No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  Me and my mum are fat for the same reason: food is delicious. So, any diet she tries is doomed to fail because it’s depriving her of something she wants. You would have thought after three decades of dieting not working out for her, she would have taken the hint by now. But no – she’s always chasing that impossible dream, always telling herself this time is different. It’s never different.

  I throw myself down on my bed in anger, letting out a roar of frustration. There is no one alive who can harsh my buzz quite like my mum. I want her to be on my team. I want her to be rooting for me. I realize that she’s done more than just annoy me; she’s set off a little prickle of fear in me. A little niggling doubt that asks, what if she’s right? What if people do say things? No . . . I can’t go down that route. That’s a slippery slope to grapefruits and a life of woe. I’m Emily Daly, and I literally do not worry about my body. I have never worried about my body and I don’t plan to start now.

  Somewhere under a pile of junk, my phone vibrates. As I dig it out from the heap of sequins, Lycra, lurex and wool, I see it’s my sister. If someone’s going to break the social contract and dare to ring me rather than message, I’m glad it’s her.

  ‘What’s up, nerd,’ I say in greeting as I lie back down on the bed.

  ‘Hello, little one,’ she replies. I can hear she’s walking fast down a noisy street.

  ‘How’s la bella Manchester?’

  ‘Bella as ever – not raining right now. I’m just walking to football practice.’

  ‘How’s the internship going? They must be releasing you back into the sweet embrace of uni soon, right?’

  ‘Well, it’s good, in that I’m doing a lot and I like the project I’m working on, but also quite rubbish because my boss is an A-plus creep. Today, he said he liked my perfume, then went on to lament the fact his wife never wears perfume, which he’s decided means she never makes an effort for him – boo hoo, Martin. Way to put me off my nice floral Jo Malone.’

  Katie is the queen from whom I learned the Art of Not Caring Too Much. She’s very clever and good at everything she does. She’s also super independent, only returning home briefly now and again from her hardworking life studying civil engineering in Manchester so my parents can feel like she still exists.

  ‘Gross, gross, gross. Do you want me to beat him up for you?’

  ‘No – I can’t have my baby sister doing my dirty work for me. How are you, anyway? How are Mum and Dad?’

  As I open my mouth to answer, I hear a high-pitched whistle like something from a cartoon, then Katie spitting out a gruff ‘Jesus, I’d rather die’.

  ‘Ooh – aren’t you flavour of the month!’

  ‘You would think my football kit would put them off, but the shorts seem to be sending the lads wild.’

  ‘If it’s giving you lots of pent-up anger to release at football, it’s probably a good thing. Anyway . . . in answer to your question, I’m fine mostly, but just before you rang, old Helen was trying to have opinions on my wardrobe again,’ I say.

  Instantly I hear Katie sigh. ‘Are you sure she was? Are you sure you’re not just being sensitive?’

  ‘No! God! She was literally telling me what not to wear because it shows the world I’m fat! That’s exactly what just happened.’

  ‘But she cares about you – she wouldn’t want to upset you on purpose,’ Katie says, clearly trying to placate me.

  Not what I wanted to hear.

  ‘Sorry, but you never get any of this from her. What makes you so sure that she wasn’t trying to upset me? She thinks if she upsets me enough, I’ll finally cave and eat nothing but salad for the rest of my life.’

  It’s amazing how quickly a conversation where Katie and I are on the same side can flip to one where we’re adversaries. Katie has always been athletic, sporty, outdoorsy . . . and thin. Our colouring is the same, our hair the same frizzy thickness. We even have the same smattering of freckles, but our bodies are completely different. So of course she never had to listen to our mum telling her what not to wear, telling her how to make herself disappear, how to ensure she doesn’t catch anyone’s eye.

  ‘OK, fine – you’re right. But maybe you do wind her up a bit too. It’s like you go out of your way to wear stuff you know she’ll hate.’

  ‘Nope! Nope, nope, nope. I’m not going to get into this with you. I’m not going to let this become my problem rather than her problem. I love my clothes. I love my style. And that’s not my problem.’ I feel overcome with a wave of bitterness. Of course Katie wouldn’t understand. Of course I would have to defend myself like this.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,’ Katie says after going quiet for a moment.

  ‘No! We! Shouldn’t!’ I say, putting the phone on speaker so I can clap between each word for emphasis, which I know annoys her.

  I’m angry that she will never see my side of this. I feel betrayed. I hate arguing with Katie. Being four years apart in age means that we were close enough to be in the same house and the same school at the same time, but not so close that we were expected to come as a pair, to play together, to have things in common. And good job, because largely we don’t. But we do usually get on well. That distance helped us avoid the screaming physical fights that my friends had with their siblings growing up. I could never steal her clothes when she lived here, for example. And we never wanted the same toys at the same time. So when we clash like this, it bothers me.

  ‘I’m sorry, chicken. I love you. I’m nearly at football now,’ she says in a soothing voice.

  In the grand scheme of things, I’m still annoyed, but right now, I don’t have the energy or the inclination to keep this skirmish going. She doesn’t see our mum the way I do. She can’t.

  ‘I love you too, even though you’re just awful,’ I say, knowing she can hear the smile in my voice. ‘And I hope you score a hat trick at football.’

  ‘I’m the goalkeeper,’ Katie says drily.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ I say, cackling down the phone. Pretending I don’t know what Katie does when she’s away is my favourite way to annoy her. ‘Love you – bye!’

  We hang up, and I stay flopped on my bed. Even though I’ve never wanted to be more like my sister, the way we look still finds a way to get its claws into our relationship. I’ve always known people see her as ‘the pretty one’, as if only one of us is allowed to be pretty, and by default it’s Katie because she’s thin. Then it’s ‘Emily with her great personality’, as if Katie’s a total bore. But that isn’t what people mean. Katie could be the most accomplished, intelligent person in the room, and she would still be defined by the fact that she’s good-looking. I could be the most boring person in the room (not that that would ever happen), and I would still be complimented on my personality rather than my looks. Our appearance, the way we both look on the surface, feels like such a stupid, unnecessary thing to worm its way into our minds, our relationship, our conversations – but there it is. We’re capable of so much better, Katie and I.

  We deserve so much better.

  I channel Katie and decide not to escalate the situation with my mum over dinner. Also I can’t be bothered to rehash it all in front of my dad, who will feel like he has to referee it. I notice Mum doesn’t bring it up either.

  After dinner, I deposit myself in the armchair and get started reading Great Expectations for next term’s English classes, while my parents watch TV on the sofa. I’d only been planning to skim-read it with half an eye on whatever’s on TV, but I find myself completely absorbed, and it’s only when my dad announces that he’s going to bed that I realize how late it is.

  I’m about to say I’ll do the same when my mum pipes up.

  ‘Emily, do you want to . . . ?’ she begins.

  She doesn’t need to say any more. I know what she’s asking. My dad and my sister are early-to-bed, early-to-rise types, whereas my mum and I have always been night owls. The only time we really spend one-on-one is when we watch old films together when everyone
else is asleep. It started when I was kind of young – too young to be staying up until midnight, anyway – but then it just became a question of Mum watching something, and me passively not going to bed, just sitting there and getting sucked into those technicolour worlds. And then over time, it evolved into our little thing – not every night, but sometimes.

  Tonight, I’m tired and it’s late, but I know that turning her down would be the wrong thing to do.

  So I say yes, and while she’s out in the kitchen making tea and retrieving two fondant fancies from the cupboard (literally my favourite food in the whole world), I hoist myself out of the armchair and move on to the sofa. And together we watch Some Like It Hot, not for the first time or even the second time, and I eat my pink fondant fancy off the little floral plate the way I always do: bite the icing off each side, scrape the fondant off the top with my teeth, and then eat the naked sponge on its own. My mum strokes my hair occasionally, and I don’t bat her hand away like I sometimes want to, and we sit there – not perfect, but peaceful.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Fight for Your Right’ – Beastie Boys

  In the end, I decide to make a precisely medium amount of effort for Ben’s party (black leather jacket over a slouchy Breton T-shirt and the offending jersey pencil skirt, accessorized with hoop earrings and red lipstick, naturally), and Abi, who always makes a more-than-medium amount of effort as a matter of principle, looks amazing. A tight dress and high platform sandals, and metallic gold eyeshadow on her lids, which stands out a mile against her dark skin and brings out the brown of her eyes.

  Abi and I meet at the bus stop and make our way to Ben’s house. Bottles clink gently in our bags as we head towards the source of a steady thumping noise. I take the screw-top bottle of white wine out of my bag and take a swig from it as we approach the door before offering it to Abi, who drinks daintily from it so as not to disturb her lip gloss.

  ‘I was thinking about what you said,’ I tell her in a businesslike tone that I hope conceals my nervousness but think probably doesn’t. I want Abi to know my goal for the evening. Saying it out loud means I’m duty-bound to carry it out.

  ‘I say a lot of things,’ says Abi archly.

  ‘About getting stuff off the ground, about using tonight as an excuse to do a little flirting, make out with someone down the bottom of the garden, you know,’ I say, wiggling my shoulders suggestively. ‘Become a fully fledged Average Person.’

  She squeals with delight. ‘At last! This is the best news! You got this. I really believe in you. Thank you for giving me this excellent gift. Just go for it – what’s the worst that can happen?’

  Abi and I hang together for about five minutes at the party before the lure becomes just too great, and she gravitates towards Oliver, to whom she will be surgically attached for at least three hours. Ben, the epitome of hot masculinity, is doing pull-ups on a bar fixed over the living-room door, his afro brushing the ceiling. He and Kenji are taking it in turns to see who can do more in a row. Ella and Sophia are already gamely doing shots of something acid green with a group of girls from our year.

  I drift in and out of conversations with a few people I vaguely know. I sip wine and I dance. And then I spy Ryan, and a smile creeps over my face. He has a warm sense of humour, a pretty good sense of style, thick, shiny, chocolate-brown hair, and he’s always nice to me, even though we haven’t spoken that much before. He’s more than six feet tall with really broad shoulders and a kind puppy-dog face. He’s good-looking, but in a sweet, harmless way. This makes perfect sense. Low risk, low emotional investment, potentially the perfect target. Bless you, Ryan Russell. Bless you.

  I down the last of the wine from my plastic cup and try to saunter over as casually as possible. He’s bent over the laptop that’s controlling the music coming out of the speakers.

  ‘You reckon some Run DMC?’ he says.

  ‘I reckon,’ I reply, even though it’s not true. I just don’t want to bruise his ego so early in the night. It’s not the moment for Run DMC – I know that. It’s too late in the night, and people want pure pop bangers. But Ryan’s in charge of the music, and I’m trying to get Ryan onside, not show him up with my sheer musical prowess.

  ‘With great power comes great responsibility. My power is that people think my taste in music is good enough to sustain a party, which means I’m Playlist Master at every party.’ He sighs with the apparent weight of his responsibility.

  OK, so he’s sort of right. His taste is Officially Good Enough To Sustain A Party, but his sense of timing is all off. I bet if they did a blind taste test of Ryan and me at the next party, I would emerge victorious as Playlist Master.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t love it.’ I smile, looking up at him through my heavily mascaraed lashes. It’s part charm and part jealousy that it’s not me in charge of the music.

  He laughs. Of course he does. I’m charming him already.

  ‘I do love it. I really love it. It gives me a sense of purpose, which can often be a major asset at parties. I can give good chat, but I never know how to seek the chat out, you know? Like how do you ever know the right time to slide into a conversation? How do you know when someone wants to talk to you? This is the kind of stuff I lie awake at night wondering about.’

  I shrug. ‘I think I just slide so freely into any and all conversations that I don’t really worry about it. Hey, did you have a fun summer?’

  ‘Yeah, I sure did. I hung out with the guys a bit. I’ve cycled my bike on every single road in the CR0 postcode, because why the hell not. I thrashed my brother on the PlayStation every day. So, all in all, a summer well spent. How about you?’

  ‘I went away with my parents to Greece. I read about a hundred books. Paced every square inch of both the Whitgift and Centrale shopping centres. I feel like I should have done more with it, but not a lot I can do about that now,’ I say.

  We’re getting on well, maintaining a flow back and forth. This is a promising start! For someone I’ve only spoken to a few times before, we seem to have a pretty easy rapport. Maybe this was a good idea.

  He takes a sip from his can and grimaces.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Tastes like piss,’ he says.

  ‘Did someone piss in it? Jesus, no one’s that drunk, are they?’

  ‘No, I think it was deliberately made this way. Do you think we’re going to get used to how objectively disgusting alcohol tastes in time, or are all adults just pretending to enjoy it?’ he says.

  ‘My wine is mostly sugar, I think, and I’m pretty happy with that,’ I say, looking at his lips as he takes another sip. I wonder how I’ll know when the right moment has presented itself to make my move. Maybe I won’t know. Oh no – that means I have to make it the right moment.

  I watch him smile to himself as he cues up some tracks.

  ‘Hey, do you want to go outside to . . .’ I take a deep breath, deciding it’s better if I take charge of the situation rather than waiting for it to appear. I lower my voice faux-suggestively. ‘Get some air?’

  As soon as I say it, I regret being so goofy, but thankfully the heavens have smiled on me, and he asks me to repeat myself because the music’s too loud.

  ‘What?’ He looms closer to me so he can hear.

  I should probably get the tone right this time. I mime fanning myself. ‘It’s kind of hot, huh? I’m going outside – do you want to come?’

  Much better.

  He cues another song before getting up, and we carry on talking as we head outside for some air.

  The bench on the patio outside the sliding glass doors is empty, so we sit. This seems a good omen: outdoors equals romance, no? We’re hardly alone though, as it’s a warm night, and people have spilled outside on to the grass beyond the patio, smoking, chatting . . . but no one seems to be paying us any attention.

  ‘So, are you still playing drums?’ I ask, realizing I’ve retained at least a couple of pieces of information about Ryan over the time h
e’s been on my radar.

  ‘Yes, to my parents’ distress. They regret the day they caved and bought me a drum kit,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘I remember seeing you in that joint concert we did. You were . . . really good. I can’t imagine your parents have anything to complain about. It’s not like you’re sawing away at a violin or something,’ I say.

  ‘True. It’s nice that you remember that,’ he replies.

  ‘Maybe I remember things about you . . . because I think you’re cute.’

  What?! I hadn’t decided to say that at all. My mouth is running away from me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Maybe I’ve had too much wine. My stomach lurches with nerves as I wait to hear how he’s going to take it. Maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t hear me . . .

  Ryan’s eyes widen, and he raises his eyebrows as if he’s just registered what I said. He doesn’t say anything. He straightens his back against the bench and breathes deeply. He still doesn’t say anything. Then, against the odds, he turns his head towards me and looks at me for a few seconds. We’re teetering on the precipice – it’s surely only going in one direction. A weird little chant pops up in my brain going, Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

  This is so much easier than I thought it was going to be, and I cannot believe my luck. He smells sweet, with an alcoholic edge. His hair is ruffled, and his face looks relaxed, at ease. He moves in to pull me closer to him. As his hands make contact with the soft fat around my waist, he jolts back like he’s been given an electric shock. No kiss. Yanked back from the precipice at the last moment. It’s like the opposite of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.

  ‘This is a bad idea. I don’t know what got into me. I’m really sorry. God, this is awkward,’ he says, dropping his head into his hands, before looking up and surveying me. Surveying my body, to be precise. ‘It’s just . . . not right for me . . .’ He trails off. He seems genuinely distressed at having to knock me back. Like that’s meant to make me feel better.

  It really doesn’t.

  ‘Look, Ryan, it’s fine – whatever. Don’t worry about it,’ I say, exhaling so hard, it probably comes out as a snort. I’m burning with embarrassment, my face prickling with shame, but I try to laugh it off. Even though Ella had implanted this thought in my brain when she assumed that I’d want to lose weight to be romance ready, I’m still pretty taken aback to discover my body is the number one turn-off for someone who might otherwise be interested in me.