BONJOUR LIMOUSIN: women’s fiction; 85,000 words
“It's mango," Carine says, patting her newly-coloured hair.
Looks more like mashed potato to me, but there you go. "One of Carrefour's?”
"No, SaveULoads. Ripe Woman range. You name it, they’ve got it - banana, prickly pear, avocado---"
"Car-rine! Mad-e-leine! I haven't got all night…"
Chuck bearskins, balaclava towards coat pile. Join sisters-in-gym. It’s Monday. One is a Gazelle.
“Come o-on, you fat slugs… start shifting that blubber, mooooove!
“Shut your gob Sophie, ’snot your tongue that needs exercise… get those knees UP!
“Halt! Stand on your right legs… merde… more crippled hippos than Gazelles…
“… nooooo Babette, RIGHT leg. Uh, try locating your right hand, then look south…
“Na-tash-aaaa… stop cheating! Let go of that wall bar…
“Putain! Someone help her up. Why'd you bother coming, Natasha?”
“So’s I get to hear some heavy breathing, Arlette.”
“Supposed to be fun, not a workout for the bloody Olympics,” Sophie moans, pouring Bordeaux Inférieur into 14 glasses. “She’s obsessed with deltoids, trapeziuses and quadricepses, whatever they are ---”
“Bits we don't have, and she knows it. Pass the chocs, Babs. Gossake, take the sodding nougat and be done with it!”
Grab cherry-in-brandy as comfort food shoots past. We’ve adjourned to Le Chien Qui Fume for post-gym bar exercise, wound-licking. Soph's right. Obergymführer Arlette is spitting on our GBSFG charter (gentle bending, stretching, farting, gossip). Nor does she attend Le Chien team-bonding sessions. Not that we’ve ever invited her. Believe she keeps a trained, compliant house-husband.