Free Fat Chance by Nick Spalding Page B

guess I’d just prefer to have a flaming red face thanks to severe public humiliation, rather than a flaming red face thanks to a severe heart attack.
    I sigh. ‘I’ve started it, so I’ll finish it.’ I stab a finger at Elise. ‘But if you ever do anything like that again, I will let everyone know how painful it was for you to sit down for a week.’
    Feeling a bit better about myself, I climb into the car.
    ‘See you tomorrow?’ Elise asks from the kerbside.
    My eyes narrow. ‘Drive,’ I order my husband, who doesn’t need telling twice.
    So now I have to deal with the fact that my inability to get pregnant is in the public domain.
    Whether I like it or not, it will become the defining aspect of my character to everyone who listens to the show. That’s just how these things work.
    Zoe Milton is now ‘the one who can’t have a baby.’
    Elise may have deeply embarrassed me live on air today, but at least I know she won’t be doing it again.
    The aborted anal sex with a confused gay man isn’t the only anecdote I’ve got squirreled away in my brain about Elise Bailey.
    The next time she decides to dredge up my unwashed linen in public, I’ll counter by telling everyone in earshot about how she suffers from occasional vaginal discharge.
    That should do it.

GREG’S WEIGHT LOSS DIARY
    Sunday, April 20th
    18 stone, 13 pounds (1 stone, 3 pounds lost)
    O h God.
    Oh dear sweet God in Heaven.
    Every part of my body aches.
    Even my eyeballs.
    And hair.
    Merely sitting in this chair and writing is a monumental effort. Each hand movement across the keyboard is agony, and every look up at the monitor sends a fresh wave of pain down my back.
    If I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, I think there’s an area just above my left elbow that isn’t suffering. Mind you, this could be caused by the breakdown of my nervous system, following what can only be described as a week spent in the company of Lucifer.
    Getting a personal trainer sounded like a good idea.
    Even if I could only afford a week’s worth, I could at least take a note of the exercise plan the trainer would have me on for seven days . . . and just repeat until thin.
    ‘That’s a great idea,’ Zoe says to me over another one of her bowls of snot soup. I may not be all that keen on strenuous exercise, but given the choice between that and eating that green, foul-smelling shit, I’ll take the press-ups any day.
    ‘I’ll go on Google and see if there are any local trainers in the area,’ I tell her and turn away before I start to gag.
    It turns out there are three personal fitness trainers close to home and affordable enough for my wallet. I try Darren Bouchard first, as he’s the closest and has been a trainer for eight years.
    Sadly, Darren (who sounds a wee bit too effeminate over the phone to be a personal trainer anyway) is so popular that he’s booked up until the middle of summer. I give him my email for his mailing list and put the phone down.
    Next up is Mike McPartlin. Mike is an ex-Olympic coach and sounds ideal.
    He also speaks in a Scottish accent more impenetrable than the Amazon basin. Mike would love to train me, but he’s currently suffering from a bad Achilles tendon injury and won’t be back to fighting fit for at least another two months.
    This leaves my third and final choice—and it’s the worst of the th ree.
    Alice Pithering.
    Yep, that’s right, her name is Alice Pithering.
    According to the photos on her website, Alice is all of five foot two, as skinny as a rake, and blessed with a set of the bulgiest eyeballs I’ve ever seen in my life.
    She’s apparently ex-Army.
    Salvation Army possibly, judging by her diminutive stature.
    Her thin, reedy voice over the phone doesn’t do much to dispel the impression that Alice is as fragile as a Ming vase.
    ‘Yes, I have free slots coming up in the next couple of weeks, Greg,’ she tells me. I’m not surprised in the slightest. It’s a wonder this woman gets any work at