The electronic scoreboard digits settle down and come to a halt. It shows my weight as thirteen stone ten pounds, and my weight loss of six stone six pounds.
I’ve beaten Benny by a pound. I’ve lost the most weight out of everyone in the competition.
The crowd erupts. The noise is deafening. Ali has gone stark raving mad and has pulled off his t shirt to wave it around his head.
I thrust a fist into the air and cheer.
Waves of relief, triumph, and vindication wash through me.
Suddenly Zoe is by my side, tears in her eyes.
I lean over and give her the biggest hug I possibly can. I squeeze her so tight I can feel her heart pounding away at the same speed as mine.
This is truly a glorious moment. One I will not forget as long as I live.
Eventually, Elise comes over and breaks us up. ‘Okay, guys. Sorry to split you up, but this thing isn’t over yet. Zoe needs to be weighed.’
I look into my wife’s eyes, hug her tightly one more time, and step off the scales.
ZOE’S WEIGHT LOSS DIARY
Monday, September 15th
9 stone, 8 pounds (4 stone, 13 pounds lost)
As Greg throws his arms into the air with triumph I feel a deep and overwhelming sense of pride.
Whatever happens to me, my husband will walk away from here today knowing that he lost the most weight, beating everyone else. I couldn’t be happier for him.
With my vision blurring, I hurry to his side to share in his moment of glory.
The pure, happy smile he greets me with sends a huge rush of emotion through me and I can’t help but cry. I’m just so proud of him.
Greg wraps me in his arms and for a split second the crowd, the competition and the fifty thousand pounds are completely forgotten. This is a moment for us, and nobody else.
Sadly, the moment doesn’t last that long as Elise comes between us, telling me it’s my turn to get on the scales.
I kiss Greg one more time and step up onto the cool metal platform. My heart is hammering so hard I feel it may burst out of my chest.
Here we go, then.
Last time pays for all.
I cross my fingers and stare out at the maddening crowd. I seek out Mum and Dad, finding them in the front row, off to the left. Their excited smiles actually calm my nerves a bit. It’s funny how just the sight of your loved ones can centre you.
The numbers on the scoreboard above me tumble. I can see most of the people in the crowd leaning forward as the numbers start to come to a rest.
And there suddenly, for all the world to see, is the net result of all the diets, all the exercise, and all the effort I’ve put in over the last six months.
Zoe Milton’s weight is nine stone and eight pounds. That’s four stone and thirteen pounds of fat shifted from my body in the most exhausting—and rewarding—half a year I’ve ever experienced.
What an amazing thing!
But.
Frankie has lost more weight, and we were of a similar size when we started this thing.
I crane my neck up as the scoreboard calculates the combined weight loss percentage that Greg and I have achieved.
There is now nobody in the crowd who isn’t leaning forward expectantly. Mum and Dad are holding hands and staring up at the scoreboard. I can see Elise’s fingers crossed and an anxious look on her face. Will is biting his knuckles. Even Adam Edgemont has his hands clasped together.
The only person who isn’t staring intently at the scoreboard above our heads is Greg.
He is looking at me.
A half-smile plays across his lips and I can see his eyes have gone a bit glassy. It’s such an open, honest look of love that it makes me forget about the scoreboard too, if only for a second. He mouths ‘I love you’ and smiles. I blow him a kiss. As the numbers on the scoreboard fall into place, and as everyone in the room gasps in surprise, my husband steps up onto the scales with me, and kisses me in such a way that I suddenly feel even lighter than nine stone eight.
We will spend a great deal of time in the near future recounting what happened on this day to friends and family, and every time we do it this will be the moment that we spend the most time talking about.
And no matter how many people want to hear the story, neither of us will ever get tired of telling it.
A vast sigh ripples through the crowd and I break away from Greg’s soft, warm lips to look up at the scoreboard.
31%.
We’ve lost thirty-one percent of our body weight between us. And lost Fat Chance by a single percentage point.
Frankie and Benny start to jump around the stage, whooping like lunatics and punching their fists in the air. The crowd join them in their celebrations at a decibel level that won’t do anyone’s eardrums many favours.
Elise looks directly at me with her mouth downturned and her brow furrowed.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I mouth at her. Before she can reply, Will has grabbed her arm and is leading her over to what will no doubt be a joyous interview with the two winners of the competition.
‘Fuck it,’ Greg says, as his shoulder slump.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I tell him.
I think I actually believe my own words for once.
Of course, I do still feel a small lump of disappointment in my stomach. That money would have come in enormously handy. Right now, though, it’s such a relief that the whole silly circus is coming to an end. I’m finding it hard to feel really disappointed, especially when we’ve lost by the smallest possible margin.
If nothing else, this is the last day I’ll have to wear a bright red t-shirt proclaiming that I am fat but fabulous. An occasion to be celebrated in itself.
Most of the crowd have now surged down onto the stage area and are swarming round the victorious couple. In the centre of the scrum Elise and Will are trying their best to conduct an interview with Frankie and Benny, who look both giddy and overwhelmed.
The other five couples all have their own smaller crowds of friends and family surrounding them. There’s a lot of back slapping, hugging, and crying going on. From the look of Lea and Pete’s friends there might well be some theft of exercise equipment going on as well, but I turn a blind eye to it as I’m far too busy hugging and kissing my own well-wishers.
Mum and Dad are full of congratulations, of course, though Dad does keep looking at his watch every thirty seconds. These kinds of public events have always made him feel uncomfortable. I’m just delighted they both turned up at all. Along with my parents, the girls from the office are here . . . as are Greg’s mates from the rugby club. Most of them are already drunk, which is to be expected, really.
Before long we are joined by my best friend Elise, the person responsible for bringing us all here in the first place. She now has a beaming smile on her face as she muscles her way through to Greg and me.
‘Zoe! Greg! Huge commiserations on coming so close to winning! How are you both feeling?’ she says and thrusts the microphone into our faces.
‘Exhausted,’ Greg says.
‘Light-headed,’ I add.
‘I bet! You were just one percent away from taking the fifty thousand pounds. Are you disappointed?’
‘Our mortgage advisor certainly will be,’ Greg says, while fending off a few hard punches to the arm from Ali.
‘Do you think you could have done anything differently?’ Elise asks me.
‘Well, I did eat half a Jaffa cake three weeks ago,’ I tell her. ‘That might have been a mistake.’
This makes her laugh. ‘But you’re not too disheartened, are you?’
‘Elise, I’m the skinniest I’ve been for nearly twenty years. I’d have paid fifty thousand pounds for that.’
‘Good point! And what are you planning on doing now?’
‘Well, I thought I migh
t take Zoe home,’ Greg starts to say, a smile playing around his lips. He’s also gone very wide-eyed. I know what’s coming and can already feel the flush of embarrassment working its way across my cheeks, ‘and give her a good hard shagging,’ he finishes, patting Elise on the shoulder.
Greg’s rugby club mates all roar with approval at this—which is just as well, as I’m sure the comment was intended for their benefit.
Elise’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, not for the first time during an interview with my husband and me.
I’m sure she’s absolutely delighted that she never has to speak to us live on air again after today. The radio station won’t be able to afford to pay the fines for much longer.
She wraps up the interview in a rather strangled voice, and throws the attention back over to Will, who’s now with Valerie and George.
Once the microphone is off, Elise glowers at the both of us. ‘You know what? Sometimes I hate the pair of you!’
Greg gives her a big sweaty hug that makes her squeal. ‘Aww, we know you’re just saying that, Elise. You love us, really!’
‘Get off, you smelly sod!’ she cries, whacking him with her free hand.
I feel it’s time to step in at this point.
I wrap both arms around her in a grateful embrace and kiss her cheek. ‘Thank you for putting us forward for this, Elise,’ I say to her rather shocked face. ‘You’ve changed our lives.’
Her eyes fill with tears. ‘It . . . it was my pleasure, sweetie. Thank you for doing it.’
‘Coffee tomorrow?’ I ask. This has been a very strange time in our friendship, and I’m eager to get it back to normal as soon as possible.
‘Sure, that’d be great,’ Elise replies, wiping away a tear.
She smiles, turns on a high heel, and races off after Adam Edgemont, no doubt in order to get his opinion on how the competition ended.
If it doesn’t involve at least three plugs for Fitness4All I’ll be amazed.
Over the course of the next half an hour we manage to speak briefly to all the other couples involved in Fat Chance. While we haven’t made firm friends with any of them, these are the people we’ve been on a long journey with, so it only seems appropriate to mark its end with them before leaving.
Frankie and Benny are somewhat insufferable about their victory, but I let it slide. I can see Greg’s eyes rolling a few times as well, but he also manages to keep the conversation cordial. Val and George just seem relieved the competition is over, Angela and Dominica look equally happy to see the back of it, and Lea and Pete can’t wait to get out of the door with the electronic scoreboard and radio desk they’ve already loaded into their mate’s van.
It’s Shane and Theresa who take us by surprise.
‘Thank you so much,’ Shane tells Greg.
‘What for?’
‘The fun run,’ Theresa says. ‘What you did meant a lot.’
‘I’ve never been cheered before,’ Shane adds in such a small but proud voice. I have to blink away yet more tears.
‘My pleasure, mate,’ Greg replies in a voice cracking with emotion.
It’s the small victories that count the most. They tend to add up to big ones if you give them half a chance.
During the time we spend with our fellow competitors, we’re also signing autographs for members of the crowd who have stuck around after the show has ended.
This is a bizarre experience, as I’m only used to signing my name on legal documents. To scrawl your name across a piece of paper for no other reason than that someone has asked you to feels extremely strange.
And yes, I even end up signing Veronica’s bloody tits. It was either that, I imagine, or have her pursue me to the ends of the Earth. I don’t particularly want to be strolling around Sydney one day and see her running towards me from the Opera House, swinging her chest around and screaming my name.
Greg also signs her boobs. He seems a lot more happy to do it than I am.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ Veronica exclaims when we’re done, and claps her hands together.
A sudden thought crosses my mind. ‘Veronica?’
‘Yes, Zoe?’
‘Why me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are twelve of us in this competition. Why did you want my autograph so much?’
She chews her lip nervously for a moment. ‘Because you remind me of myself.’ She pauses and looks away from me. ‘Only . . . only better.’
My jaw drops.
What kind of thing is this to hear from another person? What am I supposed to do with it, exactly?
In lieu of a more poetic, erudite response I smile at her and ask, ‘Can I wear your top hat for a bit? I really like it.’
Veronica’s eyes light up and she laughs. The top hat is plucked from her head and plonked onto mine. The brim nearly drops down over my eyes and the plastic geranium waggles merrily as I adjust it.
‘It suits you,’ Greg lies, grinning.
Veronica stands looking at me for a second with a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘You know, I think it might look better on me than it does on you,’ she eventually says in a grave voice.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I reply and give her back the hat.
By about half past four I’m starting to get hungry and pretty damn tired. It’s time to leave. The crowd is thinning out now that the excitement is over. There will be other competitions to cheer—I’m sure Fat Chance will be back next year given the profit margins—but for now the fun is over, and everyone can go home to return to their normal lives.
This includes Zoe and Gregory Milton, who will quite happily drop back into the warm bosom of obscurity, thank you very much.
We say a last goodbye to friends and family, and wend our way back out of the gym and over to the car. It’s hard to believe only three hours have passed since we got here. It feels like a month.
On the way home we stop at Dominos—because we figure fuck it, we’ve earned it.
It’s a testament to how much our lives have changed that we spend five minutes looking in the window at the collection of grease- and meat-laden monstrosities on offer, before getting back in the car and driving to Marks & Sparks to pick up the ingredients for a home-cooked stir-fry.
Greg’s predictions of after-show shenanigans do indeed come true, though it is by no means just a ‘shag.’ It is, in fact, some of the most romantic sex we’ve ever had. Not because we light candles or listen to Barry White—though that’s always nice—but because it marks the end of a long journey that we’ve been on together. A journey that has brought us much closer as a couple . . . if for no other reason than there’s a lot less of us getting in the way.
Fast forward one week.
It’s four thirty in the afternoon and I’m alone in the house.
Greg is out with Ali and the rest of his rugby cronies. He’s just been picked for the first team, an accomplishment last achieved four years ago. This means, of course, that all foreseeable future Sunday afternoons will consist of him rolling around in a field on top of other men with an oddly shaped ball.
I have absolutely no problem with this, given that I’ve been feeling pretty sick for the past few days following the climax of Fat Chance, and am more than happy to spend some time on my own in a bath full to the brim with hot soapy water and the pile of Hello! magazines I haven’t got round to reading yet. The feelings of nausea have been affecting me on and off all week, and this is the first time I’ve had the chance to just stop and give myself some much-needed pampering.
I can only put the sickness down to the end of the competition. They often say that things only catch up with you when you stop, and with all the excitement of the final weigh-in, it’s no wonder I’ve felt a bit under the weather ever since. I guess I just need some rest.
The sickness has been par
ticularly bad in the mornings and today was no exception. I figure a long hot soak will do me a world of good.
I’m absolutely right.
The hot water is glorious.
I never used to like taking a bath much. It would mean being alone, being naked, and being forced to look at that bloated, naked body. Showers are much kinder to the self-esteem when you’re fat.
Now, though, with my new trim frame, baths have become a delight—especially the long, uninterrupted ones where you’re immersed for so long that your skin goes wrinkly.
As I lie back and close my eyes, I think of my husband running around on that cold, muddy field and thank my lucky stars that I’m not a rugby player.
My eyes snap open.
You’re not a rugby player . . . but you do have a rugby kit stashed somewhere safe, don’t you?
My heart starts to beat faster in my chest as I recall the bet I laid with myself back in June. This is the first time I’ve thought about it.
Within seconds I’m out of the soapy water and towelling myself off.
I know exactly where the rugby kit is stored. I can still see the big brown cardboard box, tucked discreetly at the back of my wardrobe among other assorted debris, out of sight.
I find it quickly and lay the shorts, socks, and top out on the bed, standing back to contemplate what I’m about to do.
I find that I can’t make my legs work.
I just stand naked in front of the rugby kit, unable to move myself into action.
This is it.
Never mind a silly radio competition, this rugby kit is Zoe Milton’s real challenge.
It has been all along.
But can I do it? Can I bring myself to put the damn thing on again?
What if it doesn’t fit? What if I’ve failed?
Wouldn’t it be better to just fold it back up and put it away?
Wouldn’t it be better to just forget about it? Be proud of what I’ve already accomplished and not push my luck?
Isn’t Zoe Milton the kind of person to leave well enough alone? Isn’t Zoe Milton the kind of girl who likes to play it safe?
Ha!
Fat chance.
Fat Chance Page 26