The Curvy Girls Club. Michele Gorman
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and I splurged on takeaway sushi on our way home from the meeting. Eating tiny bits of fish and rice made us feel virtuous on a par with the Buddha. Which justified the ice cream we bought for dessert. Life was a balancing act, after all.
Ellie got the good wine glasses from the kitchen and threw herself beside me on the ancient sofa. Mum and Dad had brought it from home when I bought the flat. Lucky for me, as I was so skint by the end of the process that even Ikea was out of my reach.
I loved our sofa. It was old and worn but its scarlet velvet cushions held countless memories. It was where I was sitting when Mum announced she’d been appointed headmistress of her school. I threw myself on it when opening my university acceptance letter. And it was where I first had sex … a detail I’d skipped when reminiscing with my parents on moving day.
How I’d loved Rory McAdams, ever since Year Nine when he offered to help me with maths. He wasn’t the most popular boy, or the sportiest or smartest or funniest. He was a bit on the short side, and failed to grow the peach fuzz that our classmates managed. But he was incredibly nice, and he became one of my only friends at school.
It would be generous to say that I went through an awkward phase at school. It was more like a pariah phase. I slowly outgrew it at uni, away from the bullies who’d tormented me, but it was a slow process and I never did gain a big group of friends. Since meeting Ellie, Jane and Pixie, I hadn’t felt I needed any more.
But Rory wasn’t put off by my leper-like status at school. We became such good mates that our parents started referring to us in the plural. We were Katie-and-Rory. Naturally this convinced me that we were as good as going out, in a non-kissing, non-hand-holding, one-sided way.
But while I pined for my friend, he pined for a tall girl on the hockey team who didn’t know he was alive. Sometimes I wondered if anyone got to go out with the person they liked.
One night, just before leaving sixth form, we went to the pub. We’d both had too much cider and before I knew what was happening, Rory kissed me. Or I kissed him. The details were fuzzy but the fact was, we kissed. I was snogging the boy I loved. We left the pub holding hands, and he kissed me again when we got to my door.
Mum and Dad didn’t usually leave me alone overnight but as I was now eighteen (I reminded them of this every chance I got), they’d taken a rare trip without me to visit my cat-wee auntie. When I invited Rory inside I knew exactly what I was doing and wasn’t at all nervous about having sex for the first time. I was, however, self-conscious, aware that my body wasn’t slim like the girls in the magazines. I was probably around the same size as Ellie is now, with the same puppy fat coating my five-foot-five frame. Rory switched the light on. I switched it off. He laughed and said I was being silly, but left us in the dark.
The sex mostly involved fumbling with the condom he optimistically carried in his wallet for Miss Jolly Hockeysticks. We both tried to hide our surprise that he was using it with me. The velvet cushions weren’t great for traction and we slid to the floor more than once.
My head was too full of our new relationship to sleep after kissing Rory good-bye. By morning my imagination had us nearly engaged. Unfortunately Rory’s sleep hadn’t been disturbed by similar fantasies, and when he said he wanted to talk the next day, I knew he wouldn’t be proposing. I managed to hide my dismay when he apologised for taking advantage of me, and he managed to hide most of his awkwardness. I was his best girl mate, he said, and a right laugh, and he didn’t want to lose me as a friend. I pretended not to mind and we did stay friends as we went off to university. I saw him in London a few years ago and finally told him of the torch I’d carried all those years. He swore he’d had no idea of my feelings. He was, of course, just being kind. He’d have had to be blind not to notice. Infatuation isn’t a subtle emotion.
Now, at thirty, I wasn’t yet consigned to spinsterhood, despite Great Aunt Bernardine’s theories. But I had to be realistic as I looked in the mirror. Sure, my face was okay. A teacher once even likened me to Elizabeth Taylor (presumably in her early years), probably because we had the same colour eyes and dark wavy hair. My nose and lips were about the right size and I wasn’t too spotty. But not everyone wanted to go out with a woman who carried the equivalent of a seven-year-old under her dress.
‘I feel ill,’ Ellie said, chucking the spoon into her empty bowl with satisfaction. ‘I can’t believe we ate the whole thing.’
‘It was light ice cream,’ I pointed out, patting my own tummy. ‘And we did only have sushi.’
‘We should definitely go for a walk.’
‘Are you sure? It’s kind of cold out there.’
‘Shivering burns calories.’ She went for her trainers. ‘Come on. Get off your arse.’
I made a face, which she ignored. Ellie was one of those annoying women who enjoyed exercise. She had a gym membership that she actually used, whereas I spent thirty quid a month to feel guilty that my gym shoes sat in the wardrobe most of the time.
Ellie’s phone rang just as I locked our front door. ‘It’s Thomas,’ she said. ‘Hi, Thomas. I’m fine, thank you. Katie and I are just going for a walk. Can I call you back in about an hour?’
‘An hour?’ I mouthed. She nodded sadistically as she hung up.
‘Will lovely Thomas survive that long without you?’
‘He’ll manage.’ She scrunched her face up in a smile.
‘He really is lovely, isn’t he?’
‘I think he is. I know it’s early days—’
‘Not such early days, Ell, when you consider that you’ve known him, non-biblically, for years. You’d have a pretty good idea by now if he was a knob.’
‘Who’d have thought I’d get together with someone from work?’ she said. ‘At the Christmas party no less?’
‘You’re a walking cliché.’ I stuck my arm over her shoulder and hugged. ‘In the best possible way. I really am so happy for you.’ Ellie was the kind of woman you wanted nice things to happen to.
‘Mmm, I suppose,’ she said, glancing sideways.
‘Ellie, I’ve warned you. Don’t overthink things. You know how he feels about you. He’s told you. And he shows it all the time. You’ve got to forget about her.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. Your boyfriend doesn’t have a crush on his colleague.’
‘Christ, Ellie, he never should have told you. It was a crush. Was. All the way back when they were in school together. You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s not a big deal but you’re going to make it one if you keep dwelling.’ I stopped, and made her stop too. ‘You know I’m right. You’ve got to relax about this. Don’t make problems where there aren’t any.’
She nodded. ‘I know, but I can’t help how I feel. I hate her.’
‘You can’t hate someone who’s never done anything to you. That’s silly. She doesn’t even know that he liked her, does she? They’re just mates.’
‘No, but what if she finds out about his feelings and decides she likes him too? Then what’ll happen?’
‘Well, let’s see. Maybe he’ll shag her on the desk during his lunch break. And while we’re in the world of “maybes”, maybe the Queen will abdicate in favour of Prince Charles, and the bee population will recover and Wayne Rooney will grow an afro. All of those things are possible, but are you really going to worry about the possibility that they might happen at some point in the future?’
‘I’m not going out with Prince Charles or Wayne Rooney, and I’m allergic to bees.’
‘You’re being purposely obtuse. Honeybun, lovely Thomas is nuts about you. He’s going out with you and you’re happy together. If you don’t dial up the crazy, that’ll continue to be the case. Believe me, I know about crazy.’
‘You