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 and 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
