by Lucy Vine
‘Yes, Jen, you look very frail indeed. Some might say close to death.’
She smiles, she’s pleased.
Jen loves being thin. She loves it more than she loves anything – more than she loves her family. Moving to L.A. has been like coming home to her people. Finally she can talk about kale all day long. Even the waiters over there want to talk about kale apparently. I haven’t been to visit yet, because kale isn’t my thing, but she says she loves the place, and never wants to come back. I hope that’s not true. I really miss her.
‘Jen, how’s your husband?’ I say, changing the subject. Dad looks at me. He’s worried I’m going to say something to annoy Jen. He knows I’m not a fan of my sister’s husband, Andrew. He’s just a bit dull and cold. Mum disliked him too, but we are all aware that Jen is a difficult breed, and as long as he continues to make her happy, we can make nice. It’s not like we ever really see him anyway. Even at the rare family events where we’ve all been together, he’s usually on his phone with work, or staring out of a window pretending to be contemplative, so he doesn’t have to talk to us. Actually, the last time I saw him was at Mum’s funeral. That was a bad day. But after hours of awkward empty apologies and head tilts, it was the first time I really appreciated Andrew making no effort to speak to me.
Jen shrugs. ‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘Work is keeping him really busy, so it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to get back to England for a while. I definitely won’t be able to make your birthday, Dad.’
He waves his hand and shakes his head to say don’t worry, but I can see he’s disappointed. She pauses and looks at each of us. I’m waiting for her to say she’s sorry she won’t be there and that she misses us.
Instead she says, ‘I see you’re both still alone and fat.’
Dad and I glance down at our bellies and burst out laughing. Jen is brutal, but I don’t think Dad really understands what she means most of the time, and I enjoy it. I don’t mind being fat by her standards.
I mean. Obviously, of course, for a long time, I did mind. For most of my life I dutifully hated myself and my body, like women are supposed to. I am – what is the suitably elegant word? – a bit lumpy. Not hugely, I’m still human shaped, but I have never been thin. And for years I did the standard crying at the mirror, singing Mariah Carey songs at myself and wishing for magic lipo. Or at least magic money to pay for real lipo. Growing up with a thin and beautiful older sister was a little burdensome, and I regularly used it as an excuse to feel very sorry for myself. It was Mum – her death – that actually changed things. One day, not long after she died, I was going through my attic things (that’s something no one warns you about when a parent dies, that you have to take possession of the accumulated childhood stuff you left at your parents’ house because you don’t want it but you don’t want it thrown away either. ‘Attic things’). Anyway, I found my old teenage diary and it was awful. Pages and pages of self-hatred. Seeing all that there – knowing I was using the same vile words about myself in the mirror fifteen years later – it made me realise I didn’t want to do that any more. I didn’t want to spend another fifteen years calling myself names I would never use when speaking to a friend. I didn’t want to be old and look back at a life spent hating myself. That seemed so very sad. So, instead of starting yet another diet, I stopped weighing myself and starting following a bunch of body positive Instagram accounts. I slowly realised fat women are HOT. And so are thin women. And that we all want what we don’t have. Thin girls want more curves, not-thin girls want less of them – we are programmed to look down and feel dissatisfied. But we can re-programme ourselves, I know we can. That’s what I’ve tried to do; rewire my brain and reset my thinking, so every time I accidentally flip my camera phone onto selfie mode and want to scream at the sight of my stupid face, I stop that abuse there.
Obviously, the whole thing is still a work in progress, because I am a human being who likes crying in the mirror with Mariah, on occasion, but mostly I am achieving success in my own small way. Plus, you know what I realised? Men totally still want to have sex with me. Even if they do pointedly say, ‘You have such a pretty face’ and, ‘I don’t even find thin women attractive,’ a little more often than I would prefer. It’s like, Dude, you don’t have to body shame other women to make me feel good about myself! (OK, maybe it helps a tiny bit.)
Jen tuts at our giggling. ‘And you still don’t care enough to do anything about it, clearly,’ she adds.
I shake my head, I’m not sorry, and change the subject yet again. ‘Is Milly OK? She seemed less confrontational than usual.’
Jen nods. ‘Yes, she’s going through a semi-nice phase at the moment. It’s odd. Her head teacher said she hasn’t even bullied anyone yet this semester.’
‘Weird.’
Dad clears his throat. Oh right, he’s going to make the speech again. He’s seizing his moment. I sit back to observe the process.
‘Ahem,’ he begins. ‘I’m very proud of you, Jenny, and I was hoping to talk to you about something, if it’s OK?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Do I have to? I don’t really have time for this. Wait, is it anything to do with the bird shit all over your trousers?’
I wince, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice. He continues, ‘Jenny, you know I’ve been lonely since your mum . . . er, since your mum passed away.’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ she says indignantly. ‘Nobody tells me anything. Ellie, why aren’t you being nicer to Dad?’
I sit up. ‘He’s your dad too, Jen, and you’re the one living in California.’
Dad shushes us. He’s mid-flow:
‘And I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of me maybe starting to date again. I just thought, maybe I could try it. Try meeting someone. Obviously I’m not looking to replace your mum, and you wouldn’t have to call her ‘Mum’. I mean, unless you wanted to . . . ’
Jesus, it’s almost word for word. Even the intonation is the same. He must’ve been practising this for weeks.
‘I had Candice and Peter over for dinner the other night – they’re so lovely, he’s so affectionate with her – and Candice kept saying “you need to get back out there”. I need to get back out there, I think, Jenny.’
Jen looks bored AF.
‘Do what you want,’ she says, examining her nails. Then she looks up. ‘Hold on, I don’t have to do anything, do I? To be honest, it’s better you find someone now, to save Ellie looking after you when you have a stroke and are stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.’
Dad sighs, relieved.
‘No no, you don’t have to do anything,’ he says, adding excitably, ‘Lenny’s going to take me to a cocktail bar!’
‘She’s what?’ Jen snorts. ‘Good luck with that, Ellie. I’m glad you’ve finally found a friend to do exciting things with at long last.’
‘Yes, yes, very funny,’ I say, looking at my watch, it’s coming up to three o’clock. I only have an hour or so to get back to London. ‘I better go, I’ve got a date.’
Dad looks panicked. ‘At this time of day?’
I nod. ‘Yes, it’s just a coffee.’
‘Have you got the right day?’ Jen sniffs. She’s promised not to say anything more about the Tax Lawyer Incident, but a blanket ban is too much to expect from my big sister.
‘Yes, Jen, thanks, Jen, bye, Jen,’ I say, getting up.
‘Milly, come and say goodbye to Ellie and Grandpa,’ Jen shouts, reaching for Milly, who leans across her mother into shot.
‘Ellie, Mommy says you’re going to be alone forever because your standards are too high,’ she informs me.
Jen nods, approvingly.
I sigh. ‘Having standards – mandards – is nothing to be ashamed of, Milly,’ I explain. ‘And I like being alone. Think of all the old lady cats I can have. You like cats, don’t you?’
‘I prefer foxes,’ she says, thinking about it. ‘One of them attacked a boy at my school
.’
‘That is great. Was he—’
‘OK bye.’
She hangs up.
Dad turns to me, smiling. ‘She’s turning into such a nice little girl, isn’t she?’
By the time Dad drops me off at the station with a hug and a five pound note shoved into my bag, I know I’m going to be late for this date. ‘Don’t spend all of that on rent,’ Dad says in hushed tones as I clamber onto my train. ‘Get yourself something nice with it too.’ No problem, I’m going to use it for a nice M&S G&T in a can.
I sit down next to a heavy breather and get out my phone to text ‘Adam’ to apologise for running fifteen minutes behind schedule. I wonder if he’ll mind. Is he the type of person who minds when someone changes plans an hour before? And am I the type of person who minds when someone minds about a change of plans? I realise I don’t even know what I’m looking for from all this Tinder-ing. What’s my type? Do I have a type? I glance at my phone. Adam hasn’t replied, so maybe he does mind. And maybe I do mind that he minds. Maybe I already hate this uptight prick.
Jesus, the man next to me sounds like he has a collapsed lung, who breathes that loudly?
So here’s all I know so far about Adam. He’s thirty-two, quite handsome, and he likes playing squash. He was one of the first ‘matches’ I made on Tinder, thanks to Sophie and Thomas’ exhaustive swiping, and he sent me a reasonably spelled message that very evening – one that actually said ‘hello’ instead of ‘hey’. So that is basically where my oh-so high standards/mandards are at right now; a person who uses a slightly longer greeting word than others. We exchanged a few messages and he seemed to vaguely have a sense of humour. He suggested the coffee date almost immediately and explained that he has a policy of meeting dates as quickly as possible, because there ‘isn’t any point wasting time talking’. Apparently you don’t know if you’re interested in a person until you ‘meet in real life, see each other face to face’. I think he’s probably more interested in checking out my arse than my face but there it is. I got the impression that this is a seasoned Tinderer who is methodically working his way through the entire country’s single females, and I quite enjoy efficiency, so here we are.
Actually, I feel fairly relaxed about the whole thing – I have to start somewhere – and it’ll probably be fine. The only part I’m concerned about is the ‘coffee’ bit. Coffee. Not alcohol. A sober blind date. I’m meeting a stranger for the first time – a stranger I’m in theory probably supposed to flirt with – and we’re not imbibing alcohol. Hmm. I wish I’d already bought that train G&T, but it seems a little uncouth to be drinking alone so publicly. Especially when the man next to me may need resuscitating any moment now.
I awkwardly pull out some make-up and start applying it, thinking about good conversation starters. If I’m going to be a person who dates, I’m going to need to seem worldly and intelligent. I want to seem cultured and intelligent, obviously, but also just shallow enough for a shag. What are your thoughts on global warming, did you catch Caitlin Moran’s latest column in The Times, what is your favourite new restaurant in Soho, do you spiralise your courgettes, sir?
Maybe I should write this down.
I could have conversation prompts with me on dates? I’ll become known as the girl who Tinders with cue cards.
I feel the eye of Puff the magic dragon next to me, watching me apply lipstick. His disapproval wafts towards me on a wave of furious heavy breathing. I don’t really understand why people get angry about women doing their make-up on public transport. So much rage. The amount of times I’ve made eye contact, across my mirror, with a simmering, seething middle-aged man, glaring at me as he reads his Financial Times. But how is it really any different to reading that paper? I’m not doing anything that encroaches on his space or affects him in any way. If I were using powder or spraying a toxic cloud of deodorant, maybe I would understand the anger a little better. No one in close quarters with strangers wants foundation or scents flying around them. But lipstick? That’s between me and my compact. The man next to me huffs again. Maybe he just doesn’t like women betraying the illusion.
My phone vibrates with a reply at last from Adam:
Fine.
Ah, the awkward one-word response. What does that mean? Is he angry? Maybe he’s in a hurry? But I’m running late, he shouldn’t be. I firmly believe that people who respond with one-word texts should all be gathered up and burned to death in a public place. And then their ashes should be displayed for all to see, Game of Thrones style, as a warning to those of us who might think to power trip with a one-word text reply.
I’m still wondering if Adam is cross or disinterested when I arrive at the café.
It quickly becomes clear that it is neither of those things.
Adam is not cross or disinterested, he’s just very, very drunk.
‘Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!’ he greets me enthusiastically, pulling me in for a long, weird stranger hug. I look down. He only has one shoe on.
I take a deep breath. This could be interesting. You know, in that car crash-y way everyone secretly enjoys.
‘Ellie, right?’ he shout-spits at me happily, releasing me from the hug and trying really hard to focus on my face. ‘I BOUGHT YOU A COFFEE!’
I can feel everyone in the room looking at us and I whisper, as if that will balance out our public offensiveness. ‘Oh that’s kind, thank you.’
‘I’VE BEEN AT THE FOOTIE WITH THE LADSSSSssssss,’ he explains. ‘We won, so we started drinking at eleven this morning. I’M A TINY BIT DRUNK SSHORRY.’
I laugh and immediately hear how forced it sounds. ‘That’s no problem,’ I say, adding, ‘I’m jealous, I love drunk people.’ He picks up his coffee mug and stares at it, entranced. I take a moment to look him over. He’s posher and better looking than I thought he would be. But he’s also turned up to a first date – at four fifteen in the afternoon – totally trashed. Oh well, it’s all good fodder for my friends later, right? And, I reassure myself, at least if he’s drunk, he’s probably going to think I’m cool. Beer goggles are my ally.
Oh, here we go, he’s lost interest in the cup and he’s shouting again. ‘AFTER THIS WE SHOULD GO GET A COCK [high-pitched giggle] TAIL. ARE YOU UP FOR SOME COCK [high-pitched giggle] TAILS?’
I glance around, suspiciously. This feels like a joke, like a prank. Maybe he’s one of those dreadful guys on YouTube who think a funny prank is running up to women in the street and yanking their tops up. So hilariously funny, yeah?!
I can’t see anyone who looks like they’d be filming me. No one seems to care too much about the tall drunk man shouting cock in the middle of a coffee shop. Not unless that elderly couple eating flapjacks are in on the prank.
I turn back to Adam. Looks like this is actually really happening then. Whoopee.
I nod and we fall into silence. Shit, where are my conversation cards?
He’s beaming at me, apparently happy with how things are going so far. I smile weakly back and sip my coffee. I hate these chairs, I think, shifting uncomfortably on the squeaky plastic. I can already feel a bum sweat coming on. Let’s hope he doesn’t try to Danny Arringford me later or he’ll get a handful of sweat for his trouble.
Suddenly he’s shouting again. ‘I BOUGHT SOME SHOES!’ Ah, that is presumably why he only has one shoe on. ‘They are GREEN,’ he explains, his eyes focusing in and out of my face.
‘That sounds fun,’ I say supportively. ‘Can I see them?’
Adam reaches down enthusiastically to collect the shoe box and slams it down on the table, knocking over my coffee as he does. I jump up, and three seconds later, so does he (they call it the drunk people delay).
‘OH SHIT,’ he shouts, as staff come running over with tiny paper napkins and dap ineffectively at the brown pool.
Oh Christ, this is mortifying. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say over and over to everyone around us. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ll get more tissue paper,’ says Adam, and he wanders off. He comes back
a few minutes later with a handful of sugar sachets.
‘I forgot what I was getting,’ he explains, looking down at the spill, and then up at me, frowning, as if I’m responsible. It’s semi-funny, but it’s also a train wreck, and I wonder if I’m allowed to leave yet. How bad does it have to be before I’m permitted to ditch a date after only twenty minutes?
I take the sugar packets from him – maybe they’ll work as tiny sandbags for the spilled coffee – and we sit back down. I ask him what he’s been doing this week, and he looks confused. ‘I BOUGHT SOME SHOES,’ he tells me again, like I’m an idiot.
‘Oh right, cool,’ I say, nodding. ‘Er, for a special occasion or did you just need new shoes?’
He rests an elbow on the table, leaning in some leftover coffee. I feel some satisfaction as the liquid seeps into his shirt. ‘My style consultant says it’s important we invest in shoes at least every two weeks,’ he says slowly, carefully enunciating each word and only succeeding in sounding drunker. He pauses and squints at me, adding, ‘Do you have a personal stylist or do you just not care about yourself?’
Ohhhh-kay. I think underneath the drunk is just a pompous cock.
‘Actually, I might pop to the loo,’ I say, getting up.
‘They’re over there,’ he says pointing at the gents.
‘Thanks.’
Hiding in the loo (the ladies), I WhatsApp Thomas and Sophie.
‘This is dreadful. He is the worst. I hate him and he’s wearing dungarees.’
He’s not wearing dungarees, but I need them to think the situation is worse than it is to get more sympathy. I stare at my phone, waiting for a blue tick. No blue tick. The bastards got me into this and now they’re off having lives and fun without me. I look at myself in the mirror and wipe some mascara flakes away. Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t do my make-up on the train after all.
What should I do? I need emotional support, for someone to tell me I can leave if it’s bad – I need permission. But if I hide in here much longer, he’s going to think I’m doing a number two in a cafe bathroom.