next week.’
‘It feels like the Great Wall of China, love.’ She shook her head. ‘Why should next week be any better, or the week after that?’
Ellie was flummoxed by such blasphemy. ‘It just will be. You’ve got to stick with it. Pam says—’
‘I know what Pam says, Ellie. I’ve been coming here for four years. Four years. I’ve lost seven pounds. I’m sick of it. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?’ She gestured around the room, to the crowd of new faces. Post-Christmas optimists. By Easter they’d be as bitter as Pixie.
‘Because we love each other and get to see each other every week here,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re my best friends. Katie and I wouldn’t have met you if it wasn’t for Slimming Zone.’
We’d joined not long after Pixie did, and I couldn’t have been more grateful to have Ellie at my side. I’d looked forward to that first meeting about as much as my family’s annual visit to Great Aunt Bernardine, who smelled of cats and liked to explain to me why I was single.
We’d entered the church hall fearing the worst. Would they announce our weight in booming voices tinged with judgement? Would everyone laugh? Was the rest of the group only there to lose those stubborn last five pounds, making us the elephants in the room?
We needn’t have worried. Everyone was friendly and supportive. Nobody announced pounds gained, only pounds lost. And as Ellie just pointed out, that’s how we met Jane and Pixie. They were already friends, Jane having joined about a year before Pixie. They might seem like opposites but Slimming Zone had brought them together, as it had us all.
I scanned the packed hall, thinking about Pixie’s question. ‘We could be anywhere together,’ I said.
‘But we have fun here,’ Ellie said.
‘No we don’t,’ Pixie scoffed. ‘We have fun at dinner after we leave here.’
‘I like these meetings,’ Jane said, staring at the growing pile of knitting in her lap. ‘I feel like they help me. And we’re … amongst friends here.’
‘I’m with Jane,’ Ellie said. ‘I feel better for coming.’
‘And it has worked for you, Ellie.’ As her flatmate, work colleague and best friend I knew how hard she tried. She was only twenty-five, with all the lovely elasticity that brings, so hers was puppy fat rather than the established fat of us older dogs. She’d lost a fair amount of weight but still saw no beauty in her size sixteen frame.
‘I love you girls,’ I said. ‘But Pixie’s right. Our friendship is built mostly around how many Maltesers we’ve eaten.’
Being overweight does tend to preoccupy one. Like having a hangnail, it’s always there to irritate you. Sometimes it’s painful but usually it’s just tedious.
‘I think we need more than this.’
‘I gained a pound,’ said Jane at the next meeting. ‘And I’ve eaten nothing but Special K for a week.’ She glared at her thighs. ‘My wee stinks of wheat.’
Jane was no stranger to unpleasant side effects. When she was on the cabbage soup diet none of us could be in the car with her unless the windows were down.
‘That’s not healthy, Jane,’ I said.
‘Neither is being two stone overweight,’ she snapped back. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’
Ellie bounded over to Jane for a hug. She reminded me of a half-grown sheepdog when she moved, with her blondish-brown flyaway curls that always found their way over her eyes. She was just as friendly and gawky and I often had the urge to pet her.
‘How much Special K are you eating?’ she gently enquired.
Jane shrugged her off. ‘So shoot me, I get hungry! Those serving sizes are for children.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Oh Jane, I didn’t mean to upset you. I only asked. Maybe something a bit more well-balanced than cereal might work better?’
‘It’s just till I get started,’ she said. She always said that.
Dieting was an extreme sport for Jane – the more outrageous, the bigger the potential payoff. There wasn’t a fad, plan, pill or potion that she hadn’t tried since having her children, but nothing shifted the baby weight. Those babies were now nine and seven. Her house was full of photos of her pre-child days, when she wore wispy dresses and wasn’t afraid of shorts. Her friendly, heart-shaped face beamed at the camera, wide blue eyes sparkling and long, thick blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She didn’t pose for the camera any more.
‘But those adverts!’ she said as she pressed her double chin with the back of her hand. She hated that chin. Last year she spent hours making kissy fish faces in a bid to tone it. Pixie threatened to demonstrate her Kegel exercises if she didn’t stop doing it with us in public. ‘They couldn’t run the adverts if they weren’t true. Trading Standards wouldn’t let them. Would they?’
Our expressions answered her.
‘I knew it. Poxy adverts.’
‘It’s not the adverts,’ Pixie said. ‘It’s just human nature. If we stuck to exactly what they told us to eat we’d lose weight. We’d also lose the will to live.’ She shook her head. ‘A woman can’t live on no-fat, no-fun food alone … which is why I’ve made a decision. Ladies, this is my last meeting.’
‘No!’ Jane and Ellie said together.
‘You can’t quit!’ Jane said.
Pixie shrugged. ‘Of course I can. I’m sick to death of letting my entire life revolve around every calorie I put into my gob. I told you last week it wasn’t worth it for me.’ She crossed her arms. There was no budging her when she did that. ‘I say bollocks to weekly weigh-ins.’
‘But what about us?’ Ellie’s voice hitched in her throat.
‘You could always quit too. Then we can do something fun together instead.’
‘I’m not ready to quit,’ said Jane.
‘Me neither,’ Ellie said.
Was I ready to quit? As veteran slimmers on the scale of World War soldiers, we’d all seen several tours of duty. Heads of state should lay wreaths before the scales each November to honour our bravery in fighting the 100 Pounds War. I was battle-hardened.
But as I thought about what Pixie had said I realised I was finally ready to resign my commission.
‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘I’d rather spend the evening with you doing something fun than be judged by the calories I’ve eaten. But there’s no reason you couldn’t do both for a while if that makes you feel better. Let’s plan something in addition to Slimming Zone.’
‘I’m in!’ Jane said, her hands flying over her knitting. ‘What shall we do?’
In London, the options were endless. Film, theatre, comedy, music? A night stuffing fivers down male strippers’ G-strings? No, none of us was rich.
