by Lucy Coleman
‘Okay – and I quote: “Seriously??? She needs a stylist… Poor Paul.” Then someone named CutieSue: “Another clinger-on. Book sales must be down lol!” Even the guys, MDR53 says: “Dude, what’s happening – is this a joke? Sizeable ass going on there.” And this! Pussykins1982: “Who do you think you are, lady? One burger too many in that dress.” There are whole threads, laughing and joking over the footage of me getting my coat caught in that revolving door! Someone has even posted a video clip of it on a continual loop set to music.’ I’d gasped, as my lungs ran out of air and I began to hyperventilate.
The clip made it look like I was simply too wide to get through the doorway because of the angle. The reality was that the hem of my coat jammed between the inner and outer revolving walls and the mechanism ground to a halt. With five paparazzi snapping away the other side of the glass, and my face getting redder by the moment as I tugged and tugged, it wasn’t a pretty sight.
Mel had been speechless and all she could do was to try and calm me down, saying eventually the haters would tire and I’d become old news.
I got it. Paul was a heartthrob; meltingly gorgeous and he only had to roll out of bed in the morning, grab a wrinkled T-shirt off the floor and he looked amazing. Even better when he forgot to shave, which he often did because he knew it made women’s jaws drop. It’s too easy for men, isn’t it?
Me? Well, I kept up my daily exercise regime to convince myself I was on the right track. But, once more, my cupboard was brimming over with the very things I knew I shouldn’t be eating.
I was also back and forth to the beauty salon waxing bits of me I hadn’t glanced at in a long while and wearing the weirdest nail combos going. Blingy bits aren’t really me and it was an utter nightmare typing, letting alone pulling up my leggings. But I felt the need to make myself better in some way to justify Paul’s attention. The irony was that he didn’t seem aware of the agonies I was going through. He seemed to like me the way I was, but I didn’t like me the way I was and neither did the haters, or the press.
I felt a little like Cinderella. The excitement of being a part of Paul’s life was rather like going to a big party you’ve been looking forward to for ages. As the night draws to a close, though, you simply want to crawl under the duvet and sleep for hours and hours. I ran out of steam. The negativity overwhelmed me and I stopped trying. In fact, I did the reverse. It wasn’t one slice of cake, it was the whole cake and it showed. Quickly I gained back the stone in weight that I’d lost and added another eight pounds to that. My daily jog was now a slow walk.
Paul grew concerned about the backlash and the changes he could see in me. Then his manager became involved. He tried talking me out of going to one of Paul’s promotional events because, clearly, I wasn’t feeling very happy with myself. I was devastated. I ended up having a mini meltdown when I decided to go anyway, but later found I could no longer get into the dress I’d bought expressly for the event. And that was even yanking on an industrial set of Spanx. I’d gone from a size twelve to a size sixteen virtually overnight. Or so it seemed.
I was growing tired of trying to prove I was… what, suitable girlfriend material? That I could look glamorous enough to justify being in his life? My thoughts went beyond shallow. Beyond any level-headed person’s thought processes. And, yes, I am ashamed to admit that I fell into that pit for a while. The negativity coming at me from all sides, though, began to brainwash me.
When we eventually split up, his actual words chilled my heart like an icy blast from the arctic.
‘It’s no longer fun, Brie, and my agent says this isn’t doing me any favours. Image is everything these days. It goes with the job, as they say and you either live up to that, or you walk away. You’re a serious little thing, aren’t you? You really buy into this love stuff you write, but from what I’ve seen that’s a rather naïve way of handling relationships. I’m building a brand and the woman in my life is just another piece of that.’
I spent my thirty-first birthday drowning my sorrows in Prosecco and eating the contents of a box of Thornton’s chocolates.
Unfortunately, the press didn’t instantly let up. Oh no! Because then people wanted to know why our relationship had gone south and the speculation fuelled the trolls once more; that ardent legion of angry female fans who never thought I was good enough for him in the first place. And yes, I was well aware of some of the glamorous women he’d been linked to in the past, although I didn’t believe he’d actually dated all of them.
But for a while there, he made me feel special enough not to worry about the hype going on around us. I did let my hair down and I did have a good time. But the next day I knew there’d be a snap of me with one eye half-shut as if I was drunk, when I wasn’t, or with my skirt having ridden up far enough to show my – and I quote – generously proportioned thighs. I even came off Twitter after the name calling and sheer vindictiveness shocked me to the core. I’d constantly dissolve into tears and Mel would sit there, trying to reassure me that decent people would be horrified, too.
‘Why do you keep reading them, Brie? Pass it over. I’ll block and report every single one of them. Look, some are already disappearing, so other people are complaining on your behalf.’
One of the most vociferous was @PaulTILoveUBabe.
What a joke! This is a PR stunt… never heard of her before. Paul marry me! At least I look in the mirror before I leave the house.
One morning I opened the door to the postman, who asked me if I knew my car had been trashed. A fan had decided to scratch Paul’s name in twelve inch high letters, alongside a broken heart, on the bonnet with a key. Just in case I needed a permanent reminder that he was never truly in love with me, I suppose. Although, admittedly, I was too busy worrying about not letting him down and looking the part to listen to what my own heart was telling me at the time.
Since then my morale has taken a gradual downwards slide, despite the ironic fact that my book sales are rapidly climbing. But suddenly everything seems to be gathering speed. I’m a passenger on a train that is out of control. It’s only a matter of time before my entire world comes crashing down around me because I can no longer function.
I was made to look foolish to the world at large. And now my fear is that real, heart-stopping romance only truly exists on the big screen, or in the haunting lyrics of a love song. Absolutely nothing in my life so far has prepared me for that. Even Valentine’s Day is no longer the little thrill it was after what I witnessed this year. I was queuing for some flowers for Mum – she spent one of those precious occasions in labour with me, so it’s something I do every year. The guy in front of me was picking up a dozen red roses. When he handed over his credit card and saw the amount appear on the screen, he gasped.
‘Are you sure I’m only paying for a dozen?’ His voice was full of disbelief.
‘Yes, sir. One dozen red roses.’
‘I don’t know who invented this Valentine’s Day lark, but I bet it was someone who was going to be raking in the cash. It wouldn’t be so bad, but when you take in the cost of an expensive meal out and the taxi there and back, it’s ludicrous. I hope she bloody well appreciates it. Last year’s girlfriend didn’t seem overly impressed. Her previous boyfriend, she took delight in telling me, took her away for a spa weekend!’
His eyes had flickered over me at that point and instantly dismissed me, as if I was invisible. He was shaking his head as he slid the card back into his wallet, leaving the sales girl unmoved. I realised then that she had probably heard it what must feel like a million times over. Even before he was an arm’s length away she was greeting me with a smiley face, eager to ring up another sale. No doubt she was counting down the hours until it was time to shut up shop for the day. Florist’s shops aren’t heated and it was bitingly cold. It had been a grim day all round.
*
Dringggg. Dringgg. Dringgg.
The shrill ring of the doorbell makes my heart almost leap out of my chest. It must be a parcel because r
inging three times is unnecessarily insistent. Delivery drivers these days need to zip around and I always feel guilty if I can’t instantly fling open the front door, because every second counts. A glance at the bedside clock tells me it’s only just after eight. But I do have a dozen sentences on the page in front of me that I haven’t yet deleted, so I haven’t totally wasted the last two hours.
Reluctantly, I push back the duvet cover and rush downstairs, feeling guilty that I’m still in bed and so far away from the door. It doesn’t help that I seem to have developed this unstoppable urge to buy things online. I’m waiting for a tempered glass screen protector for my iPad at the moment. It’s shatterproof and resistant to fingerprints. And it was on sale at the bargain price of two pounds and ninety-nine pence! How could I resist?
I pop on the chain and open the door a full six inches, peeking out and with my hand ready to grab the parcel. Three familiar faces stare back at me with looks ranging from mildly uncomfortable to horror-struck. To my utter dismay, standing on the doorstep is not only my mother, Wendy, but my best friend, Mel, and the fearsome Carrie herself.
‘Darling, can we come in?’ Mum’s voice is soft and full of compassion. A fourth person suddenly appears.
‘Morning, lovely.’ It’s Dad and he’s trying to sound upbeat. It comes out staccato fashion and even his lop-sided smile smacks of discomfort.
‘Can you take the chain off, Brie? I’m gasping for a cup of tea.’ Mel, too, sounds decidedly awkward.
I snap the door shut and stand, half leaning against the wall for a few moments while I try to collect my thoughts. I’m in no fit state to receive company and neither is the cottage. I wonder what the hell they want at this time of the morning?
I leave the chain on and ease the door open to peer around the edge once more.
‘Um… it’s a bit early, guys, and I’m not up yet. Can you come back later?’
Carrie suddenly strides forward blocking out my view of the others.
‘Open the door, Brie, this is an intervention. We aren’t going anywhere, so you might as well let us in now.’
One look at her face and I quiver, my hand reluctantly sliding back the chain. As I step aside it feels like a crowd is filtering into the hallway of my sanctuary.
‘Right,’ Dad says, looking decidedly embarrassed as he tries not to stare at me. And I can’t blame him. Even I don’t recognise me sometimes when I catch sight of myself unexpectedly in the mirror. ‘I’ll, um, put the kettle on then.’
I watch as he heads off to the kitchen and when I turn back, everyone is staring at me.
‘What on earth have you done to your hair?’ Mel asks, looking appalled.
Glancing in the mirror on the wall behind her, I groan inwardly. With my hair pulled up into a scrunchy, it looks like a furry animal is sitting on top of my head. It’s debatable whether it’s dead or alive.
‘It needs washing,’ I offer, lamely.
‘Come on,’ she replies. ‘We should sit down and have a bit of a chat. We’re all very worried about you, Brie, and you can’t go on like this ignoring all contact. Don’t you ever answer your phone or your emails, these days?’
I hang my head, bringing up the rear like some wayward child as everyone files into the sitting room. It looks like there has been an explosion and most of it is snack related.
After indicating for everyone to follow my lead and clear a little space, I take the seat next to Mum on one of the sofas. She leans across to place a hand over mine, giving it an encouraging squeeze before drawing back.
Carrie sits opposite us and Mel draws back the curtains before lowering herself down, rather strategically, next to her. The eye contact is awkward; no one seems to know quite where to look. I’m conscious that the place isn’t looking quite as pristine as usual but then I have been spending a lot of time in bed waiting for inspiration to come. And every night I’m peering at the other sort of screen. To my shame, instead of clearing up my clutter I’ve been working my way from room to room. Having four TVs is actually quite handy, I’ve discovered.
‘It’s been weeks since any of us have heard from you, Brie. Shutting yourself away isn’t doing you any good at all. We all have problems at times and that’s what family and friends are for – to be here for you when you need us.’ Mel speaks softly as if I’m some sort of invalid.
Dad appears with a pot of tea and five mugs on a tray. I only ever drink tea if I’m unwell or I’ve had a bit of a shock. Like the day I signed my first publishing contract and it wouldn’t sink in. Every other author probably cracks open a bottle of champagne and makes a lot of noise. I said a little ‘Woo-hoo!’ and had a brew to calm me down, then went straight back to work.
‘I’m fine, really. My head has been full of the story I’m writing at the moment, and you know how I work. I like to withdraw from the world and pop up again when it’s done.’ Well, it seems I could have a second career as an actress because that had a positive ring to it.
Carrie raises one eyebrow. ‘The work in progress is going well?’
It’s obvious to everyone she doesn’t believe me. I have two choices here. I can lie and hopefully they won’t stay very long, or I can come clean.
‘Very well, indeed.’
‘So, you could send me a few sample chapters to read through today?’
It doesn’t help that all eyes are still on me and Dad has made no attempt to pour out the tea, which would at least be a distraction.
‘Well, I could but I had an epiphany and decided to change the plot a little. That’s why I’ve been so quiet. I’m having to go back through the whole thing. It’s annoying but it happens.’
Oh, that was a little too bright and breezy.
‘You haven’t written a single word, have you?’
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a deep frown on Carrie’s face before. She’ll probably need Botox now, because of me.
‘Okay, so I’ve scrapped most of it. There’s another story in my head but it isn’t the one you’re expecting. Until it’s written I can’t seem to move on.’ It’s the truth; I’m tired of writing about sex. If I don’t pander to my romantic core soon, then I’ll probably combust! I’ve never felt so desolate before; it’s like I’m in imminent danger of giving up on love, and myself, completely. That’s why I’m indulging my unhealthy addiction to Jude. Of course, I know that’s not normal, but he’s keeping me sane.
Mum, Dad and Mel begin to look a little relieved, but Carrie’s face doesn’t alter.
‘If I negotiate a revised deadline, can you work on both at the same time? We can take a look at this… other story, but I need a reassurance from you. You can’t let your publisher and your readers down, Brie. If you don’t publish a new book every six months your sales will lose momentum. That’s the game you’re in and this is so unlike you.’
I nod guiltily, casting around for something to say to deflect the attention.
‘Um, any chance you can pour out that tea, Dad?’
It’s judgement day and if I don’t pull myself together then I’ll be admitting I have a problem and I’m not in control. But that isn’t strictly true as I’m not depressed or having a breakdown, it’s simply that my heart is feeling forlorn. Traditionally when that happens, I turn to food.
If I can just write a love story with no bedroom action in it at all, ending with one simple kiss, something that will make the reader’s heart squish, then I’ll know that my romantic soul hasn’t given up. And then everything will be fine. The only teeny-weeny problem I can foresee is, how on earth am I going to find any inspiration for that?
2
Getting Rid of the Cobwebs
Mel stays behind after I manage to get Mum, Dad and Carrie out of the door. When it swings shut, my entire body sags as I lean against it and Mel stares at me in abject horror.
‘You’re really struggling, aren’t you?’
I nod.
‘I’m out of control. I love what I do, but I’m not loving what I’m doing
because I feel like recent events have undermined my credibility. I can’t let anyone see the mess I’ve gotten myself into.’ I indicate my new, even curvier self. ‘I’m eating for the sake of eating and hating myself with every bite I take. And I feel rubbish, inside and out.’
‘Oh, Brie. That’s awful.’
I survey Mel’s slim physique and realise how difficult this must be for her to understand.
‘When you’re stressed, your natural coping mechanism is to get to the gym and I envy that discipline, Mel,’ I admit. ‘You work out your anxiety and come back floating on a cloud of good endorphins. What hurts is that I know all this stuff, because one of my heroines used food as a coping mechanism after the death of her soul mate. I’ve spent time researching the subject inside and out. The solutions aren’t rocket science, but they require me to get my act together and at the moment I’m doing the denial thing. But knowing that doesn’t help exactly.’
Mel’s frown grows even deeper.
‘Do you need professional help? I know it’s hard to reach out, but if we hadn’t come here today how much longer would you have put off doing something about it?’
I shrug and sigh. ‘Every day I wake up I tell myself today is the day I start making those changes and stop doing this to myself. But that’s been going on for a month now. It’s not so much the physical changes, but it’s what it’s doing to me in here.’ I tap my head with a finger. ‘Can you understand how this extreme need to grab whatever comfort I can affects me when I’m working? I don’t write from personal experience obviously, but my confidence levels are at an all-time low and even my thought processes are going slowly. So I grab something to eat, hoping the feel good factor will kick in. But it’s transient and I feel even worse afterwards.’
‘Well, a good start would be to stop monitoring your social media accounts. All you are doing is torturing yourself needlessly because it will fizzle out at some point. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the only way.’
