‘Glad that’s over,’ she whispered to me as she entered the backstage area.
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll stick to designing.’
But Mabel still told Melody and me that we’d done a great job at the end of show cocktail party. She’d scored enough orders to fill the next six months and the media couldn’t get enough of her decision to put a diverse range of ages and body types on her runway. Everyone told us how beautiful we looked.
‘It shouldn’t be groundbreaking, having models who aren’t all fifteen and a size zero,’ Mabel lectured a reporter. ‘Fashion is for everyone and every woman is beautiful. I know that’s been made pretty clear tonight.’
I was about to join George and James, who were holding hands and chatting to a hot male journalist about The Bachelor, when I felt a tap on the shoulder.
Oliver.
We hadn’t talked for ages. I hadn’t even been able to Internet stalk him because he never bothered to post on Facebook. It was almost like he’d done a Richard Simmons.
‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted out, sounding angrier than I intended.
Oliver looked sheepish.
‘You know I have a thing for indie fashion. Besides, I follow you on Instagram.’
He smiled, but I wasn’t in the mood so I just raised my left eyebrow, a nifty trick I spent hours perfecting when I was eight years old.
‘I’ve really missed you,’ he said, looking at the ground. ‘God. I’m so nervous.’
Part of me was beyond happy to see Oliver. I wanted to hug him and say everything was fine and that I totally understood why he was pissed off and that I shouldn’t have lied to him. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it because I was angry. Furious, in fact. I was just beginning to accept that it was over between us. And now here he was. At this fashion show, of all places.
Oliver continued to stare at the ground. ‘Can we get out of here? Go for a walk?’
‘A walk?’
Oliver’s face dropped and I almost felt sorry for him. Still, I waited a few seconds before reluctantly agreeing. ‘All right.’
We walked through the back streets of Brunswick, the sky clear and full of stars. Oliver didn’t try to hold my hand. I desperately wanted to reach out to take his, but I didn’t. I stumbled a couple of times, my ridiculously high heels not easy to navigate over the uneven footpath.
‘I know I messed up,’ Oliver said. ‘I was just so shocked. I had no idea. I felt like an idiot.’
‘You felt like an idiot? Why?’ I said.
‘Because if something like that happened to me, I would tell you. I guess you didn’t trust me.’
‘It’s not that,’ I blurted. ‘I was embarrassed. I thought you wouldn’t like me if you knew. And I was right.’
Oliver didn’t give me the reassurance I was after. Instead, he changed the subject.
‘And isn’t George gay, by the way?’
‘One of my many mistakes.’
We continued in silence.
‘So, you and George?’
I laughed. ‘Are you kidding me? There is no way in the world. Not a chance.’
‘Good,’ Oliver replied. ‘Because I missed you. Seriously missed you. These past months have sucked. I kept wanting to call you, but I was scared that you would never want to speak to me again. And I guess I was a bit jealous. I’m really sorry.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, you dork. I don’t know anybody else who appreciates analogue technology the way you do. I can’t throw that away.’
‘It’s true. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have lied. I should have trusted you.’
‘Yep, you should have. You’re lucky I love you so much.’
‘You love me?’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘Well, yeah,’ Oliver mumbled. We were facing each other now, the street empty and badly lit. But I could see his sparkly green eyes and his cute messy haircut.
‘I guess I love you, too.’
And that’s when we kissed, in the middle of the street, like no one else existed in the whole entire world. And when Oliver put his hands on my waist, I forced myself not to worry about my fat rolls or the cellulite that peppered my thighs or my wonky boobs and corgi legs.
Maybe the part of me that dreams of being skinnier will never go away, not completely. But that night I made a decision. I wasn’t going to let my body image hang-ups ruin the rest of my life. I was going to enjoy moments like this. I was going to be me. Not perfect. Not skinny. But good enough. Actually, better than good enough. Because perfect is boring and that’s not something that I am.
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