Michele Gorman - The Curvy Girls Club

‘Very funny,’ I said. It was nap-worthy seating. ‘This could be the perfect cinema experience, thank you, Hackney Picturehouse!’ I imagined all the cold, rainy weekend afternoons we could spend lounging in cinematic splendour. In seats like that I’d even watch Vin Diesel without too much of a grump.

Within minutes of the opening credits though, I was yearning for Vin. Instead we sat through two hours of bleak inner angst. As if I needed any more of that, after the day I’d had. My mind replayed the afternoon’s meeting while the actors wept on-screen. Stupid arthouse film.

Every month the entire Nutritious sales team met in the big conference room to divvy up new client prospects and report on progress with existing clients. Everybody lied, of course (occupational hazard), but it was important to go through the motions to give our bosses the illusion of control.

As usual, Clive (he of the vision boards) chaired the meeting and, as usual, we played Buzzword Bingo. Trading the cards around each month made sure that everyone got an equal chance over time.

Nobody could sling vacuous office speak like Clive, and he never disappointed. Ellie jumped when he said ‘Let’s focus on the bottom line, team’ and I knew she had my card from last month. Focus and bottom line in one go. Well played, Ellie.

‘All right, last order of business,’ he said as I ticked off one of my boxes. Just touch base and game plan left to win. ‘New account visits. We’ve got sixteen this month. Who can take Camelot in Northampton?’

I raised my hand with lots of others.

‘Steve, thanks. Cohens in Leeds?’

Again my hand went up. ‘Susan, great. Faith Fitness, also in Leeds? Susan, do you want to take that too? Thanks. Havens Chemist? Matt.’

Each time my hand went up. Each time Clive chose a colleague to take the meeting. By the end of the list, my arm was tired. So was I.

‘Right,’ said Clive. ‘Thank you, ladies and gents. Same time next month. Any questions, just touch base with me.’

‘Erm, Clive? Isn’t there a client I could take?’ I asked, subtly ticking off my touch base box.

He smiled his grandfatherly smile. ‘I’m sorry, Katie, that’s the end of the list. Next time you should volunteer earlier.’ Ellie grimaced her support as she took the minutes. She was lucky. As the company secretary and all-round indispensable person, she didn’t have to fight for client meetings with the rest of us.

I didn’t bother pointing out that my hand was in the air the whole time. I could have danced on the desk and he’d have passed me over. It was a long-standing fact. I was one of their top salespeople on the phone. I never got client meetings.

Once Ellie’s moany film ended we had to stay for another twenty minutes while sycophantic fans stroked the director’s ego. Even she looked ready for a drink by the time we finally made for the pub down the road.

‘You know what I really want?’ Ellie asked as we carried our wine to an empty table. ‘Cake. I could murder a slice of gooey chocolate gateau.’ She licked her lips thinking about it.

‘I could eat two slices,’ I said. Lately my appetite had been colossal. ‘With ice cream.’

‘God, don’t!’ moaned Jane. ‘I haven’t had anything sweet all week.’

‘You’re not still on your stinking wee cereal diet?’ Pixie said. ‘Love, give it up. There’s no reason to put yourself through something that clearly doesn’t work.’ When Ellie protested this rather blunt statement, she said, ‘What? Jane has said as much. It’s been over a month and she hasn’t lost any weight.’

‘I gained a pound,’ Jane confirmed. ‘But I’m going to try something new. Katie, you might know about this too, from work. It’s called Alli. Have you heard of it?’

‘We don’t sell any diet aids.’ I made a mental note to ask the science types around at the office about it anyway.

‘You take it with meals,’ she explained. ‘And it keeps your body from absorbing fat. The best part is you can eat whatever you like!’

‘It sounds too good to be true,’ Ellie said. ‘Is it safe?’

‘I bought it at Boots, so it must be,’ she said. ‘This could be the miracle I’ve been looking for.’

I hated seeing Jane get so excited about the latest fad only to be disappointed.

‘Are you finished?’ Pixie glared at us. ‘Jesus, will you listen to yourselves? We may as well just go to Slimming Zone. It’d be cheaper and we can have the exact same monotonous conversations. Aren’t you tired of always thinking about what you ate yesterday, what you can eat today? It’s exhausting. I quit Slimming Zone to get away from all that and you’re bringing it with you on our nights out.’ Her look softened. ‘Ladies. We are more than the sum total of our BMIs. Honestly, I’m sick to death of it all. Aren’t you?’

Actually I was. And Pixie was right. We had better things to talk about than our waistlines. ‘Well, I thought that film was a load of old donkey’s bollocks.’

‘How can you say that?’ Ellie asked. ‘It was beautiful.’

‘It was boring.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Pixie said. ‘Donkey’s bollocks aren’t boring.’

‘Not all films move along at the pace of Love, Actually .’

Ellie knew I judged all cinema against the Richard Curtis classics.

I shrugged. ‘That storyline was Jurassic. Glaciers move faster.’

‘I thought the main guy was hot,’ Jane said.

Ellie made a face. ‘He didn’t look well-bathed.’

‘And with that seventies porn moustache?’ Pixie laughed. ‘But I suppose you also like Tom Selleck and Sam Elliot.’

‘Do you also have a thing for seventies porn, Jane?’ I asked.

‘Bow chicka bow-wow!’ Ellie said. ‘It’s making a comeback you know.’

‘Seventies porn?’

She nodded. ‘It’s vintage now that everybody’s waxing off all their body hair. Some men still like a full muff.’

‘How do you know that? Does lovely Thomas like a hirsute woman?’

She blushed to her roots. ‘I read it in Cosmo . And I know where this conversation is going, so don’t even bother.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ said Jane. ‘But you’re the only one around here with an active sex life. I love Andy but with two children, we’re lucky if we remember to kiss good night. I’m afraid you must share with the group.’

But Ellie wouldn’t be drawn down that road. ‘Jane, something tells me that you’re protesting too much. You and Andy are probably still ten times more romantic than the rest of us could hope to be.’

‘Infinitely more,’ said Pixie. ‘Speaking for myself.’

Jane had one of those relationships that inspired envy in both singletons, the smugly wed and, as Pixie just proved, the extremely disgruntled. Andy was practically an urban legend, a type often discussed but never seen in real dating life: intelligent, funny, sexy and kind. His equanimity was legendary, but then Jane was just as warm and supportive. Whenever she talked about how she and Andy met, she grinned like a lunatic. It seemed a match made in heaven.

It had actually been a match made in Ibiza, sweaty and knee-deep in foam. Jane was there for her cousin’s hen weekend. Andy was there hoping to snog hens. They danced into each other in the early hours of Sunday morning and by the time they kissed at the airport that night they knew their good-byes would be hellos within the week back in London.

Holiday romances rarely work out, but Andy and Jane weren’t your normal twenty-three year olds. Only two years into her fledgling BBC career, Jane had already bought her own flat. She had a pension and knew exactly what she wanted in life. Unlike most of her friends, whose views on procreation were ambivalent at best, Jane wanted a big, noisy, happy family like the one she came from.