I am 12
‘While I’m away, try to eat more fruit and less bread.’
‘OK.’
‘You need to lose weight.’
‘OK.’
‘Your hair is a mess, too. You look like a tramp.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re not like your sister, you aren’t pretty. You are clever, but that doesn’t mean you should look like tramp. You need to lose weight and look after your hair. It’s not hard.’
‘OK.’
‘If you eat more fruit your skin will look better as well. All those spots will go away.’
‘OK.’
‘You won’t always be studying. One day, when you have become a doctor, you can take the time off to get married and have children. But that doesn’t mean you have to look like you do until then. How you look is important if you want to go to a good university. No one will take you in if you look like a tramp.’
‘Oh. OK.’
‘Remember, Saffron, when I come back in three weeks, I want to see you have lost weight. Less bread and more fruit.’
‘OK.’
‘Good girl.’
I know that weighing myself every morning is setting myself up for a day of disappointment, uncertainty or failure; that my life is dictated by the scales. But I can’t stop. Well, I can, I really can. And I do. I can go for days without getting on them, without needing to know, but then I’ll get curious, I’ll need to confirm that I’m all right. That I haven’t become out of control, that my weight isn’t rocketing or sneakily creeping upwards.
I am 14
‘Look at her, who’d want to go near that?’
‘She’s my friend. You have to be nice to her.’
‘What, like she’s nice to all those pies?’
‘She can’t help that. It’s only puppy fat. Last year she was really skinny for a few months but it came back. My mum says it’s puppy fat. She’ll be really thin and gorgeous again one day, you’ll see.’
‘That ain’t puppy fat, that’s a whole kennel of the stuff.’
‘That’s really nasty.’
‘It’s only nasty if it ain’t true. My older brother said with a name like Saffron you expect her to be all shapely and exotic, not like that.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her.’
‘It ain’t fair. Why haven’t you got any other good-looking, normal friends? None of my mates would touch her with a barge pole so we can’t hang around with them.’
‘If you want to keep hanging around with me, you’d better start being nicer to her.’
‘Yeah, all right, calm down. I suppose she has got big knockers. Shame about the rest of her.’
‘What have I just said?’
‘All right, all right, all right. I’ll be nice to her.’
‘Good, cos she’s really nice.’
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘I do wish she hadn’t put on the weight again, though. It’s really embarrassing sometimes when she’s trying on a size fourteen and the button won’t close. She gets really upset about it and I want to say to her it’s not my fault you’re so fat again, is it … Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.’
‘Oi, shhhh, I think I just saw her over there.’
‘What? Where? No. It can’t be her. She’d never come out on her own. Where?’
‘There. Oh … The person’s gone. I could have sworn it was her.’
‘God, I hope it wasn’t her. The film’s about to start anyway. But don’t ever tell her I said all that. She’s a really nice person. She can’t help it if she’s a bit on the big side.’
It’s not like I have a huge problem. Or even a problem. I’ll be good for days and days. I’ll be on the salads, I’ll be on the juice, I’ll be drinking lots of water. I’ll even be able to cook and bake for the children but then, I’ll find myself alone. I will look around and see all I have is what is inside me. All I can feel is what lives at my very centre. And it will start to unravel itself, it will start to reveal itself to me and the pain will be too much. Too much for me to handle, it will grow and expand as it uncurls itself and I know that soon, it will overwhelm me. I won’t be able to function because what is inside – all the voices, all the reminders of the ways in which I am not good enough – will drown me.
I am 16
‘My goodness, you’re a big girl, aren’t you? I’m not sure I’ve got any uniforms that big. I might have to order some in. What size are your normal clothes?’
‘Fourteen-to-sixteen on top, twelve-to-fourteen on the bottom.’
‘I don’t know where you’ve been shopping, but I’d say you’re more like eighteen-to-twenty, love. I’ll have to see what I’ve got in.’
‘This one fits.’
‘I can’t believe it! You know, it’s your boobs, love. They make you look huge. I never thought in a million years you’d fit into a sixteen. Goes to show you can’t tell, doesn’t it? ’
At the same time as I am being submerged by the voices of not being good enough, that packet of crisps will start to seem like the answer to my problems. It’ll be the only way to deal with what hurts inside, my only chance to silence the agony at the centre of my being, where all the bad things live, where all the distant voices talk the loudest. And then I can’t stop. When it’s stuffed away, when it doesn’t touch the sides going down, when a little bit of the edge of how I feel inside is shaved away because one of the voices is silenced, I’ll want more. I’ll want more of the peace; to have the agony blunted. I’ll need more. I’ll take whatever I can, eat whatever I can lay my hands on. In front of the fridge with the door open, in front of the pantry with the door swung wide as I search for anything delectable, palatable, even vaguely edible. I will stuff it down until the noise, the torment, the words are silenced.
I am 19
‘I want to be good enough. I don’t understand why I’m not good enough.’
‘You are good enough.’
‘I tried really hard, I did really well in all my subjects and I got into this university that so many other people didn’t. And I’m still not good enough. I’m just not enough. I’m not pretty enough. I don’t fit in.’
‘You do. People really like you.’
‘But they don’t, not really. Everyone in halls has paired off into mates and they often don’t remember I’m around to ask if I want to go to the bar or to a nightclub. No one in my classes seems to want to hang out with me away from the lectures. I’m just a nobody that no one ever notices. It’s cos I’m not pretty, I’m not beautiful, I’m not special. No one wants to hang out with the fat one with bad skin and bad hair, and nothing to talk about. I’m always going to be the fat, clever one, aren’t I?’
‘None of this is true, you know, Saffron. You are nice, you are special, there are loads of people out there who think you’re beautiful. Look at yourself in this mirror, really look, and you’ll see that you are so pretty, and all the nice things about you shine through.’
‘I am looking at myself in this mirror and I can’t do that any more. I can’t look at me like this any more. I’m not going to listen to you, any more, either. You don’t tell me the truth. You only see what you want to see. You don’t see the real me. I have to be better. I have to look better and be better than this.’
‘It won’t change anything.’
‘It will. People will like me, they’ll notice me, they’ll want to be my friend. I’m going to be better than this. I’m going to be perfect and then everything will be better. Life will be better.’
‘It’s not that simple, Saffron, it really isn’t.’
‘When I was ill with pneumonia last year and I lost all that weight, everyone noticed me. They all kept talking to me and commenting on how much weight I’d lost. Everyone was impressed. And when I started to put it back on again, everyone stopped noticing me.’
‘That’s cos everyone noticed you weren’t around and missed you.’
‘If they missed me, they’d invite me to meet up in the holidays,
they’d want to hang out with me. No one does.’
‘Give people a chance.’
‘I’m not going to listen to you any more. I told you. You can speak to me all you want, but I’m going to ignore you. Because I know once I’m thin again, everything is going to get better. It really will.’
Afterwards is the terror. The fear of what I’ve done, the horror of how out of control I was – the unthinking, machine-like way I have torn through my carefully ordered kitchen and filled myself to this uncomfortable point with hideous, high-fat, high-calorie food. And the terrors of that, of those out-of-control moments, replace the silence inside. They become louder, more physical, sitting there, festering away, and I know I can’t keep it inside. I can’t live with all of that inside me, I need to escape, to remove it as soon as possible. After that comes relief, comes the emptiness, when there is nothing inside to hurt me, nothing inside to weigh me down, nothing to make me feel as worthless as I know I am.
I am 25
‘What were you doing in the toilet just now, Ffrony?’
‘Erm, what do you think?’
‘I know what you were doing.’
‘So why ask?’
‘I want you to promise me you won’t do it again.’
‘You want me to promise that I won’t go for a wee again? Sorry, but it’s a biological imperative.’
‘I want you to promise you won’t make yourself sick again.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I heard you. I’ve heard you before. And it all makes sense to me now. I was so confused why you wouldn’t have any dates in the beginning that involved food. I didn’t understand why whenever I invited you over for dinner you’d always end up seducing me instead of letting me cook for you. Why you always disappear at the end of meals if I manage to convince you to go to a restaurant. I want you to promise me.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t lie to me. I don’t like liars. Please promise me you won’t make yourself sick again and that you’ll stop starving yourself. Look, we’ll get you whatever type of help you need. Whatever it costs. I’ve got money saved up, I don’t care what it costs, I’ll pay whatever it takes to help you. But please, don’t do that to yourself again. Promise me you won’t do it again.’
‘Oh, Joel, I can’t promise you and not lie to you. It’s not that simple. I wish it was, but it’s not that simple. But I’ll try, OK? I’ll do my very best and you won’t have to worry about me ever again.’
I didn’t do it for years and years. I don’t even do it all the time now. Only sometimes. That doesn’t make it what Fynn said. It’s an outlet, not a way of life. It doesn’t mean I need a label on me like he said. Like anyone else would if they knew the truth. I’m not that person. I simply need release sometimes.
I am 26
‘Baby, I’m really scared. I’m terrified about whether I can do this. I want you so much and I’m scared what I might do. But then, I know I couldn’t ever hurt you. So I’m going to eat every meal I have to, I’m going to keep every calorie I need in because I know I need to nourish you. I’m going to do this. For you, for me. I’m still scared, but I’m going to do it anyway. And you, you concentrate on getting bigger and getting born. I’m going to do this. We’re going to do this. OK? We’re a team.’
After that day, I’ve needed that release a bit more. I’ve needed that control over who I am and the world that is my body. I had it for a while with Fynn, but that was becoming too complicated, so I stopped. And I went back to what I knew. But that doesn’t mean anything. And it doesn’t make me what Fynn said.
*
‘You’re very quiet this evening, Saffy,’ Ray, Imogen’s second husband, says. I glance up from my glass of wine and our gazes collide.
He’s right, I’ve barely said a word since we were led into the large, pristine living room for drinks. I’m worried now. It’s not so bad in a restaurant, where you can pick at different things, where you can find the food poor and inedible, where no one really notices if you don’t ‘fill your boots’ as Joel used to say when I first met him. And, if it’s one of those restaurants where the food is great, where they cook things just right, and the cutlery and crockery are clean, and you’ve been good for days so you can visit, they also have toilets. You can go and take care of yourself without anyone you’re with ever having to know.
In someone’s house, it’s rude not to eat, it’s noticed if you disappear to the toilet for long periods of time. It’s not easy to control yourself, to purge yourself of the unknown fats, and carbohydrates, and additives and calories that have gone into that meal. In someone’s house you are completely, frighteningly, out of control.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a few things on my mind.’
Lewis bristles beside me, not much, only enough for me to notice. He thinks it’s him, that I’m still hung up on the fact I’m out with him.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Ray says. ‘Anything we can help with?’ His arm is casually slung over the back of the sofa he sits on and every now and again he reaches down to affectionately caress Imogen’s bare shoulder.
A lump surfaces in my throat, a little kick is delivered to the centre of my chest. I remember what it felt like to be like that with someone. To touch each other, just because. I glance away from them, seek my fortune in my glass of rosé. ‘No, you can’t help, not unless you know anyone who’ll take in a sixty-something-old woman who’ll be trying to escape at every turn and who is a menace to any men over the age of … I was going to say fifty-five, but to be honest, anyone over forty-five is fair game as far as she’s concerned.’
‘Jo– I mean, your aunt is living with you now?’ Imogen says, a note of disapproval in her tone. She’s always advising me to not make rash decisions; to remember that I am bereaved and that will colour, shape and influence any choices I make. I haven’t run this past her, haven’t talked it through and looked at it from every angle with her, and she is not impressed.
‘Yes, Aunty Betty has moved in. It’s not as bad as I’m making out, she’s actually quite fun and the chil—’ It seems wrong to call Phoebe that. She’ll always be my child, but when she is sitting a couple of miles away trying to make adult decisions with a child’s brain, it seems wrong to call her a child. ‘Phoebe and Zane love having her around. She dotes on them. She dotes on me in her own way, I just worry.’
‘That’s a big decision,’ Imogen says gently, sounding more patronising than concerned – for the first time I can remember, since that day, it’s a sharp nail down my blackboard of irritation.
‘What are we having for dinner?’ Lewis cuts in, helpfully. As a widower he’s probably had this, he’ll have experienced people telling him how he should be careful, what he should be feeling, when he should be moving on because he is bereaved. He’s probably been patronised within an inch of his life. ‘It smells divine.’
‘Oh yes! I almost forgot about that!’ Imogen is on her feet. ‘Go on through to the dining room, dinner will be served shortly.’
*
She’s used butter, I can smell it, I can see the way it’s beginning to congeal, a slightly solidified second skin, on top of the whole baby carrots and roasted new potatoes. Even olive oil wouldn’t have been as bad. It’s bad in terms of fat content and calories, but it’s not high in saturated fat. She’s used all-butter shortcrust pastry for the top of the chicken pie, but it’s shop-bought pastry, so I can’t know what’s in it. Some brands have more fat than others, some brands add preservatives if it’s not been frozen. She’s probably used cream in her white sauce, too. Probably non-organic chicken because she’s only fanatical about organic produce when it comes to her children.
‘This is lovely,’ Lewis says. Even though I don’t know him that well, I know he’s lying. It might look nice, it might smell nice but I can guarantee it does not taste nice – because Imogen, for all her attributes, has no love or respect for food. She throws things together and arranges them nicely on beautiful plates
and hopes for the best. She told me that herself. Usually, she buys it all ready-made, heats it up and serves it. Tonight, she must really be trying to matchmake between Lewis and me if she’s tried to cook.
Imogen beams at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Lewis, I’m impressed with anyone who can teach teenagers in this day and age,’ Ray says. They’re a good-looking couple, Imogen and Ray. He’s only slightly taller than her, slender because he likes to take care of himself with three visits to the gym a week. He has flawless skin, strong features, perfect teeth (of course, being a dentist). Unfortunately, which is why I avoid lingering in their house as much as possible, he’s more than partial to the odd diatribe. In the same way most people ask if you’ve watched anything good on telly recently to fill a gap, he’ll start a rant about undesirables in society and won’t stop until his audience walk away or agree with him.
Lewis doesn’t know this. He thinks Ray’s comment about teenagers is innocuous and so replies: ‘A lot of people say and think that, but they’re not so bad. In fact, one of the most rewarding things about doing my job is when you connect with a student and you know they’re on their way to doing something with their lives. It doesn’t happen with every student and, granted, some of them can be trying, but it’s like any job – you take the rough with the smooth.’
‘You sound so passionate,’ Imogen swoons. ‘I would have given anything to have had a teacher like you when I was at school.’
‘You probably did have one,’ he says, ‘but it’s an unfortunate fact that if you weren’t trouble, those teachers probably didn’t need to focus on you. We tend to notice and try to correct the squeaky wheel.’
I cut into my chicken pie and the white filling oozes out onto my plate, stretching itself as it heads towards the potatoes, turning my stomach as it moves. She didn’t follow the recipe, there are no herbs, no black pepper, but there’ll be a tonne of salt. Slowly, precisely, I swirl the tip of my fork through the sauce, moving it towards a cube of chicken. The fork goes into the chicken after I press hard on the handle and I know it’s over-cooked and tough – she cut the pieces too small and cooked it for too long. I have to eat this. It’ll upset her if I don’t.