To Paula in work, she pretended she had lovers on speed dial. Telling Paula was the gossip equivalent of WhatsApping the whole planet.
Therefore in Caraval Media, Ginger Reilly was seen as one of those large, sassy girls who had men falling at her feet so fast, she had to kick them out of the way to leave the house in the morning.
With Liza, her friend since they were four, Ginger dropped the facade and fell into the relationship they’d had forever: a size eighteen woman who would not stand in front of the mirror naked and who had never, ever had a proper date with a man, never mind actual sex.
Liza knew Ginger’s secrets, knew she dressed to hide herself, knew she longed for real love.
And then tonight had come . . . and with it came Stephen, sexy, kind and liking the version of Ginger in the poufy dress she’d worn purely to please her best friend.
As the wedding band shuffled off and the hotel staff brought in sandwiches and pretty wedding-themed cupcakes for the latecomers who would arrive for the after-party with the DJ, Stephen led Ginger out onto the hotel terrace and leaned her against the wall in a dark corner.
‘You look so beautiful in that dress,’ he murmured.
His hands were touching her bare shoulders and he kissed her briefly on the lips, so she tasted the heavy red wine they’d both been drinking.
As bridesmaid, Ginger had merely had a glass of champagne early on during the toast. She knew she must be on call all day, ready with anti-shine powder and perfume. But Liza was happy now and Charlene, the other bridesmaid, who was as thin and beautiful as Liza herself, had been sitting beside Liza for ages, giggling and chatting, so Ginger had allowed herself a half-glass of wine with Stephen. Now she felt the wine and sheer passion warming her up, not to mention Stephen’s large body pressed against hers.
‘You’re so gorgeous, Ginge,’ he said.
Normally, anyone who called her Ginge got their head verbally ripped off, but she could allow beautiful Stephen the luxury.
Then his mouth moved in a fiery line down her neck and it felt so wonderful that she didn’t care what he called her. This was passion. This was what other people had had. Why had she waited so long? Why hadn’t she joined an online dating site or even tried out something as openly sexual as Tinder and put herself out there instead of hoping for someone to ask her out? Why not be what she’d pretended to be for so long? A sexually modern woman who enjoyed the glory of her own body and the pleasure sex could bring.
Stephen progressed down towards her breasts and Ginger felt herself surge with sensuality. This was wonderful.
She cradled his large head against her and, despite having read hundreds of erotic, historical fiction novels where sex by chapter three was a given, sheer lack of experience in the real world meant she wondered what to do with her arms.
She could only reach his head, so she began raining kisses on it. He nuzzled the curve of her breasts, rising like Venus out of the foam of the dress, and Ginger felt a burning heat inside her. Ginger had had orgasms before – on her own – so she knew what that burning heat meant: the slow rise of passion as her body awakened. Imagine a real man touching her where she’d only touched herself.
But this was so different from being in her own bed, this was real. As she felt his hands start to slide up under her flouncy dress, Ginger froze. Not from fear of sex, no. From fear of what Stephen would find if he kept exploring: the hated control tights, and even though she was wearing her nicest knickers – coral lace Victoria’s Secret hi-thighs – the first thing he’d feel was the sausage-like encasement of her lower body and the fat spilling out over the top of the tights.
It would ruin everything. No blog or book she’d ever read had said that men’s groins went as hard as lead pipes at the feel of ample curves spilling over control tights.
‘No,’ she said, shoving his hand away, attempting to sound sophisticated instead of panicked. ‘Not here.’
‘But you’re so beautiful, darling Ginge,’ coaxed Stephen.
‘I mean . . .’ Ginger paused. ‘We need privacy.’
Privacy for her to first get the bloody tights on and let the Victoria’s Secret hi-thighs work their magic, and privacy so that her first ever sexual encounter could be in an actual bed instead of against a wall outside a ballroom.
Despite both her fierce desire for this man and her fierce desire to offload the millstone of her virginity, she wanted this to be right.
Sure, she wrote an online column where she told teenage girls about the perils of letting some guy have sex with them and then slut-shame them via social media.
But they were young and she was thirty.
It was time.
This was real, not a one-night stand. She would not seem easy if she told him she had a room in the hotel. And as for her millstone and what he’d think when he found out she was a virgin – the studly guys in the historical fiction novels loved virgins. Unsullied women were the ultimate prize, which did offend Ginger’s feminist hackles, but hey, that was historical stuff. Pre-condom, pre-pill. Modern virginity was absolutely not a prize men should use to keep women in check.
‘Whaddya mean privacy?’ said Stephen, his hand no longer able to burrow as Ginger kept pushing it away.
‘I mean, not here, darling. We need privacy,’ purred Ginger, astonished at her own daring. ‘Somewhere we can be alone.’ She’d called him darling, she’d purred like a sex kitten to a real man and she was implying that serious action would take place in a room.
But the control tights, which were possibly now cutting off the circulation to the bottom half of her body, would ruin all plans of the serious action. One feel of them and Stephen would bolt.
‘I think I’ll wear Spanx,’ Liza had decided early on, even though she was as slender as a twig and Ginger – who knew all about control garments and owned a panoply of them – wondered where Liza would find Spanx small enough to fit her.
As Ginger herself knew that wearing the all-encompassing hold-it-in garments was like being wrapped in bulletproof cling film, she had gone with control tights and the prettiest minimiser bra she could find, a bra that was fighting a losing battle.
Nothing had ever minimised her breasts and nothing ever would, not since they’d appeared like downy pillows on her chest almost overnight when she was thirteen and boys had stopped asking tomboyish Ginger to play footie and had started staring at her breasts instead.
Bridesmaid dresses with tight waists, billowing skirts and tight bodices were not designed for buxom women with body issues.
Still, Stephen didn’t seem to mind.
‘Oh sugar, come on,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck again.
‘Give me a moment, babe,’ she said in what she hoped was a sultry, come-hither voice. ‘I’ll be back. And then . . .’ She channelled someone sexy and said: ‘I actually have a room in the hotel.’