I enter the convenience store and look for something to quell my seemingly endless appetite for sugar. I think I want chocolate, but none of the bars are calling to me today. A package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups might do it, but I’m not sure they will be enough on their own.
Maybe a Krispy Kreme donut to go with it? Yes! My brain tells me I have the winning combo.
I take them both up to the counter and place them in front of the cashier.
“We have a two-for-one special on the chocolate,” he informs me.
Oh. Well, it would be silly not to take free food. I can always save the second package for tomorrow. And it just makes sense from a financial point of view.
You know you’ll eat it before the day is over, the sane part of my mind whispers.
Shh, the slightly less sane part replies.
I quickly grab another Reese’s, and the cashier puts everything into a small plastic bag. I swipe my debit card on their machine and make my way back to the office with my goodies.
It’s going to be messy if I try to eat the donut at my desk, so I reason I should probably eat it now, where all the crumbs can fall onto the footpath. And it will help with the sugar cravings, which have intensified since my gaze first landed on the Krispy Kreme sign at the 7-Eleven. I’m like Pavlov’s dog—show me that red and green logo, and my brain takes on the personality of the Terminator until it achieves its objective.
Do you want to know something crazy? Krispy Kremes give me a stomach ache, and I don’t even care. Their marketing is that good.
I cram the donut into my mouth right then and there. Mmm. Sweet and doughy.
But it’s not enough. The sugar monster wants more.
I quickly chow down on the Reese’s cups in the first package, refusing to think about the number of calories I’m consuming.
Okay. There. I think that’s done it. The cravings have finally subsided. And I only feel mildly nauseated.
I congratulate myself for not going completely overboard and eating the second package straight away, just because it’s in my possession. (Yes, I know how I sound. Please don’t judge me.) I enter the lobby of my building and let the cool air-conditioned interior dry the thin layer of November sweat from my skin.
I ride up in the elevator and take a moment to adjust the waistband of my pants so it doesn’t look like I have multiple rolls of fat on my stomach. But I only succeed in pushing one slightly bigger fat roll further up my body.
I sigh. How did it come to this? I used to be awesome. I never really paid attention to what I ate, but I wasn’t overweight. I didn’t let anything get me down for longer than an hour. I was known as the girl who was always happy. But after finding that photo online, something snapped. I think because Guy left it so long to exact his revenge, I was caught completely off-guard and it affected me much more than it should have.
Everything had been going so well too in the six months between our split and ‘the incident’. Work was good . . . I was rediscovering myself as an individual after a year of dating Guy . . . and then boom! That photo changed everything. I think I kind of gave up on the human race after that. People can’t be trusted. Food is now the only thing I can rely on to bring me pleasure.
Except for when it adds to the padding on my excessively large backside.
At least no one at work has said anything. I mean, they might be teasing me behind my back, but they haven’t said anything to my face. That’s got to count for something. Especially since I work for Pop Ice, which is an online magazine that makes its money from pointing out the many and varied flaws of celebrities.
I get back to my desk and plonk down on my swivel chair, stuffing the remaining Reese’s package in my drawer. The only person in the immediate vicinity is Jon, my cubicle mate. He’s one of my only friends these days. Our desks are set up so that we face away from each other, but that doesn’t stop us from spending most of our time the other way around. Right now though, he’s busy typing on his keyboard.
“Portia is looking for you,” he says, only half looking up.
“Do you know why?”
“I think it might be to do with an article.”
“Really?” I ask excitedly. As an editorial assistant, I haven’t yet been given the opportunity to write articles on my own. I’ve been waiting for this moment for almost four years.
“I’m pretty sure. Go see her and find out.”
Portia’s office is at the other end of the floor. While the rest of the staff only have partitions to divide their desks, she has proper walls and a door.
I knock softly and wait for her to summon me.
“Enter,” she calls impatiently.
Our editor-in-chief is a woman of few words. She is kind of like the boss in The Devil Wears Prada, except quirkier. And she’s not as demanding as Miranda Priestly, but that’s only because she’s addicted to eBay auctions and focuses a large chunk of her attention on winning bids, rather than yelling at us.
She glances at me, her dark eyes even more manic than usual. This probably means she has several high-stakes auctions going today.
“Ah, Isla, good, you’re here. It saves me having to find you later. Helen is away at the moment . . . I can’t remember why . . . surgery of some sort, I think—and she’s left a huge hole for the next couple of entertainment columns. Can you cover for her?”
I try not to squeal in elation. “Uh, sure.”
“Good. Your first article is about celebrities who have recently piled on the pounds. I want a minimum of ten women with the usual commentary. Be as bitchy as you like, taking the stance that we don’t approve of the way they’ve let themselves go.”
I stare at her uncertainly for a second, wondering if she’s trying to tell me something. But I’m probably flattering myself. The woman wouldn’t notice if I came to work in a garbage bag.
“Okay. Great. When do you want it by?”
“Yesterday. Now scoot. I’m bidding on a Louis Vuitton handbag, and the auction is about to end.”
I bow my head Japanese style, and back out of the room.
Yes! My first article! Plus the possibility of at least one more!
It’s kind of a shame about the content, but I can’t really afford to be picky on my first assignment. And she did say I can be as bitchy as I like. Which means if I’m only a tiny, tiny bit mean, I’m still following her brief.
I beam at Jon as I return to my computer.
“I take it things went well?” he asks dryly.
“Yes! I have an article!”
“Congratulations, love. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
I get on Instagram and start trawling through all the celebrity accounts I can think of. I fantasise about which department I might be promoted to if I ever make it permanently into an editorial role. After four years, I am so ready. It’s just unlucky no one has left since I started, otherwise I would apply for their department in a heartbeat.
Maybe they’ll expand so I can work alongside someone? Jon would be ideal to team up with, but he only does the news and it’s not our most popular column. I mean, he still has to write from an interesting tabloid perspective, because readers don’t want to be bothered with things like people dying in the Middle East, unless they happen to be famous movie stars who got caught in the cross-fire while doing humanitarian work. But I can’t see Portia choosing news as the first department to expand. It would most likely be fashion or entertainment. Which means I need to prove myself with this current opportunity.
Half an hour later, and a quarter of the way through my article, Portia appears at my desk. She doesn’t make eye contact, and instead stares out the window while drumming her red, claw-like gel nails on top of the partition.
“Are you done yet?”
“Uh, almost,” I fib. “But I’ll definitely get it to you by this afternoon.”
“Good. One of the other editors will probably need to re-write it before it goes online, so the sooner the better.”
I try
not to let her comment sting, because I know I’m an untested commodity, so I just nod to show I understand. Besides, even the other editors need to get someone else to sign off on their work before they post online.
“And as soon as you’ve finished that one, I want you to get started on the next story,” Portia adds. “This time one on stars who are too skinny.”
“No problem. Will do.”
As soon as Portia is out of earshot, Jon snorts.
“Can you believe this is our workplace? Reporting on these poor peoples’ eating disorders for entertainment?”
I shrug. “I know. But I have to start somewhere.”
My comment appears to sober him up. “I suppose so. What’s my excuse, then? Thirty years in the industry and I’m still following the colour of a pop star’s knickers.”
“Ew!”
“I don’t mean that literally. Besides, most of them don’t wear any these days, do they?” he says, only half-joking.
“Well, at least you’re doing proper news.”
“Hardly. Today I’m in charge of putting together a photo gallery of Prince George. Please tell me how I’m bettering the world by doing this?”
“You’re making people feel good. Everyone loves photos of young royalty.”
“Thanks for trying to see the bright side. But all I can say is, make sure this is really what you want to do, otherwise you’ll suddenly discover three decades have passed and you’re now stuck in a job you can’t quit because you need money for renovations on your house in Chapel Hill, and annual trips to Morocco to please your wife.”
“Thanks, Jon. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a wife, so I’m safe there, but I get what you’re saying.”
He laughs.
“And personally, I don’t think it’s ever too late to make a change if you really want to,” I add.
He nods, but doesn’t say anything.
It then occurs to me I am preaching advice I should be heeding myself in terms of my emotional state.
Except I think I’m like Jon.
I’m trapped in a situation of my own doing.
And I don’t know how to escape.
***
By the end of the day, I’ve decided my mini temporary promotion is worthy of a celebration. I eat the second Reese’s on the way back to the car just after 6pm (I know! I lasted longer than I expected, too!) and head towards the McDonald’s near my apartment.
I order my meal from the drive-thru, thinking I’ll take the food home and eat it in my living room. But once the smell of those French fries hits my nose, I change my mind and sit in the carpark to eat instead. I cram the Big Mac and fries into my mouth, washing it all down with large gulps of Coke.
These days, I feel like there are two people living in my body: Insane Isla and Sane Isla. Insane Isla doesn’t seem to care I’m sitting in a darkening carpark alone, stuffing my face with junk food. And Sane Isla appears to be asleep right now, probably in a sugar coma.
After I’ve finished off my last fry, Insane Isla reminds me of the dessert rule again. It has to be obeyed. Every. Single. Time.
Luckily I’m celebrating, so Sane Isla doesn’t wake up to protest. Also luckily, there is a café that sells amazing desserts a couple of doors down from here.
I wipe the stray grease off my face with a serviette and climb out of the car to walk the short distance to Desserts R Us.
My mouth is watering before I even get properly through the door. The combined aromas of chocolate, caramel, cinnamon and some sort of baked cookie scent all fight for my attention.
I stand near the counter to browse the menu. Macadamia Delight . . . Chocolate Sin . . . Fudgy Toffee Pudding . . . yum. They all sound so good, I can’t decide on just one.
But I couldn’t possibly have two. That would be greedy. Especially after McDonald’s.
I finally choose a large serving of churros with hot salted caramel sauce and two scoops of homemade vanilla bean ice cream. I go up to the woman behind the register.
She beams at me. “Hi! How are you this evening?”
“Great. I’ll have the churros, please.”
“To go, or eat in?”
“To go.” I hand over my money and then feel so proud of my articles today that I want to confide in someone.
“I’m celebrating,” I say, smiling conspiratorially.
Her grin widens and she nods knowingly. “Congratulations! I’m telling you, those food cravings are a life force on their own. Have you found out if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”
My smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry. Are you keeping it a secret?” she asks, looking apologetic. “I didn’t mean to pry . . .”
“You think I’m pregnant?”
Her face collapses as she realises her error. “I . . . uh . . . oh God. I am so sorry . . .”
“Forget it,” I say faintly.
“I’ll just check on your order,” she says before running off.
I stand there, mortified. The woman thinks I have a baby inside me. I am so fat, I can pass for twenty weeks along. That’s when you find out the sex, isn’t it?
A few minutes later, a young guy appears with a Styrofoam container and hands it to me.
“The churros?” he confirms.
“Thanks,” I say, snatching them from him and marching out of the shop. I certainly won’t be going there again.
I pass a bin outside and look at the container in my hand.
I can’t even open it.
I toss it in and keep walking.
Something has got to change.
Now.
Check out the rest here: https://www.amazon.com/Lightweight-Kirsty-McManus-ebook/dp/B0768TJF1T
Also by Kirsty McManus
Saved by the Celebutante
https://www.amazon.com/Saved-Celebutante-Kirsty-McManus-ebook/dp/B01EZUP9N8
Zen Queen
https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Queen-Kirsty-McManus-ebook/dp/B006PNS9KE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kirsty McManus was born in Sydney, Australia and moved to Queensland when she was 14. When she was 25, she lived in Japan for a year with her partner Kesh and worked as an English teacher. This was the inspiration behind her debut novel, Zen Queen. She also spent a year in Canada and then settled back down on the Sunshine Coast in 2008. She now writes almost full time, designs the occasional website and looks after her
two little boys.
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