wore it to impress Rory. The closest I got to him noticing was when his friend said I looked nice and he nodded. When you’re young, you take what you can get. Tonight I hoped for a better reception.

  As if reading my mind, Rob said, ‘You look lovely tonight. That dress really suits you.’

  ‘Thank you. Now that I’m not such a heifer I’ve got more options. It feels so good not to be dragging around so much fat.’ I grinned. ‘I really do love this new me.’

  ‘I like the old you.’

  ‘Oh please, this is so much better. I mean, I know I’m no Kate Moss, and never will be, but at least some of the bulk is gone. I’m swimming in some of my old clothes now. Luckily I’ve still got some even older clothes. I haven’t worn this one in years … not that you aren’t worth a new dress!’ I rushed to clarify. ‘But you moved fast on the date scheduling.’

  ‘I didn’t want to miss my window, in case I only had a couple of days till you changed your mind.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, when you only give me two days’ notice, you get the best dress from the back of my wardrobe. I’m glad it’s still pretty.’

  ‘You’d be pretty without it.’

  ‘Mister Chandler!’

  ‘I didn’t mean … well, actually, hell, yes, that’s exactly what I meant.’ He laughed. ‘You look exceptionally hot tonight.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m serious, Katie. Curves are sexy. Look at Marilyn Monroe.’

  I examined my tummy, rising in a soft mound beneath the snug waist of the dress. Marilyn’s lap didn’t make you want to lie on it to have a nap.

  ‘If you say so. But I could still have curves and be thin.’

  ‘You could.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just saying that it’s the curves that are attractive.’

  ‘You’re biased because you’re … my friend.’

  ‘Your chubby friend, you mean. Maybe. But I wasn’t always fat you know, and I’ve always enjoyed curves.’

  ‘You are not fat!’ I loved Rob’s physique – his big broad chest and beefy arms were made for snuggling. He was quite fit, actually, thanks to his local five-a-side football team and lido in the park. He just loved to eat. Who didn’t? />
  ‘That’s not what my last girlfriend said.’

  His face slid into sadness, which naturally made me want to throttle the bitch.

  ‘I’m sorry. She was mistaken,’ I said instead, practising for a role in the diplomatic services. ‘Was that why she broke up with you?’

  ‘I broke up with her. On our six-month anniversary.’

  He clearly wanted to talk about it. The story came rushing out. They were set up at a mutual friend’s wedding, sat next to each other, asked to pose in photos and dance together. By the end of the reception the meddling bride got her wish. They snogged in the cloakroom and traded phone numbers.

  At first Rob thought he’d met the perfect girl. Bright, funny and very pretty (the bitch – my words, not his), they were steadily moving towards a serious relationship when they planned their first holiday abroad. Rob wanted something active – trekking or sailing or just going from place to place by bus in a foreign land. She wanted a beach holiday and since she was the one with the vagina, she won (my words again).

  At first, he said, he noticed a jokey comment here and there. ‘Mind the splash’ when he went in the pool, or ‘Of course he does’ when asked about second helpings. He laughed it off. They were solid, comfortable, and moving in the right direction. But by the end of their holiday he could no longer ignore her jibes.

  ‘Do you think I’m fat?’ he asked her at dinner on their last night.

  ‘Not fat … just portly.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  She smiled and took his hand. ‘Not really. Especially since you’re so active. All you need to do is work out a little more and cut down on the portions and you’ll be perfect in no time.’ She leaned across to kiss him.

  ‘I don’t want to be perfect. I want to be me.’

  ‘A more perfect version of you would be great.’

  ‘Is this version of me so bad?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  They continued to go out for a few months after that, but the relationship was doomed. She wanted someone with ripped abs and perfect pecs. He wanted to be happy and comfortable as he was. Her constant comments wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  ‘Just because a person doesn’t look perfect doesn’t mean they’re less, somehow. Ultimately she didn’t understand that. So I broke up with her when we went away for our anniversary.’

  ‘But it must have bothered you since you went to Slimming Zone. Nobody volunteers to be weighed in front of a room full of people unless they want to lose weight.’

  ‘Part of me wanted to know if it would make a difference. I don’t mean with her; that was over. But I wouldn’t say no to a perfect body like your friend Alex.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get any argument from me either!’ I laughed.

  He looked at me sharply, then spooned in another mouthful of chocolate mousse. ‘Last bite?’

  ‘Thanks!’ Nobody needed to offer chocolate mousse twice. ‘So that was your last big romance?’

  ‘I’ve gone out with a few women since then, but nothing serious. I’m not really a dating kind of guy. There’s no way I’d sign up for Guardian Soulmates or speed-dating.’

  ‘I have thought about it,’ I said. I didn’t tell him that I’d imagined what it would be like to meet him there. ‘It was kind of sad the other night. One of the women said she felt even worse afterwards. I knew that would happen.’

  It wasn’t fair to burden Rob on our very first official date, but I had to talk to someone about it. I gave him the highlights of the night, ending with Pixie declaring it a storming success despite the woman’s feelings.

  ‘It’s a bad idea, and one we shouldn’t be involved in.’

  ‘But no event is going to be perfect,’ he reasonably pointed out. ‘Were there more happy people than unhappy ones at the end?’

  I admitted there probably were.

  ‘Then it was a success. You’ve got to look at the evidence. It’s very lucrative. It’s well-attended. And most people enjoyed it. I’m sorry, Katie, but there’s no basis for rejecting it for that reason.’

  I didn’t like the way our date was turning out. Rob was supposed to wine me, dine me and agree with me.

  ‘Can we talk about something else? Fat Friends would be terrible for our image. We’ll be seen as exploiting vulnerable people. I don’t want to be associated with anything like that.’

  Rob considered this. Then he said, ‘You don’t want the club to be associated with it, or you don’t want to be associated with it?’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘No, it’s not the same thing. One answer comes from your business head and the other comes from your ego. If you don’t separate the two, you might not do what’s best for the club. Just … please don’t let your own vanity run away with you, okay? Hey,’ he said, noticing my expression. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Personally I’ll always back you. I hope you know that.’

  I nodded, pushing Fat Friends from my mind as he gently guided me to him. His kiss was as electric as it had been the first time around. Before the waiters could clear the plates we were making a spectacle of ourselves in the restaurant. Rob was a stellar kisser and I was getting used to the idea that this might be more than a passing fling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I felt ill the next morning. Not only was my head pounding from all the wine I drank with Rob, but by the time I reached my GP’s office, I’d diagnosed myself. The news wasn’t good. It was definitely either a tapeworm or cancer. Or lupus, though I’d only thought of that on the Tube and wasn’t exactly sure what it was. It sounded like a prime cause of unexplained weight loss though.

  My GP and I hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye. It wasn’t that he was a bad doctor. He listened to my ailments and made sensible suggestions. He kept up-to-date with medical advances, stocked pretty good magazines in his waiting room and had warm hands. But he was also keen to try out all the latest diagnostic kit, and that’s where our opinions diverged. When he came at me with callipers, I nearly kicked him in the shin.

  ‘It’s to test your body fat,’ he’d explained. ‘It’s not just your weight that’s important. Don’t you want to know your body fat percentage too?’

  I did not. I was perfectly happy to have my blood pressure checked (it was absolutely normal). I was even prepared to let him painfully draw blood for a cholesterol test (nice and low for the bad kind and high for the good stuff). But to use a tool to pinch my fat was a step too far. As if I didn’t do it anyway in the mirror every day without the help of a calibrated instrument.

  So we’d enjoyed an uneasy truce, my GP and me, as long as he didn’t manhandle any flabby bits. I got straight down to business when he called me into his office. ‘I’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Good for you, Miss Winterbottom.’ He considered me over his bifocals. If he wasn’t a doctor he’d have made an excellent nutty professor, on looks alone. He was probably around sixty, tall and lanky, with a fondness for corduroys and those thick button-up jumpers worn by granddads and landed gentry.

  ‘Thank you, doctor, but I haven’t done it on purpose.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop on the scales?’

  He was always telling me to pop something. Pop on the scales, pop my top off, pop my feet in the stirrups. As if being weighed, stripped to the waist or laid out with legs akimbo was more enjoyable thanks to the catchy phrase.

  I popped, he weighed, then checked his records. ‘Yes, you have lost quite a bit of weight. Twenty-three pounds. I can see you haven’t been on any medication. Any dieting? Have you changed your exercise regime significantly?’

  I loved that he thought I had an exercise regime. ‘No, and I’m really worried.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry just yet,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of reasons why you might lose weight.’

  ‘Do you think it might be cancer?’ I could feel my eyes prick with tears. Poor Granny. She must have been terrified when Mum took her to the doctor. No wonder she didn’t want to know the results.
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  He shook his head. ‘No, I doubt very much that it’s cancer. You’re young, you don’t smoke and you’re not predisposed to any hereditary cancers. I’m sure there’s a very simple explanation. We just need to find it.’

  ‘But my granny had lung cancer!’

  He consulted his screen. ‘You said she was a heavy smoker and wasn’t diagnosed until her seventies. I don’t think you need to worry. Let’s chat a bit and then I’ll take some blood for tests. Okay?’

  Shakily, I agreed. I was a young non-smoker with good genes. Of course I didn’t have cancer. The question was: what did I have?

  I was no closer to an answer at the end of the consultation. Doctor Tight Lips wouldn’t indulge my hypochondria one bit. He kept saying ‘Let’s just see what the tests say.’ Some bedside manner that was.

  I very much wanted to talk to Rob. How had we functioned before we could text to prompt phone calls? Oh that’s right, we phoned landlines and hung up.

  Just been to the doctor, I texted. I’ve lost 23lbs, woo hoo! Could be the start of a whole new me – roll on Thin Katie! K xo

  Something stopped me from telling him the reason I was at the GP’s in the first place. I guess I wanted him to call because he’d had a lovely night too, not because he was worried. And why shouldn’t I brag a bit about the weight loss? Twenty-three pounds without even trying. As long as I didn’t have a life-threatening disease to thank, surely that could only be good news.

  Rob’s text back was short and sweet. Congratulations. xx I waited in case he’d accidentally sent the text before finishing it, but nothing followed. He didn’t call.

  I saw the Post-it when I got to my desk in the late morning. Shockingly pink, it was stuck to the top of the pile of new product brochures I was supposed to read.

  Katie, I need you. Alex

  I looked around. Was it a joke? Alex had never left a note on my desk before. Surely he’d email if he needed something. I turned to my colleague.