I stare at her stick limbs. She’s shivering, her hands pale purple with the cold. I watch the papery skin across her ribs as she gasps for breath. I know Magda is right—and yet I jog to school with Zoë rather than have breakfast in the café with Magda.
Zoë might be seriously ill but she’s far fitter than me. I’m staggering in agony by the time I get to school. Mrs. Henderson finds me in a state of collapse on the cloakroom floor.
“Ellie? What is it?”
“I’m . . . just . . . out of . . . breath.”
“I thought you were having an asthma attack. Have you been
running
? And you’re not even late for school!”
“I’ve run all the way from the leisure center,” I gasp.
“My goodness. I think
I
need to sit down. Eleanor Allard on a fitness kick!”
“I’ve actually never felt
less
fit in my life,” I say, clutching my chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Maybe you need to come to my lunchtime aerobic session,” says Mrs. Henderson.
“OK, maybe I will,” I say.
It’ll burn off two or three hundred calories—
and
stop me craving lunch. It’s a special lunch today, the cook’s traditional Christmas dinner treat for the end of term. Turkey, one chipolata sausage, two roast potatoes, a dollop of mash and garden peas, and then mincemeat tart with a blob of artificial cream. We’re talking megacalories per trayful.
I can’t risk setting foot inside the canteen. I go to the aerobic session. It’s hell. Total burning hellfire.
I feel such a fool among all the seriously fit muscle girls leaping about in their luminous Lycra. I stand behind Zoë, who is bunched up in a huge T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She looks hopelessly weak and weedy, but she’s fighting fit. She never misses a beat, her lips a tight line of effort.
I get so hot I can’t see out my glasses and the spring goes out of my hair. I’ve got such a stitch I have to fight not to double up. I still try to swing my arms and stamp my legs but they’ve turned to jelly.
“Take two minutes’ break, Ellie,” Mrs. Henderson calls.
I crash to the floor. Gasp gasp gasp. But I’m not going to lose any weight lying here going wibble-wobble. I drag myself up and get going again. I last to the end of the session . . . just.
I’ve got to take a shower, obviously, but I seriously hate the school showers because there aren’t any curtains at all. I hunch in a corner, trying to keep my back to everyone, taking envious peeks at all the taut thighs and flat tummies surrounding me.
Zoë avoids this ordeal. She runs off in her sweaty T-shirt, clutching a sponge bag, obviously going to have a little wash in the toilets.
I shove my school uniform over my sticky pink pudding body as quickly as possible. Mrs. Henderson catches hold of me.
“Can I have a word, Ellie? Come into my changing room.”
Oh, God. The only times I’ve been invited into her inner sanctum it’s to get severely told off for pretending to have a permanent heavy period to get me out of games. She’s surely not going to tell me off for volunteering for
extra
games?
“So, Ellie, what’s going on? First it’s swimming, then running, now aerobics. Why?”
“You told me to come along this lunchtime.”
“I was joking—though it was certainly a pleasant surprise when you turned up. But I just wonder what you’re playing at, Ellie.”
“I told you. I’m trying to get fit. I thought you’d be thrilled to bits, Mrs. Henderson. You’re always nagging at me to take more exercise. So I am.”
“Do you want to get fit, Ellie—or thin?”
“What?”
“I’m not stupid. I know why poor Zoë comes to aerobics. I’m very worried about her. I’ve tried talking to her umpteen times—and her parents. She’s obviously severely anorexic. But I want to talk about you, Ellie, not Zoë.”
“You can hardly call me anorexic, Mrs. Henderson,” I say, looking down at my body with loathing. “I’m fat.”
“You’ve lost weight recently.”
“Only a few pounds, hardly anything.”
“You’ve done very well. But you mustn’t lose weight too rapidly. You girls go on all these crazy diets but all you really have to do is cut down on all the sweets and chocolate and crisps and eat
sensibly
. Lots of fresh fruit, vegetables, fish, chicken, pasta. You
are
eating a reasonably balanced diet, aren’t you, Ellie?”
“
Yes,
Mrs. Henderson.”
One apple. Two sticks of celery. Half a tub of cottage cheese. One Ryvita. Fruit, veg, protein, carbohydrate. Brilliantly balanced.
“Because you’re a perfectly healthy normal ordinary size, Ellie.”
“Ordinary—for an elephant.”
“I
mean
it. What’s brought all this on, hmm?” Mrs. Henderson looks at me. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with Nadine suddenly acting as if she’s the second Kate Moss?”
“No!”
I say, perhaps a little too fiercely.
“Do
you
want to be a fashion model, Ellie?” says Mrs. Henderson.
“Me?” I say, snorting at the idea.
How could I ever get to be a model? OK, I could staple my lips together for good and starve myself slim. But what could I do with my mane of frizzy hair, my little owl glasses, my dumpy five-foot-two physique?
Mrs. Henderson misunderstands the true meaning of my snort.
“Ah! At least you haven’t dieted away your basic common sense, Ellie. You seem to share my feelings about fashion models and their ludicrous strutting and vacant posing. Why can’t girls ache to be scientists or surgeons?”
“Count me out, Mrs. Henderson. I come nearly bottom in science—and I can’t stand the sight of blood so I doubt I’d make a very good surgeon either.”
“
You’re
going to be an artist,” says Mrs. Henderson.
I blink at her, going red.
“Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer. I didn’t have a clue Mrs. Henderson knew I even
liked
art.
“We teachers do talk among ourselves, you know. It sounds as if you’re Mrs. Lilley’s pet pupil.”
“Yes, but she’s leaving.”
“Then you’ll doubtless be the new art teacher’s pet pupil too,” says Mrs. Henderson.
“She’ll probably think I can’t draw for toffee,” I say.
Stupid word. I think of soft gooey buttery brown toffee and my mouth drips with saliva. Do I like toffee best—or fudge? No, nougat, the sort with the cherries. I open my lips and imagine chewing a huge sticky slab of nougat. . . .
“Ellie? Are you listening to me?” says Mrs. Henderson.
“Yes, of course,” I say, swallowing my imaginary sweets. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Henderson. I swear I don’t want to be a model. I couldn’t care less about Nadine and her big chance. Honestly.”
dolly girl
I
was going to keep right out of it on Saturday. Magda had promised to go with Nadine. It was all settled. But then Mick
un
settled everything. Magda shared her Danish pastry with him at the leisure center—and now has him eating out of her hand.
“He’s asked me to go to this football match on Saturday,” she says.
“Oh, wow! Date of the Century,” I say.
Magda is eating a Mars bar. She’s been nibbling along the top with her little white teeth like a chipmunk, and now she’s licking the exposed caramel with her pointy tongue. The smell of the chocolate is overpowering. I want to snatch it from her so badly I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying.
Nadine is looking at her with laser beam eyes.
“Not
this
Saturday?”
“Mm.”
“But you can’t. You’re going to make me up.”
“Yes, yes, well, I can still do that, can’t I? The match is in the afternoon,
right
?”
“But you’re coming
with
me.”
“Well . . . you don’t really need me there, do you?”
“We’re supposed to go with someone. It
says
. Relative or friend.”
“They probably mean an adult friend, as a chaperone. So you’d really better go with your mum.”
“I’m not going with my
mother
. Are you crazy? What sort of an idiot would I look, trotting along with her? I haven’t even told her about it. You know what she’s like. Dear goodness, she’d get me to perm my hair in ringlets and put me in a frilly frock!”
“OK, OK, point made. Go with Ellie.”
“What?” I say, snapping to attention. “No!”
“But I can’t go on my own! Magda, you can’t stand me up to watch a lousy football match!”
“Mick’s
playing,
Nadine. He said I’d bring him luck. I
can’t
stand him up. We’re going out after, too. It’s my big chance with him, I just know it is.”
“It’s
my
big chance on Saturday. I can’t believe you could be so selfish,” says Nadine, nearly in tears. “You’re letting me down just for some stupid boy. That’s just typical of you, Magda.” She turns to me. “Ellie?”
“No! I’m not going with you, Nadine. I can’t. I won’t.”
But she keeps going on and on at me. So on Saturday morning I go with her to Magda’s. Magda is already carefully got up in her version of football-watching gear: scarlet sweater that clings to every curve, label-to-die-for jeans and high-heeled boots, with her beautiful fur jacket to keep her cozy.
“OK, Nadine, let’s get cracking,” she says, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.
“I don’t want anything too bright,” Nadine says anxiously.
“Just leave it to me, OK?”
“I mean, I can see that my usual look isn’t quite right—”
“Your chalk-white just-stepped-out-of-your-coffin look? Yeah, you’d frighten them to death.”
“But I can’t be too colorful. Look at the way all these girls look in the magazine.” Nadine stabs her finger at various models in
Spicy
magazine. “They look . . . natural.”
“Right. Natural,” says Magda, scraping Nadine’s hair back.
“You can
do
natural, can’t you, Magda?” says Nadine.
“I won’t do anything at all if you carry on. Now lie back and shut up.”
It takes Magda nearly an hour to get Nadine looking natural enough. I can’t help being riveted. It’s so weird seeing her blossom beneath Magda’s deft fingers.
“There!” Magda says at last, holding the mirror up for Nadine. “You like?”
“Well . . . I don’t know. I look ever so pink and girly. Can’t we rub off some of the blusher?”
“Don’t you dare touch it! It’s perfect. Now, your hair.”
“Yes. What am I going to
do
about it?” says Nadine, running her fingers through it despairingly.
“What’s the matter with it?” I say. It looks lovely. It always does. It’s a long black shiny waterfall, glinting almost blue when it catches the light.
I’ve always loved Nadine’s hair and wished that my own hair could somehow be shocked out of its corkscrew curls. When we were little girls I’d brush Nadine’s glossy long hair until it crackled. When we slept at each other’s houses I’d cuddle up close to Nadine and pretend that the shiny dark hair on the pillow touching my shoulder really belonged to me.
I remember
that
—and yet I
don’t
remember longing for Nadine’s body to set off her long glossy hair. I knew that I was quite a fat little girl and Nadine a thin one—but it didn’t really bother me then.
It’s really weird—the me
then
won’t match up with the me
now
. I wish I could still be the old Ellie. It’s so hard being this new one. It’s such a battle all the time. I feel so sick now because I didn’t dare have anything for breakfast and I don’t know what I’m going to do about tea this evening because we always have takeaways on Saturdays and they always smell so good and yet they’re all hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of calories, flaky white fish in golden crunchy batter with mounds of salty savory chips, or a great Catherine wheel of pizza sizzling with cheese, or tangy tandoori chicken, ruby red and hot, with pearly rice to fill my empty aching stomach . . .
“Ellie!” says Magda, busy parting Nadine’s hair. “Is that your stomach rumbling?”
“I can’t help it,” I say, going red.
“What about a little plaity bit on top?” says Magda.
“I was wondering about lots of little plaits,” says Nadine, holding her head on one side and fiddling with wisps of her hair.
“Plaits!” I say. “Come on. How childish can you get.”
“Not childish. Cute,” says Magda, starting to plait.
“Look at this girl—
she’s
got little plaits,” says Nadine, stabbing her finger at
Spicy
magazine. “Yeah, plaits, please, Mags.”
The plaiting process takes forever. I yawn and sigh and fiddle and clench my stomach to shut it up.
“This is s-o-o-o-o boring,” I moan. “What are you going to wear, anyway, Nadine?”
“What I’ve got on!” says Nadine.
I stare at her. I thought she was wearing dreary old things to save her posh outfit getting mucked up. Nadine usually wears amazing clothes, black velvet, black lace, black leather. Now today of all days she’s got on just an ordinary pair of blue jeans and a skimpy little pink T-shirt.
“Why aren’t you wearing anything black? You don’t look like you,” I say.
“That’s the whole point. I want to look like a model,” says Nadine.
“But shouldn’t you dress up a bit?” I ask.
“Take no notice of Ellie, she hasn’t got a clue,” says Magda, sighing.
“This is the sort of stuff models wear when they go on shoots,” says Nadine. “You dress down, see. Though these jeans are French and cost a fortune. My mum’s going to do her nut when she finds out I’ve drawn out some of my savings.”
“Yeah, but think of the fortune you might be earning soon, Nadine,” says Magda. “And the minute you’ve made it, you’re to start introducing me to all the right people, OK? The rounded voluptuous look is very in too. They don’t just want stringbeans like you.”
“Dream on,” I say sourly.
What if Nadine
does
make it as a model? She looks so different now. I stare at her and it suddenly all seems real. She looks just like all the models in
Spicy
magazine. She’ll win this heat. She’ll go through to the final. She’ll get to be the
Spicy
cover girl. She’ll be photographed with a pretty little pout for all the magazines, she’ll prance up and down the catwalks, she’ll jet across the world on special fashion shoots . . . and I’ll stay put, still at school, Nadine’s sad fat friend.
I feel as if this title is tattooed to my forehead as I go up to London with Nadine. I have to go with her because she
is
my friend. I’ve put almost as much thought into my appearance as Nadine has into hers. I’ve left my hair an untamed tangle, my face is belligerently bare, I’m wearing a huge checked shirt and black trousers and boots, and I’m carrying my sketchbook to try to show every single person at the
Spicy
place that
I
don’t want to be a model,
I
couldn’t care less about my appearance, I’m serious-minded, I’m
creative
. . . OK, OK, I’m talking crap, I know. And
they
know when we get to the special studio
Spicy
magazine has taken over for the day.
It is crowded out with a galaxy of gorgeous girls, thin as pins.
“Oh, God, look at them,” Nadine says. She shivers. “They all look like real fashion models already.”
“Well, so do you,” I say.
“Oh, Ellie,” says Nadine, and she squeezes my hand.
She’s clammy-cold, clinging tight like we’re little kids in Primary One on our first day at school.
“I wonder what we’re going to have to do?” she says. “If I have to stand up in front of all these girls I’m going to die. They all look so cool, as if they do this kind of thing every day.”
They do, too. They’re all standing around in little groups, some chatting, some smiling, some staring, looking everyone up and down, looking at Nadine, looking at me, raising their perfectly plucked eyebrows as if to say: Dear God, what is that squat ugly fat girl doing here?
I try to stare back. My face is burning.
“I’m desperate for a wee, Ellie. Where’s the ladies’?” Nadine asks.
It’s even worse inside the crowded ladies’ room. Girls crowd the mirror, applying glimmer eyeshadow and sparkle blusher and lip gloss so that their perfect oval faces are positively luminous in the fluorescent lighting. They tease their hair and hitch up their tiny jeans and smooth their weeny T-shirts with long manicured nails.
“Help, look at
my
nails,” Nadine wails. She clenches her fists to hide her little bitten stubs. “Oh, God, this is a waste of time, Ellie. Why did I ever open my big mouth to everyone at school? I don’t stand a chance. I must be mad.”
“Well, we don’t have to stay. We can just push off home again.”
Nadine looks at me like
I’m
mad. “I can’t give up now!”
“OK. Well. The very best of luck, Naddie,” I say, and I give her a quick hug.
“I’m so scared,” she whispers in my ear, hugging me back.
But she’s fine when it comes to the crunch. All us friends and relatives are told to sit at the back, minding the coats and bags, knowing our place in the dark. All the model-girl contenders are invited to come forward into the spotlit area. A bright bossy woman in black tells everyone what to do. She says she thinks everyone looks great and that they could
all
be a super
Spicy
cover girl. She wishes everyone luck. Then she gets them to do these funny warm-up exercises. Some of the girls blush and bump into each other first, losing their cool—but others leap into action, teeth gleaming, determined to show themselves off to their best advantage.
I’d planned to make sketches but instead I just gawp. Enviously. I stare at their long lithe limbs and their beautiful willowy bodies until my eyes water.
Now the bossy lady shows them how to walk like a model. They all have to prance forward, hips swinging, heads held high. Nadine catches my eye and goes a bit giggly, but then she puts her chin up and strides out, her lips parted in a perfect little smile. I put my thumbs up, trying to spur her on. She’s doing well. Maybe she’s not quite as swishy and sophisticated as some of the others but perhaps that’s good. They want someone with potential, not someone already polished. Nadine looks fresh and sweet. The bossy lady is looking in her direction.
Now it’s standing still and posing time. They take group shots of all the girls smiling at the camera, then looking up, sideways on, head tilted. They keep calling out to the girls. Look sassy, look sad, look happy—call that happy, come
on,
it’s happy-happy-happy time. My own mouth puckers in a silly little grin as all the girls bare their teeth. Some of the friends and relations really let rip. One terrible mum keeps shouting, “Go for it, Hayley! Big smile now. Look like you’re enjoying it. You look a million dollars, darling!”
It’s easy working out which one is Hayley. She’s the girl who’s purple with embarrassment, looking like she wants to kill her mother.
There’s a coffee break and then suddenly it’s the real thing. The girls are called out one by one in alphabetical order. They are videoed as they walk right round in a big circle and then stand in the spotlight in the center and pose while a stills photographer flashes away. Then each girl has to go to the mike and say who she is and add a sentence or two about herself.
Hayley’s surname is Acton, so she gets to go first. She makes a muck-up of it, tripping over her own feet as she walks in a circle, blinking like a trapped rabbit while she’s photographed. She stammers her name into the mike and then there’s a long silence while everyone closes their eyes and prays. Eventually she whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”
My shirt is sticking to me with embarrassment. The poor girl. Oh, God, I’m not going to be able to stand it if Nadine makes a fool of herself too. Hayley’s mother can’t stand it either. She’s rushed up to the bossy woman, insisting that it’s not fair her Hayley had to go first, she didn’t know what she was doing, all the others would have someone to copy (though who would wish to copy poor Hayley?). The bossy woman is kind and says Hayley can wait if she wants and have one more go right at the end. Hayley’s mother is thrilled. Hayley isn’t. She’s walking right out of the studio.
“Hayley! Hayley, come back! Don’t go, sweetheart! You can have another go, darling,” Mum yells, rushing after her.
I am glad I’m not Hayley, even though she’s much thinner than me. The girl who gets to go next is almost as nervous, practically running round the circle. She forgets about posing for her photos and is in the middle of announcing herself when the photographer starts flashing so she stops and blinks and gawps. This is awful, total public torture. I’m starting to feel almost sorry for them.
Almost. The next girl is blond and tall, very pretty, very skinny. She doesn’t lose it like the other two. She walks proudly all around, swinging her tiny hips, and then she stands and smiles, head back a little, eyes shining, turning this way and that as the photographer clicks. She says softly and sexily into the mike, “Hi, I’m Annabel. I’m fifteen and I like acting and singing and skiing—and reading
Spicy
magazine.” She smiles cheekily and then saunters off. Little Ms. Perfect.