Fat Chance (33 page)

It’s a testament to how much our lives have changed that we spend five minutes looking in the window at the collection of grease- and meat-laden monstrosities on offer, before getting back in the car and driving to Marks & Sparks to pick up the ingredients for a home-cooked stir-fry.

Greg’s predictions of after-show shenanigans do indeed come true, though it is by no means just a ‘shag.’ It is, in fact, some of the most romantic sex we’ve ever had. Not because we light candles or listen to Barry White—though that’s always nice—but because it marks the end of a long journey that we’ve been on together. A journey that has brought us much closer as a couple . . . if for no other reason than there’s a lot less of us getting in the way.

Fast forward one week.

It’s four thirty in the afternoon and I’m alone in the house.

Greg is out with Ali and the rest of his rugby cronies. He’s just been picked for the first team, an accomplishment last achieved four years ago. This means, of course, that all foreseeable future Sunday afternoons will consist of him rolling around in a field on top of other men with an oddly shaped ball.

I have absolutely no problem with this, given that I’ve been feeling pretty sick for the past few days following the climax of Fat Chance, and am more than happy to spend some time on my own in a bath full to the brim with hot soapy water and the pile of
Hello!
magazines I haven’t got round to reading yet. The feelings of nausea have been affecting me on and off all week, and this is the first time I’ve had the chance to just stop and give myself some much-needed pampering.

I can only put the sickness down to the end of the competition. They often say that things only catch up with you when you stop, and with all the excitement of the final weigh-in, it’s no wonder I’ve felt a bit under the weather ever since. I guess I just need some rest.

The sickness has been particularly bad in the mornings and today was no exception. I figure a long hot soak will do me a world of good.

I’m absolutely right.

The hot water is
glorious
.

I never used to like taking a bath much. It would mean being alone, being naked, and being forced to look at that bloated, naked body. Showers are much kinder to the self-esteem when you’re fat.

Now, though, with my new trim frame, baths have become a delight—especially the long, uninterrupted ones where you’re immersed for so long that your skin goes wrinkly.

As I lie back and close my eyes, I think of my husband running around on that cold, muddy field and thank my lucky stars that I’m not a rugby player.

My eyes snap open.

You’re not a rugby player . . . but you do have a rugby kit stashed somewhere safe, don’t you?

My heart starts to beat faster in my chest as I recall the bet I laid with myself back in June. This is the first time I’ve thought about it.

Within seconds I’m out of the soapy water and towelling my
self of
f.

I know exactly where the rugby kit is stored. I can still see the big brown cardboard box, tucked discreetly at the back of my
wardrobe
among other assorted debris, out of sight.

I find it quickly and lay the shorts, socks, and top out on the bed, standing back to contemplate what I’m about to do.

I find that I can’t make my legs work.

I just stand naked in front of the rugby kit, unable to move myself into action.

This is it.

Never mind a silly radio competition, this rugby kit is Z
oe Milton’s
real
challenge.

It has been all along.

But can I do it? Can I bring myself to put the damn thing on again?

What if it doesn’t fit? What if I’ve failed?

Wouldn’t it be better to just fold it back up and put it away?

Wouldn’t it be better to just forget about it? Be proud of what I’ve already accomplished and not push my luck?

Isn’t Zoe Milton the kind of person to leave well enough alone? Isn’t Zoe Milton the kind of girl who likes to play it safe?

Ha!

Fat chance.

The socks go on, the top goes over my head and slides down over my boobs with no difficulty, and I easily pull the shorts up over my hips, the fabric whispering against my skin as I do so. I fasten them at the waist and take a breath so deep it makes my head spin.

All of a sudden I’m eighteen again. Young, bold, in love with life, and blessed with a future, ever stretching ahead of me with the man I adore.

For a few moments I just stand still, letting the feeling of accomplishment wash over me.

I think about the scared fat girl staring down from all those billboards across town. I marvel at how she is gone forever, and how pleased I am to be rid of all the self-doubt she carried around in her heart for so long.

These thoughts result in a prolonged bout of crying that I have to staunch with the hem of the rugby top. I really don’t know what’s up with me lately; I seem to start crying, devoid of reason, at the drop of a hat. My hormones are all over the place.

Almost as soon as the tears cease, the urge to manically fling myself around the room overwhelms me.

I also think I need to wave my arms about. Yes . . . waving my arms about seems just about perfect.

I do this for about three minutes.

It’s
wonderful
.

And I’m not even out of breath when I’m finished.

No one will ever see this victory dance.

No crowds will stand and cheer while I joyously parade around my bedroom like a show-pony. No radio stations will stream it live on the internet into thousands of homes across the local area.

No one will ever know, or indeed care, that Zoe Milton can fit into her size 10 rugby kit again.

And that suits me just fine.

There’s only one person who needs to know, and he will be home in about an hour.

With any luck he’ll still be wearing
his
rugby kit.

I know I’ll be wearing mine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Gemma Waters

Nick Spalding is the
bestselling
author of six novels, two
novellas
, and two
memoirs
. Nick worked in media and marketing for most of his life before turning his energy to his genre-spanning humorous writing. He lives in the south of
England
with his
fiancée
.