Jane sauntered off in the way only a supremely confident and busy person can pull off.
‘What the hell was that about?’ I said. ‘Modelling? You’re going to be a doctor!’
For many years I’d held onto the belief that a person was either smart or beautiful. It wasn’t fair to be both. I’d also held onto the belief that Judge Judy was right. Eventually, being smart would be the better option, her famous saying ‘Beauty fades. Dumb is forever’ reassuring me that I’d win out in the end. And yet, there I was. Sitting with my super smart and physically stunning BFF who had basically been told by a complete stranger that she was destined for an international modelling career. And not only did she eat crispy chicken rolls without gaining a single kilo, she was the smartest kid in school.
‘Where’s your phone?’ Melody said. ‘Mine’s flat. Google Jane Simpson, Hotalious.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Come on,’ Melody said. ‘Just take a look.’
I’m not proud of this, but I was secretly hoping Hotalious was going to turn out to be one of those businesses that require young women to get their kit off for $50. Not the kind of place that represents famous runway and editorial models that it turned out to be.
‘Whoa,’ I said, so jealous I was having a hard time covering it up. ‘They’re huge. Melody, this is serious.’
Melody grabbed my phone.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘What if I could put myself through medicine? It would have to be better than working at Kmart.’
‘I guess,’ I said.
‘But there are so many ethical issues. Do I want to perpetuate unobtainable standards of beauty? Do I want to see pictures of myself photoshopped to the point where I’m unrecognisable? Do I want to be part of an industry based entirely on image? I’ve got a brain! I don’t want to be a hypocrite.’
‘Slow down,’ I said. ‘Melody, I am going to put my jealousy aside because you are one of my best friends and you are gorgeous and you could use a break. Why don’t you just go and check them out, see what they say? This could be your chance to pay for uni, and don’t you think it would be kind of fun getting paid to wear amazing outfits and having your hair and make-up done all the time? You could travel the world.’
Melody looked sceptical. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let me live vicariously through your beauty.’
‘Oh shut up,’ Melody said. ‘You’re gorgeous.’
‘Call her now.’
‘Oh, all right, hand me your phone.’
Chapter 20: Melody Deserves a Break
‘You look different,’ Melody said, eyeing me.
‘She’s in love!’ George pumped the air with his fists.
‘Hardly,’ I lied. ‘We haven’t even held hands.’
‘No. That’s not it.’
‘I might have lost a bit of weight,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing, really.’
‘Oh yeah,’ George said. ‘You look good. Not that you didn’t before,’ he added quickly.
‘Did Melody tell you?’ I changed the subject. ‘Yesterday she got approached by a woman from a modelling agency!’
‘You’re kidding,’ George squealed. ‘OMG. That is awesome. Melody’s going to be famous!’
I may as well have turned green, I was so jealous.
‘It’s no big deal.’ Melody shrugged.
‘What do you mean, it’s no big deal? It’s huge! You can get rich and pay for university with barely any effort. This is so exciting!’ George said.
But Melody looked stony-faced.
‘Actually, while we’re here there is something I need to tell you guys,’ she said seriously. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and I envied her her perfect cheekbones. I’d been working so hard to lose weight, but it didn’t matter how hard I tried, how much I dieted, I’d never look like her. It wasn’t fair.
But then I realised Melody had tears in her eyes. And crying wasn’t something she did. Ever.
‘What is it?’ George and I asked at the same time.
We were sitting in our usual lunch spot even though it was uncomfortably cold. It was the second-to-last day of term before mid-year break. Melody had been stressing about her maths exam, but it was over now and everyone but her knew she’d be getting a perfect score.
‘Mum’s going to jail.’
‘Shit,’ George said.
‘What happened?’ I knew Melody’s mum had been to court a few times, but Melody hadn’t said anything about jail being a possibility.
‘Turns out she robbed some house with Johnno and one of them left their phone behind.’
‘Idiots!’ I wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate.
‘She told me when I got home last night. She’s got court today.’
Oliver and I often saw Johnno and Kylie roaming the streets while we walked. I never said anything to Melody, but they always looked agitated, speeding along the footpath, their emaciated frames and greasy hair making them look like typical drug users. Sometimes Kylie said, ‘Hi’, sometimes she didn’t. Oliver said they looked worse than the homeless people his social worker mother looked after.
‘How long do you think they’ll give her?’ George asked, concerned.
‘Six months, maybe. More? I don’t know.’
‘Shit.’
‘You know, I don’t care if I never see her again.’
George and I were silent. Kylie was a disaster. There was no denying it. How she gave birth to a person like Melody is a complete and utter mystery.
‘You can come and live with us,’ George blurted.
‘Or me!’ I interrupted, perhaps a little possessively.
‘Thanks, guys,’ Melody said. ‘But Cathy already said I can stay with her for as long as I want.’
Cathy was a nurse who looked after Melody when she was a newborn. Melody always said that if it weren’t for her, she’d be just like her mum. Pregnant and on drugs and a dropout.
‘Thank God for Cathy,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ Melody tried to smile. ‘I’m really lucky.’
‘If there’s anything we can do …’ I said before Melody cut me off.
‘I’m okay. It’s kind of a relief, you know? Now I can live with Cathy and next year I’ll be eighteen. I’ll never have to see Mum again. I’m going to have a different life.’
‘You’ll have an amazing life.’ I put my arms around Melody’s shoulders. ‘You can earn money through modelling and go to uni and become a doctor. It’s going to be awesome.’
‘I don’t know about the whole modelling thing …’
‘Like I said before. I’m so jealous I could die. But you have to do it, Melody. Don’t throw away the opportunity to earn some serious money. You need it. At least go and check out Jane and see what she says.’
‘Yeah,’ said George. ‘You’re the strongest person we know. You deserve a break.’
‘You guys are the best.’ Melody sighed, and gave us both a hug.
Chapter 21: Ramping it Up
So I was never going to be a model, but like I said, I’d never received so many compliments as I did when I lost weight. Even the lady at the local milk bar made me blush by telling me I was looking ‘hot’. Then one day, about five weeks in, Mum told me how proud she was to see me eating ‘healthy’ and offered to reward me with a trip to Topshop.
‘I know you’re an amazing seamstress, but let’s buy you some outfits to show off your new figure!’ she said, grinning with pride.
The only person who didn’t seem to notice was Oliver. We continued to meet up in the evenings and walk Bruce, but not once did he say anything about my new body. I figured it was because I still had plenty of weight left to go.
I just couldn’t give up.
So I didn’t. Carrot sticks, skinless chicken breast, tuna in spring water. Skim milk, green tea, chilli to boost the metabolism. Never more than five almonds at a time. Forget butter and peanuts and sausages. Lots and lots of water. Two squares of d
ark, sugar-free chocolate twice a week. As a treat, so I didn’t feel deprived. I asked Mum to make zucchini noodles instead of pasta for dinner and quinoa porridge was a staple breakfast. And I stuck to it. I really did. I even avoided going out, telling George and Melody that I had the flu, then gastro, then too much homework, too busy with extra shifts at Mabel’s. But no matter how strict I was, how much I restricted myself, the weight loss slowed down.
I plateaued.
Thanks to my pro ‘ana/mia’ English assignment, I already knew that plateaus are a frustrating aspect of the weight loss journey. I also knew that I was constantly hungry, that I didn’t have the willpower to push my diet any harder. I was weak and I felt bad about it, but it was hard enough saying ‘no’ when the less I ate, the more I started noticing how much food surrounded me. All the time. I felt like I was constantly declining offers of chocolate and biscuits and ice-cream. Seriously. Have you ever walked through a shopping centre and noticed how much food is available? No matter what time of day. Muffins, sushi, rice paper rolls, lattes, hot chips, protein bars, fair trade chocolate, pizza slices, smoothies. It’s overwhelming. No wonder I got fat, I’d say to myself as I walked past yet another café selling homemade brownies. Who eats all this stuff?
People like the old Winter. That’s who. But while I was terrified that she’d resurface, her chocolate-loving, cake-eating fat-ass self, I wasn’t confident I could remain perfect, not like Mum. I just didn’t have the strength of character.
That’s when I read about laxatives.
The more I read, the more it made sense. It wasn’t like becoming bulimic and making myself vomit. I was just giving myself a little bit of leeway, hopefully breaking the plateau, helping get rid of any extras. I’d try them for a week, and if they made me sick, I’d stop. It was no big deal. I’d just use them to clean myself out. Detox. Give myself a boost.
They’d be my little secret. Like a superhero with hidden powers.
Chapter 22: Who Knew Diarrhoea Could Feel So Empowering?
At first, figuring out how to get my hands on a packet of laxatives was nerve-wracking. Could I just walk into the chemist and take some off the shelf? Would the pharmacist ask me what I wanted them for? I lay in bed one night and made up a whole story about how they were for my mum who was on pain medication and needed them to stop her being constipated. I’d concocted a similar story last year after I read about Retin A being good for both acne and wrinkles. I walked down to the chemist to buy some and told the grumpy woman behind the counter that it was for my mother’s wrinkly skin. The lady looked at me quizzically and said my mother needed to go to the doctor and get a prescription.
Turns out laxatives are easier to get than Retin A. You can buy them at Coles. I could have bought twenty packets and no one would have batted an eyelid. There were so many types. Granules, liquid, tablets, dried prune concoctions. I went to a couple of different chemists and bought a few varieties that claimed to be extra strength. My heart pounded every time I approached the counter, but no one said a word. It was almost too easy.
That night, after my sensible dinner of lean steak and salad, I doubled the recommended dose and waited for results.
It didn’t take long.
My stomach cramped and out came my insides, splurting all over the toilet and stinking out the entire bathroom.
‘It’s like a nuclear bomb went off in there!’ Dad laughed as I came out of the loo, shaky yet elated.
Mum told him off. ‘Andrew, leave your daughter alone. She’s obviously not well.’ Then she lit one of her handcrafted Fornasetti candles like it was no big deal.
Rather than feel embarrassed, I actually got a kick out of the fact that no one so much as suspected my secret. Mum even felt sorry for me. Sure it hurt and was kind of gross, but once I’d finished my stomach was flatter than it’d ever been. All those weeks of diet and exercise, when all I had to do was take a couple of pills to get instant results. Why didn’t everyone do this?
Chapter 23: Fat Is Not a Dirty Word
It was a Saturday morning and I was going to be working out the front of Mabel’s shop all day. Even though I was unashamedly proud of my increasingly flat stomach, I wasn’t feeling so good.
‘You’re looking a bit pale,’ Mabel said when I entered the office and dumped my bag. ‘Cute jumpsuit, though. One of yours?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrugged. ‘I just made it the other day.’
I’d been sewing like crazy. It helped keep my mind off eating, especially when I was alone in my room at night, hungry and thinking about chocolate. But now my back hurt, my shoulders cramped and I was feeling light-headed and weak. I was trying to keep my fluids up, but it’s hard to counteract the dehydrating effects of chronic diarrhoea.
‘Have you seen these?’ Mabel asked, looking up from her laptop. ‘Such classics.’
‘Whoa,’ I stepped back, shocked.
On Mabel’s screen was a black and white photo of a row of naked women doing the cancan. And not only were the women completely naked.
They were fat.
Way fatter than I’d ever been. Some of them were fatter than Mabel. They were so fat their stomachs rolled with flab and their boobs sagged and their skin dimpled and their arms flapped. At first I thought they were ugly. All that skin, that excess. That lack of control. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I kept looking at the screen, trying to think of something clever to say in response, something Mabel would like to hear. What would she want me to say?
And I guess that’s when I realised that was the whole point. The women in the photo, with their mega thighs and their cellulite, didn’t give two hoots what I or anyone else thought. You could tell just by looking at them that they were women beyond caring. That they’d made a decision that this is who they were. That their body was just their body, their fat just fat. Nothing more, nothing less. Maybe that’s why they were smiling. Or maybe they were just having fun.
Fun.
‘I get it,’ was all I said.
‘I’m so glad.’ Mabel smiled. ‘These images are inspiring my next collection. In fact, they are partly what inspired me to embrace my fat.’
‘Oh,’ I replied.
‘When I saw these photos for the first time, something clicked. They made me realise that I am who I am and if I’m fat, then that’s part of the deal. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘You’re not that …’
‘Come on, Winter. Fat is not an insult. At least, it shouldn’t be. Do you know what is an insult?’
‘Um … what?’
‘Shame. Living a life being ashamed of who you are. Feeling that you have less worth than someone else because you don’t fit into some skinny ideal. That’s an insult.’
‘I guess,’ I said, as my stomach rumbled.
Chapter 24: My First Client
I didn’t tell Mabel about the dizziness. Instead I grabbed a long black from the café next door and decided to push through the discomfort, just like a skinny girl would. I thought about those fat naked ladies doing the cancan. I wondered if they’d ever had sex. Had they ever had a boyfriend? Why did they decide to pose for those photos?
I was thinking about the fat women when a man walked into the store. We didn’t get many men coming through. Occasionally a bored husband or boyfriend would hang around and offer his disinterested opinion, but mostly Mabel’s was a women-only domain. So when this tall, bearded hipster type with striking blue eyes and black hair entered the building I thought he might be the courier.
‘Hi.’ I blushed. ‘Do you have a delivery? My boss is out the back.’
He was seriously hot.
The man laughed. ‘No. I’m just here to see Mabel.’
Next thing I knew Mabel was out front kissing the hipster like it was no big deal.
‘I see you’ve met Simon,’ she said. ‘My fiancé.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah.’
The two of them ignored me and chatted about what time Mabel was finishing up and then Simon left.
<
br /> ‘Cute, huh?’ Mabel grinned before heading back to the office.
‘Very,’ I said.
I made it through the morning, watching customer after customer trying to see herself from behind, scowling at her stomach, wondering if it was okay to wear a sleeveless top considering that her upper arms were fat and untoned. Huge, in fact. Disgusting.
‘I’m not sure,’ they’d say as they stared at their reflection while I watched and thought, honestly, that their arms looked fine and their backside shapely. But it didn’t matter what I said. I was just a shop girl and I couldn’t be trusted. I was there to sell, to make money, to lie through my teeth that our customers looked beautiful no matter what I actually thought.
But the truth is, no one ever looked as bad as she said she did. Ever. When a customer couldn’t zip up the back of her dress I’d simply get another size. No big deal. Not to me. But to those women, the women standing in front of the mirror, it mattered. It mattered a lot. Sure, when a garment was too big, it was a source of pride.
‘It’s huge on me,’ they’d say and pronounce this fact loudly enough for other customers to hear. ‘I need to go down a size.’
But if a top was tight, pants stubbornly refusing to close at the waist, you’d see tears. You’d see the shame. A feeling I knew well. But I was different. These women, these women were all okay. Beautiful even. Me? I still had a long way to go.
My stomach rumbled. I knew I needed to eat, but I’d begun to fear feeling full. Feeling full meant getting fat. Feeling empty meant that the compliments would keep on coming, that the weight would keep burning, that I’d continue, as Mum said to me last night, ‘to waste away’. That I’d continue, as Mum also said to me last night, ‘looking fantastic!’
Mabel came out. ‘Go have your lunchbreak. I’ll watch the shop for a bit.’
I ordered a Thai chicken salad with extra metabolism-enhancing chilli. Not the same as my magic pills, but I couldn’t risk diarrhoea at work.
Pretty Girls Don't Eat Page 8