A Season of Hopes and Dreams. Lynsey James
it’s onto jumping jacks!’ Her smile is wider than ever and almost looks macabre as she stares out at us from the stage. Her high heels and dress have been swapped for a canary-yellow tracksuit and trainers. ‘Come on, ladies, let’s burn that fat, shall we?’
With an energy that would make a Duracell bunny jealous, she throws herself into the exercise. Some weird noises come out of her mouth as she jumps up and down; I guess she thinks it’ll encourage us to do the same.
‘If I do any more, my heart’s going to explode,’ I say to Emma as I try to catch my breath, my voice barely a croak. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for jumping jacks, not that I had a lot to start with. They’re more like stumbling jacks now. ‘Why can’t we do something nice like yoga? Or a group nap?’
Emma pauses and takes a deep breath, although she’s barely broken a sweat. She looks at me in my broken, sweaty state, but there’s no judgement in her kind, dark eyes.
‘Because yoga doesn’t make our fat cry,’ she says, reminding me of yet another one of Marjorie’s mottos. ‘Anyway, keep going; you’re doing great!’
‘Hey, what was the invite you were talking about earlier?’ I ask.
It’s too late, though; Emma’s already thrown herself back into the jumping jacks. I suck it up, take a deep breath, and give the rest of the workout everything I have. Somewhere along the line, I get a second wind and even find myself enjoying it a little bit. Maybe being Cleo Jones isn’t quite so bad after all.
The mysterious invite Emma mentioned lurks at the back of my mind as I head home from Carb Counters. She left pretty sharply after the workout ended, so I couldn’t ask her any more about it. I throw her words around in my head: is it because you got the invite too? What has she been invited to that I might’ve been asked to as well?
I don’t have time to worry about it too much, though. I have bigger fish to fry; namely, choosing an outfit for my trip to the pub.
*
As anyone who’s ever had problems with their weight will testify, picking an outfit is an absolute minefield. Finding something you feel comfortable in that also flatters you is near impossible, and usually involves a meltdown or two.
For me, tonight is no exception.
There’s a pile of discarded clothes on my floor, each item ruled out either for being too clingy or too frumpy. There’s just one dress left to try: if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to walk into the Bell and Candle wearing my tiger-print onesie. Stepping away from my full-length mirror, I lift the dress out of the wardrobe. It’s a rich, deep red with little white hearts on the front.
‘I’m counting on you,’ I say as I slip it off the hanger. ‘So, don’t let me down.’
I’m not quite sure whether I’m referring to the dress or myself. My heart rate quickens and a cold sweat sweeps over me as I pull it on. The material is stretchy and doesn’t feel very forgiving. Horrid images of what I might look like flash before me: awkwardly stuffed sausage immediately springs to mind. As I pull it into place, I can see the material is stretched over my chest. Goodness knows what the rest of it must be like.
It’s time to go over to the mirror to appraise myself. As the Pussycat Dolls would say, I hate this part right here. To mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to see, I close my eyes before taking a sidestep to the mirror. This may all sound overly dramatic and shallow – there are, after all, more important things than looking good for a night out – but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. This is about much more than just looking nice in a dress.
I start the countdown in my head, keeping my eyes tightly screwed shut.
Four, three, two, one…
I take a deep breath and open my eyes, preparing to face the reflection staring back at me. An all-too-familiar feeling of panic and dread envelops me, spreading bad thoughts to every corner of my brain and bringing tears to my eyes.
I look awful. Everyone’s going to laugh at me.
My eyes scan down my body; everything I hate about it seems to be magnified, there for all to see in super-high definition. My stomach is bulging against the dress’s red cotton material, my hips are awkward and lumpy, and my legs look like tree trunks. The little voices in my head, the ones I know so well, which are telling me I look hideous, turn from tiny whispers to bellowing roars. I pull at the dress, trying to make it sit better or feel more comfortable.
It doesn’t work.
For a moment, I consider climbing into my tiger-print onesie and throwing myself under my duvet. Horrible dark thoughts are closing in like storm clouds and it’d be all too easy to let them win. I’ve let that happen so many times before.
Not this time, however.
I fiercely wipe the tears from my eyes, take a deep breath to calm myself down, and go back to the pile of clothes. There has to be something I can wear among the debris. I can feel something propelling me forward, determined to silence the negative voices at the back of my mind. I’m not giving in to my own worst thoughts this time. Whether it’s the idea of a new bucket list spurring me on or something different altogether, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m going to find an outfit if it’s the last thing I do.
I can’t quite remember the point where something as fun as a night out turned into an epic battle of wills between me and my own brain. However, through sheer will and determination, I make it to the Bell and Candle to meet Emma. My outfit of choice is a pair of smart, wide-legged black trousers and a white chiffon top. I’ve left my hair natural and curly and kept my make-up simple yet stylish. I feel good right up until it’s time to enter the pub. I pause briefly at the door while I get myself together. Walking into a crowded room is always nerve-wracking; even more so when you feel everyone’s eyes are on you, passing judgement on every aspect they can see.
‘Come on, Cleo, you can do this,’ I whisper to myself.
I place my hand on the door, push it open and walk in. The snug little room is, as usual, teeming with locals who are hunched over their pints or chatting to friends. The pub is the centre of social activity in Silverdale; everyone likes to pop in for a glass of wine or a plate of its delicious steak and ale pie.
I spot Emma at the back of the pub. She’s managed to snag one of the comfy – and hugely coveted – booths and, from what I can see, she’s already got a round of drinks in. I make my way through the crowd as carefully as possible, trying not to bang into anyone or spill any pints. Fortunately, I reach Emma’s booth unscathed.
‘How’d you manage to land one of these?’ I ask with a grin as I manoeuvre myself into the booth.
There’s a brief moment of panic as it looks like I’m going to get stuck halfway, but luckily it doesn’t happen. I try not to make my relief too obvious as I pick up the vodka and lemonade in front of me.
‘I fluttered my eyelashes at the bloke behind the bar, and he said it was all mine,’ she replies with a chuckle. ‘You look great, by the way. I love your outfit.’
I look down at it and shake my head. ‘Oh, this? I just found it at the back of my wardrobe! Does it look OK?’
‘It looks fab,’ she assures me. She looks down at her burgundy lace dress. ‘I wish I’d worn trousers and a nice top, to be honest. This dress is doing my head in.’
She stands up and steps out of the booth to adjust it. Needless to say, she looks absolutely fantastic. The colour complements her creamy skin beautifully, and her chestnut hair is falling in Hollywood-starlet waves round her shoulders. She looks so comfortable in her own skin. Finally happy with how the dress is sitting, she shuffles back into the booth.
‘You’ll never guess what I found today,’ I say, ‘Cleo Jones’s