Authors: Fiona Gibson
Mum on the Run (8 page)
I walk quickly, head bent against the rain, wishing I’d con sidered wearing some kind of disguise. A balaclava, perhaps, or Santa’s beard and moustache from the kids’ dressing-up box, although that might look bizarre at the end of April. Only Jed knows where I’m going. When the children asked, I just said, ‘I’m popping out to a meeting’, as if that’s something I’m prone to doing on a Thursday evening.
Outside St Mary’s Hall, a cluster of women are laughing rowdily as they make their way in through the door. I bring Toby here for playgroup two afternoons a week, but tonight the place has a very different vibe. You’d think they were going to a party. No one looks remotely depressed, which must be a good sign. ‘Hi, Laura,’ exclaims Kirsty, a statuesque auburn beauty who’s one of my regular clients at the salon. ‘Are you joining us tonight?’
‘Yes,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Thought I’d take the plunge. Not too scary, is it?’
‘Oh, we’re all friends here,’ she laughs. ‘It’s great – I’ve lost a stone in six weeks. Couldn’t have done it on my own. Come on, you can sit with me.’
I grin stoically and follow her inside, still worrying that, despite her reassurances, I’ll have my weight boomed out through a megaphone and my fat bits measured with a sinister pincer device. Jed couldn’t believe I was going tonight. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he’d asked, furrowing his brow. ‘It sounds a bit . . . desperate.’
‘I
am
desperate,’ I’d replied.
‘Well, I think you’re fine as you are,’ he’d added, although recent evidence suggests the contrary.
‘Quite a scrum this week,’ Kirsty observes as we squeeze into the hall’s entrance area. Everyone seems to be clustering outside the loo. I’m surprised to see so many familiar faces: an elderly lady from down our street, a couple of girls who work at Scamps nursery, and the woman who sold me a highchair after Grace had somehow managed to dismantle hers at three years old. All greet me as if this were a perfectly ordinary evening out.
‘That can’t be the queue for the loo,’ I whisper to Kirsty.
‘Afraid so. Everyone goes before weigh-in,’ she explains.
‘Why? Are they nervous?’
‘No,’ she says, sniggering. ‘So they’re
lighter
.’
‘You mean it really makes a difference? Surely a teeny amount of wee can’t alter your weight . . .’
‘Oh yes it does. Every ounce counts, our great leader says. Hope you’re wearing something heavy tonight – that way, you’re bound to lose for next week.’
I unbutton my trenchcoat and hold it open. ‘Does this look heavy enough to you?’
Kirsty frowns, scrutinising my outfit. ‘Your jeans are fine. Sweater’s a bit on the light side, maybe you should’ve gone for a chunkier knit . . .’
‘My boots are heavy, though . . .’
‘Yes,’ she snorts, ‘but you take those
off
for weigh-in.’ Damn. There was no mention of heavy clothing on the Super Slimmers flier I saw in the newsagent’s window. ‘Embrace the new you!’ was all it had said, plus a phone number and the promise of a ‘fun, supportive atmosphere’ and an idiot-proof eating plan. If I’d known, I’d have worn several outfits on top of each other.
My stomach churns nervously as Kirsty and I step into the main hall. Despite Ruth’s stinginess with the biscuits, I’m yearning for the familiar turf of playgroup. A girl with a waist measurement of around twenty inches takes our money. ‘First time?’ she asks, flashing large, gleaming teeth.
‘Yes.’
‘Here you go. This is your Menu Masterplan’ – she thrusts me a glossy booklet depicting a woman grasping a banana in a rather phallic manner – ‘and your membership card. Fill in your name and address but
not
your weight, as we’ll have to weigh you accurately.’ She smiles encouragingly, and I smile back, wondering if she’s implying that I might fib on the card, thus guaranteeing a gargantuan loss next week.
If
I come next week. I wasn’t intending to carry on with this after Celeste’s party. A quick fix – that’s what I want. A short, sharp shock. Kirsty pounces on two vacant seats at the back of the hall, for which I am hugely grateful.
I glance around the room. It’s filled with row upon row of chairs with a makeshift stage at the front. There’s a table on the stage, laden with foil-covered plates, and the air is thick with excitable chatter. So where do I fit in in the fat stakes? Several woman are hugely, almost
heroically
fat, and are bantering jovially as if this is somewhere they come for fun rather than because they ought to. The majority, though, are around my size – women who might once have given their weight little thought until pregnancy and child-rearing made them rounder and softer and added a stone or two. I wonder if their husbands still find them attractive and go to bed without the protective armour of pyjama bottoms. There’s no reason why not. They are all well dressed, with make-up and hair nicely done. They are perfectly presentable, and seem happy with life.
Further perusal reveals that several women are decidedly
thinner
than me. That doesn’t seem right. ‘Claire Holloway’s lost three stone,’ Kirsty whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘She’s hoping to reach her target this week.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Everyone claps,’ Kirsty says.
‘Is that all? God, I’d want more than that! I’d want cake and champagne at the very least.’
Kirsty giggles, and the woman in front spins round to throw us an irritated look. ‘The thing is not to regard food as a reward,’ Kirsty adds, lowering her voice. I nod, mulling this over. Do I do that? I don’t think so. I eat to cheer myself up, sure, but mostly because I’m hungry, or because food is there and it tastes bloody fantastic. How am I supposed to think myself out of that?
A tall, slim-hipped woman in an elegant grey trouser suit strides onto the stage. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she says grandly, scanning the hall. ‘And gentlemen of course . . . do we have our
male member
here?’
At this, everyone laughs. ‘No?’ she enquires. ‘Well, let’s get started anyway. Any newcomers, I’m Belinda, your group leader. As you came in, you’ll have been given our Menu Masterplan. You’ll see that there are no tricks here, no miracle solutions’ – aren’t there? Damn – ‘as
slow and steady
is our motto at Super Slimmers. It’s all about willpower, ladies, and making the right choices in life. It worked for me, and it can work for you too.’ She grins expectantly. My heart slumps to my boots.
‘Slow and steady?’ I whisper to Kirsty. ‘That’s not what I want. I’ve got a party to go to in two days’ time.’
‘You’ll have to be strict then,’ she hisses back.
I waggle my Menu Masterplan at her. ‘Maybe I’ll stop eating altogether and just nibble the corner of this.’ She snorts through her nose and directs her attentions to our Leader. God, I’m starving. Couldn’t face dinner before I came out, and now my stomach is rumbling ominously. I wonder what’s on those foil-covered plates on the table, and when Belinda will get around to sharing it out. On my other side, a woman in a shiny floral dress is texting urgently on her mobile. Bet it says WILL PICK UP FISH & CHIPS ON WAY HOME.
Hmmm, I can almost smell vinegary chips.
‘Now,’ Belinda announces, ‘let me explain what we do here.’
We make you thin
, I will her to say.
You’ll waltz into that garden party and be wondrous.
‘I start with a short talk every week,’ she explains, ‘which I hope you’ll find inspiring. There’s time for questions and answers, then we do weigh-in at the end.’ She scans the room expectantly. ‘So, if we’re all ready, this week I’m going to talk about tuna.’
An aura of rapt interest descends. ‘Tuna,’ Belinda says gravely, ‘is a slimmer’s best friend – but it’s vital that we choose the right type. Can anyone tell me which type that is?’ Her dramatically arched eyebrows shoot up.
‘It should be in water or brine,’ someone pipes up. ‘Never oil.’
‘That’s right!’ Belinda exclaims as if a child of Toby’s age has explained the theory of relativity. ‘Now, let’s look at the ways we can use it . . .’
I start to faze off, wondering why I’m here on a damp Thursday night, being told that my best friend is tuna. Maybe it’s the club aspect that’s the problem. I’ve never been good at belonging to things. I paid an astronomical amount to belong to Bodyworks gym and didn’t shift an ounce. I felt obliged to leave the new mums’ book group after Grace vomited over the hostess’s glass coffee table, ruining a hand-crocheted doily. It was a relief, really, as it had become apparent that I was incapable of reading anything more taxing than
Dirty Bertie
.
‘. . . Try to work out if you’re really hungry or just thirsty,’ Belinda chunders on. ‘You can often quell hunger pangs with a refreshing glass of water . . .’
No, sorry. I have never confused hunger with thirst, although I could murder a drink right now – a proper one, I mean. A nice glass of chilled pinot and a packet of posh crisps or maybe some mixed nuts. ‘You can make water more interesting with ice and a squeeze of lemon juice,’ Belinda adds. Jesus, how difficult can her job be? She doesn’t have to deal with clients with sparse, mousy hair expecting to walk out looking like Keira Knightley. Here, all people want is to be thinner. Maybe I should consider becoming a leader as a way of boosting my earnings. Surely I’d be capable of informing a hall full of women that they should opt for the rocket salad instead of the sausage roll seeping lard.
I eye the foil-covered plates greedily, wishing Belinda would hurry up and get to the eating part. The texting woman has snuck out. I
hope
she’s gone to the chippie. ‘We all know about mayonnaise, don’t we?’ Belinda continues. There’s a ripple of knowing laughter. Oh yes, I know about mayonnaise. It’s bloody delicious. Occasionally, I’ll treat myself to a spoonful with cheese on toast. You could probably be shot for that in here. ‘Try mixing your tuna with lemon juice instead,’ she chirps, ‘and save yourself a whole bunch of cal ories. And remember that we’re all friends here, and our job is to support each other . . .’ I check my watch. How long will this go on for? We’ve been here for a quarter of an hour. It feels like seventeen weeks.
‘Oh God, not tuna again,’ mutters a late-comer, slipping quietly onto the vacant seat beside me.
I turn to look at him. He looks at me, tilts his head and frowns quizzically, and there’s a spark of recognition between us. ‘Danny?’ I whisper. ‘From Starbucks in York?’
‘The playsuit shoplifter!’ he whispers back with a broad smile. ‘Well, I’m glad I came tonight.’
I grin, feeling instantly better. ‘Me too,’ I whisper. Perhaps I’m going to like it here after all.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask softly as Belinda rambles on about brine and calories, striding back and forth across the stage and waving her manicured hands about.
‘Oh, I just come for fun when there’s nothing on TV,’ Danny replies. ‘How about you? This your first time?’
‘Yep. D’you think it actually works?’
He surveys his chunky body and frowns. ‘I’m worried it’s working too well actually. That I’ll fade away to nothing.’
I snigger. He’s perfectly fine, although a personal trainer would probably put him on some kind of ‘programme’ like the Bodyworks girl suggested for me. ‘Okay, everyone,’ Belinda’s voice rings out, ‘here are some meal ideas which you’re welcome to come and look at. Then we’ll do weigh-in.’
‘
Look
at?’ I splutter. ‘Don’t we get to try?’
‘Sadly not,’ Danny smirks. ‘She just brings piles of food along to taunt us.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ Kirsty asks as everyone surges towards Belinda’s display.
‘Er, not really,’ I say. ‘We just ran into each other in York and got chatting over a coffee. Kirsty, this is Danny.’ She pulls a quirky smile, and I feel a flush of pleasure at having a man friend to introduce her to. With a flourish, Belinda has removed the plates’ foil coverings. A cluster of women are studying a wilted Niçoise salad as if it were a covetable handbag. There’s a baked potato heaped with tuna, presumably in case we’d forgotten what a baked potato looks like, and some kind of fishy layer with a mushed vegetable topping, which Belinda explains is a ‘bake’.
‘It looks like something you’d see on the pavement outside the pub on a Saturday night,’ Danny mutters into my ear.
‘It’s very tasty actually,’ Belinda says defensively.
‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ I enthuse. ‘I, er, love bakes. They’re so . . .’
‘Versatile?’ Danny chips in.
‘And something like this is so easy,’ Belinda adds, ‘even if you can’t cook at all. Even if you’re not remotely domesticated.’
I smile tensely, edging towards a dish of low-fat tuna dip which I try to fix with an adoring gaze. The hall has taken on a decidedly fishy whiff, like Grace’s lunchbox when it was returned from school after being left in her locker for two weeks. ‘Danny’s a cutie, isn’t he?’ murmurs Kirsty, sidling up to me.
‘Think so?’ I hiss back. ‘I suppose he is. I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘Oh, come on.’ She sniggers. ‘Don’t be so coy. Being happily married doesn’t make you immune to other men. You’re allowed to look, you know. He has lovely blue eyes, don’t say you hadn’t noticed? And a sweet, cheeky smile . . .’
‘If you say so,’ I laugh, wondering if I’ve been deprived of adult affection for so long that I really
am
immune to other men.
‘Is he single?’ she asks.
‘I’ve no idea, Kirsty. Like I said, I hardly know . . .’
He reappears at my side. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘It’s our big moment on the scales. Off with your boots.’
‘Er, that might be a bit difficult . . .’
‘Oh, no need to be shy around here.’ He chuckles and glances at my feet.
‘It’s not that. I mean, I don’t care who sees my feet. It’s just, these boots are tight and I usually have to ask Jed, my husband, to help me get them off . . .’
Danny snorts with laughter.
‘It’s not funny! I can’t get them off by myself. I bought them in a size too small.’
‘Why did you do that?’ He sounds mystified.
‘They didn’t have my size. And I really wanted them.’
‘Well,’ Danny says, smirking, ‘I guess I’ll just have to assist, if that doesn’t sound too forward.’
‘Um . . . would you mind?’
‘I’d be delighted.’ Jesus, what was I thinking, wearing these boots tonight? I can’t see anyone else who needs help to remove their footwear. Women are gawping at us, giggling openly, as I grip the edge of my chair while Danny kneels before me and grapples with my foot.
‘Take your time, you two,’ Belinda trills with an amused twitch. ‘There’s no rush.’ Clearly, there
is
a rush, as everyone else has been weighed except us. I’m overcome by an urge to forget the weighing part and bolt out of the hall.
‘God, this is impossible,’ Danny gasps.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ I grab at my other boot and tug ineffectually. As my feet are slightly swollen – it’s far too hot and fishy in here – they’re even tighter than usual.
‘Isn’t it great to have a man about the place?’ Belinda snorts. ‘What would we do without you, Danny?’
‘Glad to be of assistance,’ he mutters.
‘Work at the heel, then it should loosen,’ I urge him. He yanks off the boot with such force that he staggers backwards, narrowly missing Belinda’s tuna display. Someone guffaws into their Menu Masterplan.
‘Thanks,’ I say as Danny – now
au fait
with the heel-tugging technique – removes the second boot.
‘Nothing to it.’ He grins at me, and we both explode with laughter.
‘
Now
could you hop on the scales,’ Belinda prompts me, ‘before the caretaker arrives to lock up?’ I step on obediently and peer down at the digital display. I am past caring that I’m wearing one red and one navy sock, both belonging to Finn. Belinda squints at the scales and bites her lip.
‘Is it bad news?’ I ask.
‘Of course not,’ she chuckles. ‘I’d say you only have twenty pounds to lose. Remember not to lose it too quickly or it’ll all just pile back on.’
‘How long should it take?’ I ask.
‘Around ten weeks if you stick to the plan. That way, you’re far more likely to keep it off.’
‘No problem,’ I say, hopping off the scales, feeling lighter already. Okay, I won’t be a skinny minx in time for Celeste’s party. Yet coming here week after week doesn’t seem so bad, not with Danny for company.
‘Slow and steady,’ Belinda sing-songs as I struggle back into my boots. ‘The key to success is to come every week. You can just drop by for weigh-in at the end, but I’d advise you to come for my talk. I think,’ she eyeballs me sternly, ‘you’ll find it motivating.’
‘I’ll do that, Belinda,’ I say.
Danny is weighed – ‘Better luck next week,’ she says, oozing sincerity – and we make our escape together. ‘So, where to now?’ he asks as we step outside.
‘Well, home, I guess.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Bracken Lane, ten minutes’ walk away. How about you?’
‘I’m out in the wilds,’ Danny says with a grimace.
‘Which village?’
‘Not even a village, unfortunately. It’s three miles to the local shop and, even scarier, four to the nearest pub. Anyway, can I give you a lift home? I’m parked around the corner.’
‘Oh, I’ll walk, thanks,’ I tell him. ‘Could do with the exercise.’
‘See you next week then?’
‘Sure. You know, it wasn’t half as bad as I expected.’
‘It’s not too painful, is it?’ He pauses and smiles. ‘Don’t fancy swapping numbers, do you? So we can keep each other on track if, well . . . we run out of inspiration with tuna.’
I laugh and pull out my phone. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’re likely to do that. Not with all those bakes and jacket potatoes and, um, what was the other thing . . .’
‘The dip. Don’t forget the dip.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. So what’s your number?’
He tells me, and I text mine to him. Then I hurry home to Bracken Lane, feeling light and happy and desperately craving a steaming hot chocolate.
