The Curvy Girls Club Read online

  ‘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 an
d 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 starti
ng 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.