Michele Gorman - The Curvy Girls Club

‘Oh, but it’s not a club,’ Jane said. ‘It’s just us. We’ve been going out together lately. We went to an improvisational acting class last night!’

As she told Rob about it I found myself grinning madly. When Jane suggested the evening taster class, I’d cringed at the thought. And acting in front of my best friends? My feelings on the subject flip-flopped between excitement and dread.

‘If we’re made to roll around on the floor and get in touch with our inner child, I’ll meet you at the pub around the corner when you’re done,’ Pixie had said as we’d made our way down the primary school’s corridor, where crayoned artwork decorated the walls. We passed the children’s Ikea-bright blue and yellow lockers and found our classroom.

There were around a dozen women already there. The desks and chairs had been pushed into the corners and a woman of about fifty stood in the centre of the room. She was wearing a leotard. I moved between Pixie and the door.

‘It’s not exercise, is it?’ Jane whispered, scrutinising the woman’s hand-knitted legwarmers. ‘Because I haven’t got the right clothes.’

‘I haven’t got the right frame of mind,’ Pixie added.

‘Let’s see if it’s weird. If it is we’ll make an excuse and leave. Agreed?’ Everyone nodded.

Despite her penchant for Glee -inspired attire, the instructor, Alexandra, wasn’t at all weird. Within minutes we all wanted to be her friend. She explained what we’d be doing, with a huge disclaimer about not being able to make us award-winning actors in a single evening. Everyone laughed at the very idea. Few serious actors began their careers at an adult learning evening in the local primary school.

‘Okay, we’ll start with a few warm-ups,’ said Alexandra, sparking Pixie’s suspicion once again. ‘Everyone please make a circle. This is called The Shakes, and it’s meant to help with any performance anxiety we may feel. I’ll explain as we go.’

Alexandra slowly looked at her hand, which began to twitch. She raised it in front of her, where her fingers started to spasm more regularly. The spasms became shudders, then judders until finally her fingers were toodloo-ing, giving her a very enthusiastic jazz hand.

‘Now, I’m going to look at someone and throw them my shakes. When they catch them, their fingers will also start to shake like mine. Then the shakes will move from their fingers to another part of their body, any part. They’ll look at someone else and that person will catch the new shakes.’ She jerked her head and looked straight at Ellie.

‘Oh, already? Well, all right then, I’ll try.’ She quivered admirably before throwing a bobble head at me.

I caught it, and my head began a side to side movement to rival that nodding dog off the Churchill advert. Then I let the shakes settle into my shoulders. I could feel the backs of my arms jiggle, and my boobs began to bounce despite wearing a support bra that could shore up a landslide. Back and forth my shoulders went, as my arms went out by my sides, palms facing forward. Then my shoulders shook in smaller and smaller movements as my breasts began a dangerously pendulous sway. I looked at Pixie.

‘You are joking, love.’

I shrugged, briefly throwing myself off my rhythm.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for everyone who has to watch this.’ With that she began to shimmy. By the end of the exercise everyone was definitely warmed up, if out of breath. The night flew by as we played Pinocchio – ‘awakening’ each body part from our foreheads to our toes – and something called Freeze, where we actually got to act a bit. By the end of the evening it was safe to say that none of us was destined for the stage, but my sides ached from laughing (and my boobs hurt).

‘So we just meet once or twice a week to do something fun,’ I explained when Jane finished recounting the night.

‘That sounds like a club to me,’ Rob said.

Ellie laughed. ‘A club of four. We don’t exactly need to hire out the O2 for our annual conference.’

‘So it’s very exclusive,’ he said amiably.

‘I suppose not,’ Jane said. ‘We haven’t really discussed whether more people could come along …?’

‘The more the merrier,’ I said. ‘Depending on what we’re doing.’

‘I agree,’ said Ellie. ‘But we’d want to check with Pixie too, in case she’d rather stick to just us four.’

Rob smiled at her apologetic look. ‘Where is Pixie?’

‘She quit.’

He considered this for a moment. ‘Good for her. She hasn’t seemed happy here for a while. Make sure it’s okay with Pixie and if everyone agrees then I’m sure the others would love to join you. The rumour mill has been grinding. They think you’ve been out on champagne-soaked excursions. Amanda said she heard you went to Monaco.’

‘Ha! We’ve gone to Hackney,’ I said. ‘It sounds like we’ve got a lot to live up to.’

Rob suddenly looked bashful. ‘If it’s not an all-girls’ club, maybe I could come along too?’

‘It’s not a club!’

‘I suppose it could be a club though,’ Ellie said. ‘Would you want to come out with us, Rob?’ I could see her eyes asking us if that was all right.

‘Fine with me,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ said Jane. ‘Rob, I’d love for you to join us.’

‘Then we just need to see if Pixie objects.’

Pixie didn’t object. In fact she thought it was a marvellous idea to welcome everyone. Which was how we found ourselves dancing salsa with two dozen other Slimming Zone friends in the back room of my local pub the following Sunday afternoon.

The pub landlord was more than happy for us to work up a thirst in his otherwise dead pub, and there were plenty of out-of-work salsa instructors in London to choose from. I explained that what we lacked in fitness we’d make up for in enthusiasm, and everyone pitched in five quid to pay Ricco the Snake-Hipped Wonder.

‘I haven’t laughed that hard since Trevor did a headstand in the lounge on a piece of Lego.’ Pixie laughed again at the thought. ‘Pure comedy genius, though he obviously didn’t see the humour.’

Pixie didn’t often talk about Trevor without swearing. ‘You sounded almost fond of Trevor when you said that.’

‘Did I? It must be the wine. Although he has been rather fond of me lately.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s become a randy old git. It’s all I can do to keep out of his reach.’

‘Well, you are in separate bedrooms,’ I pointed out. ‘Can’t you just lock your door?’

She smiled at me. ‘Dear, innocent Katie, so much to learn. The trick to a happy marriage is—’

‘But you don’t have a happy marriage,’ Jane said.

‘The trick to a marriage, then, is to make the man think he’s getting what he wants, when in actual fact, you’re getting what you want.’

‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘And how are you making him think he’s having sex with you?’ This ought to be good.