Free Acting Up by Melissa Nathan

Mo. 'Good thing I couldn't be bothered.'
    'Are you mad? She all but sketched him her favourite wedding dress design.'
    Mo frowned heavily. 'The tall guy with the pink cheeks?'
    'Yes, the one whose lap she had to be hoovered off at the end of the rehearsal.'
    'Nope. Can't see it myself,' said Mo and finished off her Baileys.
    'Has your diet stopped blood getting to your brain?' asked Jazz in wonder. 'George was giving signals so big she was practically using semaphore.'
    'Bollocks!' scoffed Mo. ' You may be able to understand George's body language, but to the rest of us, she's as unreadable as a – a – Thomas Hardy novel.'
    Jazz stared at Mo in disbelief. Mo continued, determined to put this subject to rest for the evening: 'Look. I'm very fond of your sister – you know I am, but . . .'
    Jazz didn't want to hear any more. Didn't Mo know the rules? Only Jazz could criticise George.
    '. . . But between you and me, I haven't got a clue what's going on inside her pretty little head. As for her flirting with anyone,' Mo snorted, 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about.'
    'Well, that's because you haven't been feeding your brain for the past month,' scoffed Jazz. 'Your brain cells are slipping out of your ears, I can see them. I keep treading on them in the bathroom.'
    'You're just jealous.'
    'Jealous of what?'
    'My new sleek body.'
    Jazz was shocked. 'Are you calling me fat?'
    'Yes, Big Bum.'
    'Well, I'd rather have a big bum than a white tracksuit any day.'
    'You'd look crap in a white tracksuit.'
    'Of course I would. Everyone would. Everyone does.'
    'You're just chicken.'
    'Chicken of what? Looking like Littlewoods Man?'
    'No, of coming to the gym.'
    'I am not. I could beat you at step-a-crap anyday.'
    'Bet you couldn't.'
    'Bet I could.'
    'Done!' yelled Mo, delighted.
    Shit. How the hell did that happen?
    'Are there any steps that go down?' Jazz asked feebly. 'Into a cafe?'
    The next day she got a phone call in the office. It was Josie, her younger sister, she of the perfect marriage. Could Jazz babysit on Thursday evening please, because she and Michael needed to go out somewhere. Of course, Jazz would be delighted. The rest of the day was spent writing about her sister, she of the perfect marriage, who still went out with her husband, on their own, mid-week, six years after they'd met, three years after their wedding and two years after their firstborn had entered the world. It takes dedication, hard work, tolerance and a sense of humour, but marriages can still remain romantic, long after the glorious honeymoon is over, typed Jazz, and Jazz Judges . . . was over for another week. The Harry Noble character assassination could wait till next week, she had bigger fish to fry.
    That evening Jazz arrived home to a depressing flat. Things just weren't the same since Mo had gone fit on her. She had joined the rest of the mad world and had stopped looking outward on life and was instead looking only at herself. As Jazz stared at the empty lounge, she mused that as far as Mo was now concerned, anything further than her nose was now out of focus and everything nearer than her nose i.e. the rest of her body, was blown up a size too big. She'd lost all sense of proportion.
    Since Mo's changed life, Jazz had started looking more critically at her own body. Perhaps she could be less curvy. But then, she would be less her. No. She was damned if she was ever going to be at war with her body. She loved her body. It kept her alive. She used her strong legs and nimble feet to walk into the kitchen. She used her dextrous hands to put the kettle on. She used her graceful arms to open a cupboard and her agile fingers to niftily open a chocolate bar. She used her sensuous mouth to taste her favourite food. She used her joyous taste buds to experience pleasure and her contented mind to think of something that made her laugh while she was eating.
    How could she hate her body? It was magnificent. It was a miracle. It was her .

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