Saturday so why is she still desperate to model for them? I go on about being fat and how I know it’s what you are that matters, not how you look, so why am I still desperately dieting?
“But you’re
not
fat, Ellie,” says Magda.
“And your diet’s driving
me
bonkers the way you drool whenever I eat a bar of chocolate, so God knows what it’s doing to you,” says Nadine.
“Hey! Thanks for your overwhelming sympathy and understanding,” I say. I’m sitting in the middle so I can elbow them both in the ribs. “Look, I’ve been Ms. Incredibly Supportive Friend to both of you. You could try being a bit sympathetic about
my
problem.”
“You haven’t
got
any problems, you nutcase,” says Magda, snapping back to life.
“That’s right, you’re just being completely and utterly loopy,” says Nadine. “You’ll end up like Zoë if you’re not careful.”
“All right, I can see Zoë’s really gone a bit too far. But . . . if I could just get to be
normal
size––”
“You
are
normal! For God’s sake, you keep acting like you’re a freak or something, total fat-lady-in-the-circus time,” says Magda. She grabs a hank of my frizzy hair and holds it against my chin. “You could be the Bearded Lady, easy-peasy. But fat? Forget it.”
“I
am
fat. I’m much much fatter than you two.”
“I bet we’re about the same weight,” says Magda. She says how much she weighs.
It’s only a few pounds less than me.
“Rubbish. You’re fibbing. You can’t weigh as much as that,” I say. “Or if you really do then it’s because your body’s different. Heavy bones. And big muscles from all your dancing.”
“You’re making me feel like a Russian shot-putter,” says Magda. “How much do you weigh, Nadine?”
Nadine says. It’s a
lot
less.
“See! Nadine’s much taller too,” I say. “I’m the squat tubby one.”
“You’re the deluded nutty one,” says Magda. “But we still love her to bits, don’t we, Nadine?”
“Our old Ellie-Belly,” says Nadine, and she starts tickling my tummy.
“Don’t! Get off! Stop it!” I shriek, as they both tickle me mercilessly.
I try to tickle them back and we roll down the steps, writhing and squealing.
Two Year Sevens scuttle past, looking as if they’ve stumbled on an orgy. That makes us laugh even harder. I feel so good that when Nadine produces a Twix bar I accept a bite happily. Two bites. Half the bar.
Maybe I’m going to stop dieting now. Maybe it’s mad to fuss about the way I look. It’s all so stupid, anyway. Magda looks like a movie star and yet it just gives all those slimy sluggy schoolboys the wrong idea about her. Nadine looks like a fashion model and yet she was just one of a huge crowd of thin pretty girls on Saturday.
Maybe it’s OK being me. Magda and Nadine like me. And Dan likes me too.
Dan.
What’s
happened
to Dan? He sent me a funny postcard last week—but no letter. He used to write practically every day. And phone. He came down to stay one weekend. But he hasn’t been back since.
I
did
tell him that he shouldn’t keep bobbing up like a jack-in-the-box and we’d have to wait to see each other at Christmas. He seems to have taken me at my word.
I ask Anna when we’re going to the cottage for Christmas.
“A couple of days before, I thought—just to get that awful cooking range prodded into action,” says Anna, sighing. “Oh, God, the thought of all those lists, and all the shopping, and the packing, and the unpacking, and then all of us shut up in that damp cottage for days––”
“I thought you
liked
going to Wales for the holidays.”
“Well. Yes. Of course I do. It’s just . . . I saw Sara again today, you know, my designer friend, and
she’s
spending Christmas in New York.” Anna sighs enviously. “I mean, I wouldn’t really want to swap with her, not seriously, but imagine wandering round great big luxurious shops like Bloomingdale’s and going up the Empire State Building on Christmas
“But you’re
not
fat, Ellie,” says Magda.
“And your diet’s driving
me
bonkers the way you drool whenever I eat a bar of chocolate, so God knows what it’s doing to you,” says Nadine.
“Hey! Thanks for your overwhelming sympathy and understanding,” I say. I’m sitting in the middle so I can elbow them both in the ribs. “Look, I’ve been Ms. Incredibly Supportive Friend to both of you. You could try being a bit sympathetic about
my
problem.”
“You haven’t
got
any problems, you nutcase,” says Magda, snapping back to life.
“That’s right, you’re just being completely and utterly loopy,” says Nadine. “You’ll end up like Zoë if you’re not careful.”
“All right, I can see Zoë’s really gone a bit too far. But . . . if I could just get to be
normal
size––”
“You
are
normal! For God’s sake, you keep acting like you’re a freak or something, total fat-lady-in-the-circus time,” says Magda. She grabs a hank of my frizzy hair and holds it against my chin. “You could be the Bearded Lady, easy-peasy. But fat? Forget it.”
“I
am
fat. I’m much much fatter than you two.”
“I bet we’re about the same weight,” says Magda. She says how much she weighs.
It’s only a few pounds less than me.
“Rubbish. You’re fibbing. You can’t weigh as much as that,” I say. “Or if you really do then it’s because your body’s different. Heavy bones. And big muscles from all your dancing.”
“You’re making me feel like a Russian shot-putter,” says Magda. “How much do you weigh, Nadine?”
Nadine says. It’s a
lot
less.
“See! Nadine’s much taller too,” I say. “I’m the squat tubby one.”
“You’re the deluded nutty one,” says Magda. “But we still love her to bits, don’t we, Nadine?”
“Our old Ellie-Belly,” says Nadine, and she starts tickling my tummy.
“Don’t! Get off! Stop it!” I shriek, as they both tickle me mercilessly.
I try to tickle them back and we roll down the steps, writhing and squealing.
Two Year Sevens scuttle past, looking as if they’ve stumbled on an orgy. That makes us laugh even harder. I feel so good that when Nadine produces a Twix bar I accept a bite happily. Two bites. Half the bar.
Maybe I’m going to stop dieting now. Maybe it’s mad to fuss about the way I look. It’s all so stupid, anyway. Magda looks like a movie star and yet it just gives all those slimy sluggy schoolboys the wrong idea about her. Nadine looks like a fashion model and yet she was just one of a huge crowd of thin pretty girls on Saturday.
Maybe it’s OK being me. Magda and Nadine like me. And Dan likes me too.
Dan.
What’s
happened
to Dan? He sent me a funny postcard last week—but no letter. He used to write practically every day. And phone. He came down to stay one weekend. But he hasn’t been back since.
I
did
tell him that he shouldn’t keep bobbing up like a jack-in-the-box and we’d have to wait to see each other at Christmas. He seems to have taken me at my word.
I ask Anna when we’re going to the cottage for Christmas.
“A couple of days before, I thought—just to get that awful cooking range prodded into action,” says Anna, sighing. “Oh, God, the thought of all those lists, and all the shopping, and the packing, and the unpacking, and then all of us shut up in that damp cottage for days––”
“I thought you
liked
going to Wales for the holidays.”
“Well. Yes. Of course I do. It’s just . . . I saw Sara again today, you know, my designer friend, and
she’s
spending Christmas in New York.” Anna sighs enviously. “I mean, I wouldn’t really want to swap with her, not seriously, but imagine wandering round great big luxurious shops like Bloomingdale’s and going up the Empire State Building on Christmas
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