Mum on the Run by Fiona Gibson Page B

never confused hunger with thirst, although I could murder a drink right now – a proper one, I mean. A nice glass of chilled pinot and a packet of posh crisps or maybe some mixed nuts. ‘You can make water more interesting with ice and a squeeze of lemon juice,’ Belinda adds. Jesus, how difficult can her job be? She doesn’t have to deal with clients with sparse, mousy hair expecting to walk out looking like Keira Knightley. Here, all people want is to be thinner. Maybe I should consider becoming a leader as a way of boosting my earnings. Surely I’d be capable of informing a hall full of women that they should opt for the rocket salad instead of the sausage roll seeping lard.
    I eye the foil-covered plates greedily, wishing Belinda would hurry up and get to the eating part. The texting woman has snuck out. I hope she’s gone to the chippie. ‘We all know about mayonnaise, don’t we?’ Belinda continues. There’s a ripple of knowing laughter. Oh yes, I know about mayonnaise. It’s bloody delicious. Occasionally, I’ll treat myself to a spoonful with cheese on toast. You could probably be shot for that in here. ‘Try mixing your tuna with lemon juice instead,’ she chirps, ‘and save yourself a whole bunch of cal ories. And remember that we’re all friends here, and our job is to support each other . . .’ I check my watch. How long will this go on for? We’ve been here for a quarter of an hour. It feels like seventeen weeks.
    ‘Oh God, not tuna again,’ mutters a late-comer, slipping quietly onto the vacant seat beside me.
    I turn to look at him. He looks at me, tilts his head and frowns quizzically, and there’s a spark of recognition between us. ‘Danny?’ I whisper. ‘From Starbucks in York?’
    ‘The playsuit shoplifter!’ he whispers back with a broad smile. ‘Well, I’m glad I came tonight.’
    I grin, feeling instantly better. ‘Me too,’ I whisper. Perhaps I’m going to like it here after all.

Chapter Thirteen
     
     
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask softly as Belinda rambles on about brine and calories, striding back and forth across the stage and waving her manicured hands about.
    ‘Oh, I just come for fun when there’s nothing on TV,’ Danny replies. ‘How about you? This your first time?’
    ‘Yep. D’you think it actually works?’
    He surveys his chunky body and frowns. ‘I’m worried it’s working too well actually. That I’ll fade away to nothing.’
    I snigger. He’s perfectly fine, although a personal trainer would probably put him on some kind of ‘programme’ like the Bodyworks girl suggested for me. ‘Okay, everyone,’ Belinda’s voice rings out, ‘here are some meal ideas which you’re welcome to come and look at. Then we’ll do weigh-in.’
    ‘ Look at?’ I splutter. ‘Don’t we get to try?’
    ‘Sadly not,’ Danny smirks. ‘She just brings piles of food along to taunt us.’
    ‘Do you two know each other?’ Kirsty asks as everyone surges towards Belinda’s display.
    ‘Er, not really,’ I say. ‘We just ran into each other in York and got chatting over a coffee. Kirsty, this is Danny.’ She pulls a quirky smile, and I feel a flush of pleasure at having a man friend to introduce her to. With a flourish, Belinda has removed the plates’ foil coverings. A cluster of women are studying a wilted Niçoise salad as if it were a covetable handbag. There’s a baked potato heaped with tuna, presumably in case we’d forgotten what a baked potato looks like, and some kind of fishy layer with a mushed vegetable topping, which Belinda explains is a ‘bake’.
    ‘It looks like something you’d see on the pavement outside the pub on a Saturday night,’ Danny mutters into my ear.
    ‘It’s very tasty actually,’ Belinda says defensively.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ I enthuse. ‘I, er, love bakes. They’re so . . .’
    ‘Versatile?’ Danny chips in.
    ‘And something like this is so easy,’ Belinda adds, ‘even if you can’t cook at