Girls Under Pressure Read online

  “You ready for something to eat yet?” Dad says, proffering the crisp bowl.

  “No, thanks,” I say, turning my back.

  One crisp would be fatal. Then there’d be another and another until I’d munched the lot and licked round the bowl for the crumbs.

  The phone rings for ages at Dan’s house. Then one of his even geekier brothers answers. He starts waffling some nonsense about Dan being otherwise engaged. At last Dan comes to the phone himself.

  “Hi! It’s me.”

  “Hi,” says Dan.

  There is a little silence. I thought he’d act more thrilled. I’ve never phoned him up before, it’s always him phoning me.

  “What was your brother wittering on about?”

  “Oh, nothing. You know what he’s like.” Dan sounds awkward. “What are you phoning for, Ellie?”

  “Just to say hello.”

  “Right. Well. Hello.”

  I wait. There’s a long pause.

  “Well, can’t you say something else?” I say.

  “You’re not saying anything either.”

  I don’t usually have to. He’s the one who burbles nineteen to the dozen. I can’t normally get a word in edgeways. But the edges are wide open now.

  “What have you been up to?” I say limply.

  “Well, right now I’m watching the match on television.”

  “What, football? Are Manchester United playing?”

  “Rugby.”

  “What? Rugby? You hate rugby. Everyone hates rugby.”

  “I’ve got quite interested recently. It’s a great game actually.”

  There’s a distant roar at his end of the phone.

  “Oh, nuts. I’ve missed a try,” says Dan.

  “Don’t let me keep you then,” I say sharply, and I slam down the phone.

  great art girl

  I can’t sleep. I lie on my back and think f-o-o-d. If I breathe in deeply I can still smell the takeaway pizza they had for supper. Dad ate a good half of it. Eggs nibbled the topping and the crusty bits. Anna went without, saying she’d eaten a lot with her friend. And I said I still felt sick.

  I feel sick now. Sick with hunger. My tummy is like a geyser, gurgling endlessly. I’m so hungry it hurts. I groan as I toss and turn. I feel like a baby bird with its beak gaping, cheeping nonstop. Think cuckoo. Great big blobby baby cuckoo, twice as big as the other birds, far fatter than the frantic stepparent feeding it. That’s me, that’s Anna.

  I’m sick of her being so much skinnier than me. I’m sick of being Nadine and Magda’s fat dumpy friend. I’m sick of being fat. I’m sick. Think sick to stop yourself eating. I’ve got to lose so much weight, I’ve got to get thin, I’ve got to, I’ve got to. . . .

  I’m out of bed, running barefoot down the stairs, into the kitchen, where’s the pizza box? I thought there was a huge great slice left. Oh, God, did Anna dump it straight in the dustbin, no, here it is, oh, food, food, food!

  The pizza is cold and congealed but I don’t care. I bolt it down, barely stopping to chew, tearing off great chunks. I even eat the bits that Eggs has licked. I run my finger round the box. I get a carton of milk from the fridge and wash it all down so quickly that milk dribbles down my nightie but I’m still not satisfied. I feel hungrier than ever.

  I go to the bread bin and make myself a jam sandwich, then another, then another, then a spoonful of jam by itself, more, more. . . . Now, what else is there? Frosties! I eat them straight out of the packet, scooping them up in my hand, and there’s raisins too, I’m cramming so many into my mouth I nearly choke. I cough and a disgusting slurp of raisins dribbles down my chin. I catch sight of myself in the shiny kettle and I can’t believe what I look like. Total crazy woman. Oh, God, what am I doing? What have I eaten? I can feel the food going down into my stomach. It’s starting to hurt. What am I going to do?

  I run to the downstairs loo by the back door. I crouch over the toilet. I try to make myself sick. I heave and heave but I can’t do it. I shove a finger in my mouth. It’s horrible, oh, my stomach, two fingers, I’ve got to, I’ve got to . . . oh . . . oooooh . . .

  I am so sick. So horribly revoltingly disgustingly sick, slowly—again and again and again. I have to hang on to the edge of the toilet to stop myself falling. Tears stream down my face, sweat runs down my back. I pull the chain and then try to get up, the room spinning round me. My throat burns and my mouth stays sour no matter how many times I swill it with water.

  “Ellie?” It’s Anna in her blue pajamas, her pageboy hair ruffled, so she only looks about my age. “Oh, you poor thing. Have you been very sick?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Come here, let’s get you sorted out.” She puts the lid down on the loo and makes me sit on it. Then she runs the towel under the tap and gently mops my face and hair as if I was Eggs. I lean against her weakly and she puts her arm around me.

  This is weird. Anna and I are acting like a regular mother and daughter. We never ever act like this. I made it quite plain right from the start when she came to live with us that I didn’t want another mum. I had a mum, even if she was dead. For years I wouldn’t let Anna near me. We didn’t exactly fight—we were just like two strangers forced to live under the same roof. Just recently we’ve started to get a bit closer. We go shopping together or we watch a video or we flick through a glossy magazine but it’s just like sisters. Big sister, little sister. Well. I’m bigger than Anna. Not taller. Fatter. It’s so unfair. Why do I have to be fatter than everyone?

  Tears are still running down my cheeks.

  “Hey,” says Anna gently, wiping my eyes. “Do you feel really terrible, Ellie?”

  “Yes,” I say mournfully.

  “Have you got a bad tummyache? Headache?” Anna puts her hand on my forehead. “I wonder if you’ve got a temperature. Maybe I should call the doctor?”

  “No! No, I’m OK. I was just sick, that’s all. Probably just something I ate!”

  “You’re still ever so white. And you’re shivering.” Anna leads me into the kitchen and gets her old denim jacket that’s hanging on the back door. “Here.” She wraps it round me and sits me down at the kitchen table. “Do you want a drink of water?”

  I sip it delicately.

  “Your dad said you’ve been feeling lousy all day, not eating anything.” Anna sighs. “I wish I could say the same for him. Look at the state of the kitchen! He must have had a secret midnight feast—and then he moans because his jeans won’t do up!”

  “Why does he still try to squeeze himself into those jeans anyway?” I say, feeling guilty that Dad’s getting the blame.

  “He just won’t admit that he’s too fat,” says Anna, sticking everything back in the food cupboard.

  “I’m even fatter,” I say, the glass clinking against my teeth.

  “What? Don’t be silly,” says Anna.

  “I am. And I didn’t even realize. I mean, I knew it, but it didn’t really bug me. But now . . .”

  “Oh, Ellie. You’re not fat. You’re just . . . rounded. It suits you. It’s the way you’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t want to be fat, I want to be thin. As thin as you.”

  “I’m not thin,” says Anna, though she looks like a little pin person in her schoolboy pajamas. “I wore my old black leather trousers today because they’re about the only sexy garment I’ve got nowadays and I was so desperate not to look dull and mumsy and suburban, but the zip’s so tight now I could barely breathe. It was cutting into my stomach all through lunch. Which was not a success. Oh, God, Ellie, this friend of mine, Sara, she looks incredible. She’s got this fantastic new hairstyle, all blond highlights, and the shoes she was wearing, really high, and the way she walked in them! Every man in the restaurant was staring at her.”

  “Yes, but you don’t want to look like some blond bimbo,” I say.

  “But she’s not a bimbo, she’s the top designer for this new fashion chain. They’re even going to be bringing out her own label, Sara Star. She showed me
the logo, two big Ss in shocking pink. Oh, Ellie, she’s really made it big now. She kept politely asking me what I’m doing and I had to say I haven’t even got a job at the moment.”

  “You’ve got Eggs to look after.”

  “Yes, but it’s not like he’s a baby.”

  “And Dad.”

  “OK, he is a baby,” says Anna, smiling at last. “But even so . . . I just feel . . . Anyway, I’m going to try even harder to find some work, even if it’s just part-time. And I’m going to do something with my stupid hair. And I’m going to go on a diet.”

  “I’m going on a diet too,” I say.

  “Oh, Ellie. Look, you’re still a growing girl.”

  “Exactly. Growing fatter and fatter.”

  “Well, we’ll see when you’re better. I do hope you haven’t got gastric flu. It sounded as if you were being so terribly sick.”

  “I’m fine now. Really. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Ellie? You’re acting sort of funny.” Anna looks at me worriedly. “You would tell me if . . . if there was anything really wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, no. I can’t tell Anna my throat is raw and my stomach still heaving because I’ve eaten half the food in the cupboard and then practically clawed it out of my insides with my own hand. What sort of mad revolting loony would she take me for?

  I go back to bed and pull the covers right over my head. I remember this game I played when I was little, after my mum died. I’d kid myself that when it was morning I’d wake up in a different parallel life and Mum would be sitting on the end of the bed smiling at me. It was years before I gave up on that game. But now I catch myself playing a new version. No Mum. No Ellie, either. Not the old one. I’ll wake up and I’ll get out of bed and pull off my nightie and then I’ll peel off all my extra pounds too and there I’ll be, new little skinny Ellie.

  The old huge fat Ellie sleeps late and slouches to the bathroom in the morning. I can smell faint eggy toasty smells. Oh, God. I hope they’ve all finished eating when I come down.

  Dad is in his third-coffee-and-delve-into-the- biscuit-tin stage. Eggs is busy making some kind of collage with macaroni and what’s left of the raisins. I can’t look at them without feeling sick.

  “Toast, Ellie?” says Anna.

  “No, thanks. Just coffee. Black,” I say quickly.

  “Look at my lovely picture, Ellie, look,” says Eggs.

  “You still not well, chum? Anna said you were horribly sick in the night,” says Dad.

  “I’m OK. I just don’t fancy anything to eat yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mmm. Maybe I’ll go back to bed in a bit, OK?” It’ll be easier avoiding food upstairs. And if I can sleep I won’t be feeling so starving hungry all the time.

  “Well, we were planning on eating out at lunchtime and then maybe having a little jaunt somewhere,” says Dad.

  “To see some pictures, Dad says,” says Eggs. “Look at my picture, Ellie. See what it is?”

  “Yes, macaroni and raisins, very fetching,” I say. “You lot go out. That’s fine with me. I’ll just flop around.”

  “But I haven’t got any food in for your lunch, Ellie,” says Anna. “I missed out on the big Saturday shop because I was seeing Sara.”

  “I’ll cook myself some eggs or something. It’s OK,” I say.

  “It’s a lady, Ellie, can’t you see? The macaroni is all her curls, and the raisins are her eyes and her nose and her smiley mouth, see.”

  “Well, she’s got a dirty nose and very black teeth and she’s having a seriously bad hair day,” I say.

  “Don’t be mean to him,” says Dad, giving me a little nudge. “Come out with us, eh? You’ll feel better for a bit of fresh air.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Nadine rings around twelve, pained that I haven’t phoned her back. She wants to come round this afternoon and she’s still burbling about her hair and her makeup and her clothes in case she gets selected as a Spicy cover girl.

  “Nadine! Look, wait till they get in touch with you, right?” I’m not quite bitchy enough to add “Maybe they won’t” but I imply it.

  “I want to be prepared, Ellie. Please can I come round?” Nadine lowers her voice. “My gran and granddad are here and this Happy Families lark is getting way too heavy for me. They’re all gathered round Natasha just watching her, as if she’s a little television set or something, and my God, is she performing with her volume turned right up.”

  “Oh, Nad,” I say, weakening. “Look, I don’t know what help I can be. I’m no expert when it comes to makeup and stuff. Why don’t you go and see Magda?”

  I expect Nadine to say that she and I are best friends from way back and that she wants to plan it all with me. Then I’ll swallow the last sour jealousy pill and ask her over and fuss round her like a real friend. I’ll try terribly hard not to mind that she’s got serious model-girl potential and I’m just her fat freaky friend.

  “Oh, I’ve tried Magda. She’s so great with makeup. I thought she’d maybe trim my hair for me too. But she’s going out with this guy she met at the Soda Fountain. Not the one she really fancied, this is his friend—but life’s like that. Anyway, I can come over, Ellie, can’t I? Straight after lunch?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Sorry, Nadine. We’re going out for lunch, and then on up to town somewhere,” I say. “See you tomorrow at school. Bye.”

  “You’re coming,” Dad calls from the kitchen. “Great.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t listen to my phone calls. They’re private,” I say. “And I’m not really coming. I just said that to get out of seeing Nadine.”

  “Of course you’re coming,” says Dad. “And what’s up with you and Nadine? I thought you two girls were practically joined at the hip. Have you broken friends?”

  “Of course not. You make us sound like little kids,” I say haughtily.

  “Just don’t break friends with Magda too. She’s a really cracking little girl,” says Dad, with a touch too much enthusiasm.

  “Stop bugging Ellie,” says Anna sharply. “And Magda’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  So I end up going out with Anna and Dad and Eggs to this tea shop in Clapham. It’s a great place, actually, with lovely deep blue-and-pink decor and cushioned chairs and round glass-topped tables, and all sorts of interesting people hang out there, students, actors, huge crowds of friends or romantic couples . . . but it’s not the place to go with your parents. I feel a total idiot, convinced everyone is staring at this sad fat girl who has no social life of her own. And the menu is agony. I read my way through all the delicious choices twice over: bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich; smoked salmon and scrambled eggs; bagels; scones with jam and cream; cheesecake; banoffi pie; sticky toffee pudding . . .

  “Just a black coffee, please.”

  “Isn’t there anything you fancy, Ellie?” Dad says worriedly. “What about chocolate fudge cake? I thought that was your favorite.”

  Oh, Dad, they’re all my favorites. I could easily eat my way through the entire menu. I’m almost crying with hunger as I look at everyone’s piled plates.

  “She’s still feeling a bit queasy,” says Anna. “But you’ll have to eat something, Ellie, or you’ll pass out.”

  I end up agreeing to a plate of scrambled eggs. Eggs aren’t too fattening, are they? Though they come with two rounds of golden toast glistening with butter. I tell myself I’ll just toy with a forkful of egg—but within five minutes my plate looks as if it’s licked clean.

  “There! Great, you’ve obviously got your appetite back,” Dad says happily. “So how about a wicked cake, too?”

  “Yes, I want cake, Dad,” says Eggs, although he has only nibbled his prawn sandwich. He pulls out every prawn and puts them in a circle on his plate.

  “Eat them up, Eggs,” says Anna.

  “They don’t want to be eaten! They want to have a swim round my plate, don’t you, little pink pra
wnies?” says Eggs. He’s playing up to his audience in sickening fashion.

  “All those little prawns want to swim in your tummy, Eggs,” says Dad. “Open your mouth and I’ll make them dive in.”

  “Oh, please. He’s not a baby,” I say through my teeth.

  I have to sit through this entire performance and then watch while Eggs is rewarded with a strawberry mountain cake. He eats the strawberries and leaves the mountain of cream after one or two token licks. I want to snatch it up and gobble it down. I have to clench my fist to stop my hand reaching out. I think of myself as a mountain with little strawberry blobs in appropriate places and manage to resist.

  Anna sips her coffee without obvious envy. Dad wolfs down a whacking great slice of banana cake with no inhibition whatsoever. His shirt buttons are straining, his belly bulging over the top of his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care. And it’s so unfair, it’s different for men—women still seem to fancy my fat old dad. The pretty waitress in her tiny skirt has a happy little chat with him as he pays the bill. She’s so skinny. Her skimpy top only just reaches her waist and as she moves you can see her beautiful flat tummy. How does she work here surrounded by all this super food and not eat?

  Oh, God, I’m so hungry. The scrambled eggs and toast have made me even hungrier. And it gets worse when we park the car near Trafalgar Square and go in the National Gallery. I don’t mind art galleries but they always make me starving hungry, especially after the first fifteen minutes when I’m starting to get bored.

  I get bored very quickly today. Eggs is being ultra-exasperating, asking endless idiotic questions.

  “Who is that funny little baby?”

  “Why does that pretty lady in blue have that gold plate round her head?”

  “I can see the donkey and the cow but why don’t they have any pigs and chickens on their farm?”

  All the people in the gallery smile at him. Dad explains, going into great long rigmaroles although Eggs isn’t really listening. Anna pats him on the head and picks him up to show him special things.

  I pretend I’m going round the gallery by myself. The paintings start to soothe me. I stand for ages in front of a serious pale woman in a sumptuous green velvet dress sitting on the floor engrossed in a book. I feel as if I’m being sucked right into the painting . . . but then I’m dragged off to another part of the gallery and Eggs starts his little act again.