Weight Till Christmas Page 5

  Drastic measures are called for if I am to fit into my dream dress.

  So this evening I’m going to take the next step in my master plan. Rather than joining the others for a couple of ciders and a pile of cheesy chips I’m about to enter the mysterious world of the local gym for my induction session.

  I pause at the bottom of the steps and look up. Absoglutely Fit. Do I even have abs to get glutely fit? Somewhere under the squishy bits I guess I must have. Time to find out I suppose. I check my watch and gulp back the rising terror as two tiny girls tear past me, all swishy ponytails, and racehorse legs in tiny shorts and bright white Reeboks. My saggy leggings, huge tee shirt and tatty trainers hardly compare and the rainy November evening has made my hair frizz. There’s no way I can swish anything. For a moment I teeter, torn between wanting to look like them and doing a runner. I could easily make it back to the pub

  It’s almost six and I’m due to have my induction, whatever that means, in about two minutes’ time. I have a sudden longing to be squashed up the saggy sofa in the Coach, sharing chips with the boys and listening to Sam moan about the latest workshop drama. Anything but make an idiot of myself here. Then I think about getting stuck in the Mazda and Drake’s awkwardness when he thought I was going to visit him and my resolve hardens. Almost before I know I’ve done it, I’ve climbed the steps, shot through the revolving doors and am checking in at reception.

  “Ellie Summers?” The receptionist, skinny, swishy haired and very tanned for London in November, beams at me. “Fantastic! Kevin will be doing your induction tonight.”

  “Kevin?” I echo. A guy? I thought they’d give me a sympathetic woman. Somebody who might understand how it feels to worry about your cellulite and bum. Not a bloke! I almost turn tail and bolt for the street except that a man mountain is blocking my way. My goodness, but he’s huge! I just about reach his navel. And are those legs or Giant Redwoods?

  “This is Kevin!” trills the receptionist as the giant takes my hand and pumps it enthusiastically. “Kevin’s one of our best! He used to play rugby for Britain. He’ll take your details and don’t worry! He’ll soon get you in shape.”

  Never mind get me in shape. My shoulder is practically dislocated now. Traumatized, I trot after Kevin through a warren of corridors and into an office where he sits me down and starts to go through a scarily long list of questions. Every time I answer, he clicks his tongue in a faintly disapproving manner. I’m not sure what I’ve said wrong. So far I’ve only given him my age and address and said that I want to get fit. What’s wrong with that?

  “Weight?” barks Kevin, pen poised over a complicated form.

  I stare at him. To be honest I haven’t a clue. My weight is a bit like the state of my bank account; if I don’t check the balance I can’t get upset. What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

  “Err, ten stone?” I say hopefully.

  Kevin’s brows shoot upwards in a most unflattering manner. “I doubt that very much. Get on the scales, please.”

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I haven’t been on the scales since – well, I can’t even remember. Since Luke left, that’s for sure. He loved to weigh us both and even kept an Excel spreadsheet to chart our progress. I dreaded those weigh in sessions, especially towards the end when he would sigh and look so disappointed with me. Soon scales were to me as garlic cloves are to vampires.

  Feeling close to hysteria I step onto the scales while Kevin peers over and tuts again.

  “Eleven stone two.”

  “Eleven stone two?” I stare at him in disbelief. How much does cabbage soup weigh? “That can’t be right. Maybe I should take my trainers off or my watch?”

  But Kevin isn’t listening. He’s far too busy coming at me with a terrifying pair of pincers.

  “Ow!” I shriek as he grabs a big chunk of my upper arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “BMI.” Kevin tuts again as he scribbles something down on his chart. “Over 28. That’s verging on obese.”

  I glower at him and rub my arm. So tell me something I don’t know, smart arse. I’m not here because I’m skinny.

  “Tell me about your diet,” Kevin continues, indicating that I should sit down again. I do, but eye the pincers warily. If he waves those at me again I’m out of here like last week. “What do you like to eat?”

  What do I like to eat? Chips, pizza, Maccy Ds, buns, Mum’s roasts to name a few, but somehow I don’t think these are the answers he’s looking for.

  “Err, bread,” I say helpfully. “Wholemeal, obviously.”

  He fixes me with a gimlet gaze. “Bread is the devil.”

  It is? This is news to me. I’m very fond of bread. Right. Think again, Ellie. Don’t piss him off. What’s mildly healthy?

  “Rice? Brown rice, of course.”

  Another tut. “Rice is the devil.”

  I try again. “Cottage cheese on Ryvita. Mmm.”

  “Dairy is the devil.”

  And on and on we go, through just about every food group known to girl until I realize everything, which tastes nice and makes life worth living is the devil. Yep, Satan has the monopoly on all the tasty grub. All I should want to eat is green stuff and eggs.

  Yummy.

  Assessment done, and Kevin clearly disgusted by my unhealthy life style, I am frogmarched to the gym, where lots of tiny weeny women are pounding away on treadmills or climbing endlessly on step machines. No wonder they don’t break a sweat on the steps to the gym. Feeling self-conscious, I tug my tee shirt over my tummy and breathe in. I’m not convinced I want to go near any of this scary looking equipment. It looks like something out of a torture chamber and judging by the way that man lifting weights with his legs is grunting, it blooming well hurts.

  Oh God. I miss the Coach.

  “Hop on,” Kevin says, pointing to a treadmill and typing something into a dashboard that wouldn’t be amiss on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

  I climb on nervously. Kevin leans across and clips what looks like a giant peg onto my index finger. I am now wired to the machine in a way that is frankly quite alarming.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “I’m going to take your heart rate and pulse at rest and after exercise,” he explains. A frown creases his forehead. “That’s strange, your pulse seems very high already.”

  I don’t find this strange at all. I’m so stressed I’m amazed my pulse hasn’t exploded the equipment. The machine begins to whir and I start to walk. Hey! This isn’t so bad. Maybe I can get into this after all? I can buy some funky exercise gear and bring my iPhone ear buds and I’ll be well away. Green dress here I come!

  But just as I’m starting to enjoy myself Kevin twiddles something on the controls and the treadmill picks up pace. I start to walk even faster but I just can’t keep up. The next thing I know I’ve broken into an ungainly jog and am wobbling all over the place in an attempt not to go flying. Blimey, never mind the funky exercise gear, I’m investing in a sports bra, preferably one fashioned from girders because my boobs are bouncing around like Skippy. I cross my arms over my chest and plough on, my breath starting to rasp and the cabbage soup in my stomach swilling around in a very alarming way. Oh dear, this does not feel good at all…

  “I need to stop,” I gasp as my stomach starts to growl and churn.

  Kevin gives an evil chuckle. “Every one says that at this stage. Go for the burn. Let’s see what you can really do.”

  Before I have a chance to protest he’s cranked the pace up yet again and my legs start to spasm as I try desperately to keep up. Oh Lord. Sam wasn’t joking about the antisocial effects of the cabbage soup diet! My stomach is doing macramé and I can even hear the noises it’s making above the whirring machine. My body breaks into a cold sweat.

  Oh God. I have to get off this treadmill. Now!

  I’m just about to plead with him when my guts decide that along with the cabbage soup this sudden bout of exercise is really taking the mickey. My stomach clench
es violently and I double up with a groan. Unfortunately, my brain decides it can’t drive both my legs and my stomach, so my legs stop moving but the treadmill keeps turning, pinging me off the back, past the other gym users and slap into the surprised Kevin.

   And then my body decides to tell me and everyone else very, very loudly that it cannot handle the cabbage soup diet a second longer. Thunderclaps would be quiet in comparison.

  I want to die. Right here and now. Everyone is staring and Kevin looks close to despair.

  “Cabbage soup is the devil,” I say weakly, and then, mustering what few scraps of dignity I have left, scurry away with a speed the other treadmill users would envy. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be coming back to the gym again.

  Exercise is clearly very bad for me.

  Chapter 7

  “Open the door, Ellie!” There’s a hammering of fists followed by another blast of the doorbell. “There’s no point hiding. I know you’re in.”

  I put my hands over my ears and sing ‘la la la’ under my breath. Maybe if I stay still and quiet Sam will think I’ve already left and go away?

  There’s another round of thudding on the door. If he keeps this up the Neighbourhood Watch crew will get really overexcited. I don’t think Ambleside Walk’s had this much activity since Steve next door forgot his keys and had to break into his own porch. Mr Singh and Mrs Phillips practically had him in a headlock before they realized who it was. Maybe they’ll frog march Sam away for me? Then I won’t have to go to Diet World with him.

  “Don’t think I’ll believe you’ve already left and will go away,” Sam says through the letterbox of my flat. “I’m here with the car and I’m waiting. I’ve called in on your mum and she’s fine about it. So putting your hands over your ears and singing ‘la la la’ isn’t going to work.”

  Don’t you just hate it when your friends know you inside out and upside down?

  “Come on,” Sam cajoles. “You know you want to go to Diet World. It’ll be fun.”

  “No it bloody won’t,” I grumble, letting him in because I know that Sam really won’t give up. I wouldn’t put it past him to fetch his tool box, take the door off its hinges and drag me out by my pony tail, that’s how determined he can be. Since my nightmare gym induction he’s decided to take matters into his own hands by dragging me to a slimming club. I tried to argue that I always see Mum in the evenings but it seems he’s even got around that by popping in and seeing her. Mum, weirdly, is all for it. She even phoned and told me that she was out on Friday with her neighbours. I’m so pleased she’s starting to get out and about again. Now, I guess it’s my turn?

  “Ready for Chub Club?” Sam teases with a grin. “Come on, Ellie! Look at it this way. It can’t be worse than the gym, can it?”

  While Sam creases up with laughter, I glare at him. I’m so glad my unfortunate stomach problem on the treadmill has given my friend hours of entertainment.

  “What on earth possessed me to tell you about that?” I wonder.

  “You were pissed,” he reminds me cheerfully.

  I knew I should have given up drinking. Feeling mutinous, I pull on my coat and scarf and follow Sam out of my cosy flat and into the bitter cold of a November night. The urge to bolt back to the gas fire and Eastenders is so strong that only his hand placed firmly in the small of my back propelling me to the car stops me making a run for it. Moments later I am belted into the front seat of Sam’s van and being driven through the dark streets towards Ickenham’s church hall, scene of Brownies, birthday parties and now yet another humiliating episode in my quest to lose weight by Christmas.

  After my nightmare experience at the gym, I’d hotfooted it straight back to the Coach and Horses where I’d eaten my own body weight in cheesy chips and got very, very drunk. So drunk in fact that I’d ended up pouring out the entire sorry story to just about any one who’d listen. Rick and Nick were still chortling the next morning, Vicky had thoughtfully left her copy of the Atkins on my desk but Sam had to go one better: he’d signed us both up for a diet club.

  “Right, now listen to me,” he’d said when I’d finally calmed down. “You can either throw in the towel, grab a MacDonald’s and then feel even worse or you can try something else.”

  I’d glowered at him. Maccy D’s for lunch had been on my agenda actually. Anything but cabbage flipping soup. I was never trying that again.

  “I still need to lose a few pounds,” Sam had continued, patting his stomach and shrugging ruefully. “Lucy went mental when she found Burger King wrappers in my van.”

  I’d opened my mouth to remark that when Lucy gained a personality maybe Sam could lose some weight, but had shut it quickly. Although I thought Lucy was a total cow Sam liked her. Besides, Sam wasn’t chubby. He was solid and real, which was much better than being like a string bean. I’d seen the muscles in his arms when he lifted parts around in the workshop. And anyway, he had the kindest crinkliest eyed smile in the world so what did it matter if his tummy was a bit squidgy?

  “Let’s buddy up,” Sam had continued enthusiastically. “We can support each other and both lose a bit of weight for the big Christmas party. I know we’ve said we’ll do it before but we if we’re honest we’ve never really put our minds to it properly, have we? If we are on the same healthy eating plan and encourage each other we won’t be tempted to cheat.”

  This made sense. I’d nodded slowly and he’d beamed from ear to ear that I hadn’t dismissed the idea out of hand.

  “Brilliant! Maybe we can run in the park too?”

  “Steady!” I’d laughed.

  Still, Sam’s enthusiasm has been contagious and yesterday we went for a run in the park. OK, I say run which might be something of an exaggeration, it’s more like a bit of a fast walk with a few joggy bits thrown in, followed by a lot of getting our breath back. It’s strange, I’ve actually quite enjoyed it and at least it keeps me out of Costas and away from all the gingerbread lattes. This diet club is another matter entirely. I really wish I hadn’t agreed to go. What seemed like a good idea in the office isn’t quite so funny at 7 p.m. on a winter’s evening…

  Sam pulls up outside the church hall. Groups of women swarm towards it and warm light spills out into the street every time the door opens.

  “Ready?” he says.

  I’m about as ready as I would be to have my teeth removed with pliers but it’s too late to back out now. Reluctantly I leave the car and venture out into the chilly night. Already frost is icing the verges, frozen blades of grass sparkle in the light of the street lamps, and my breath clouds in front of me. The windows of the church hall are twinkling with fairy lights and as we enter I see that the Christmas tree is already up in the foyer. Granted it has a nasty dose of tinsel and is suffering from alopecia, but it is without doubt a big reminder that the festive season is only weeks away and, even more importantly, it’s not long until the firm’s big Christmas party. No matter that every cell in my body is screaming to escape; I need to get into that meeting, step on those scales, treat my diet sheets like the Bible and lose enough weight to wow Drake Owen.

  “Welcome to Diet World! Are you guys new?” An earnest looking girl pounces on us the second we walk through the door. Stella! declares her name badge excitedly.

  “If we’re not then this diet doesn’t work!” Sam jokes, but although Stella might possess an exclamation mark she doesn’t possess a sense of humour and shakes her head vehemently.

  “Oh no! It works! It really works! I was eighteen stone and now I’m just under eleven! I’m going to hit my golden certificate very soon!”

  I’m impressed. That’s some weight loss. In spite of my misgivings I start to perk up. Maybe this isn’t quite so impossible after all?

  “Brilliant,” says Sam warmly, clearly thinking along the same lines. “How long did that take?”

  Stella beams. “Not long at all. Only about eighteen months.”

  Eighteen months? I haven’t got eighteen months. I’m just on the brink o
f asking her whether there’s any kind of fast track system (short of an emergency gastric band) when another woman with purple hair and funky glasses charges over and makes a bee line for Sam.

  “Hi! I’m Lou, group leader! Welcome to Diet World! You are taking the first step towards changing your life for the healthy better!”

  My goodness, there had better not be a world shortage of exclamation marks. These guys have nicked the lot.

  Lou is pumping Sam’s hand now and leading him towards a queue of middle-aged women and one huge man.

  “We have the highest success levels of weight loss and keeping weight at target of any British slimming club!” she continues, her eyes bright with zeal. “Your weight loss journey starts today!”

  Am I possessed of special invisibility powers or something? Why isn’t she talking to me? I trail after Lou and Sam and try to look interested when actually all I can think about is the enormous pile of fruit and cereal bars stacked up on a trestle table. I’m ravenous. It’s hours since my last slice of cardboard, sorry I mean Ryvita. Maybe we get to eat these?

  I’m still figuring this out when I come to the front of the queue where I part with my joining fee (twenty quid? I know I want to lose pounds but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind) and am then swiftly weighed. This time I’m eleven stone, which cheers me up no end until I discover that according to these guys I have over a stone to lose in order to reach my target weight. Oh dear. That sounds an awful lot. Clutching armfuls of pamphlets and my starter pack I help myself to a diet hot chocolate (hot brown water and not a squirt of cream in sight) and join Sam, who is still accompanied by Lou. Is it my imagination or does she touch his arm just a little too often? And does she really need to flip her hair about quite so much?

  Then it dawns on me: she fancies Sam! Blimey.

  OK, that came out wrong. Why shouldn’t she fancy Sam? Lots of women find him very attractive in a big bear of a guy kind of way. There’s something about him that makes you feel really safe and he’s really good fun to be around too. His jokes are brilliant. There’s the one he always tells about the piece of string that goes into a bar and … well, anyway never mind. I find it hilarious, but Lou hasn’t heard any of Sam’s jokes yet, and neither does she know he can belch God Save the Queen or cook a mean Thai green curry. No, Lou is totally superficial and just going on the fact that with his curly blonde hair, sleepy green eyes and ready smile he looks like a chunky Owen Wilson. Lucy’s bad enough, the last thing my friend needs is the attention of yet another diet Nazi.