by Tyler, Terry
Presenter Lizzie encourages her to talk.
Her mum is big too, Kylie says, and so's her auntie. She loves to eat; she's a chocolate freak! Her mum says that 'curvy' is beautiful. She admits that sometimes she wishes she was thinner, but then the pizza arrives ...
There is much laughter.
Presenter Gina says, "Yay, let's hear it for real women who can't resist a stuffed crust Hawaiian with extra cheese―I know I can't!"
The camera pans to the audience. Many clap, smiling and nodding. Presenters Jo and Bonnie are nodding too, kindly, sympathetically.
Kylie Jordan looks happy. She is accepted. She is okay. It's fine to want yummy treats more than slim thighs. It's good to admit this. She is a real woman, with weaknesses and wobbly bits.
Lizzie turns to MoMo.
"Mona, what would you say to Kylie? Is there anything wrong with embracing your curves and indulging your inner chocolate addict?"
MoMo studies the panel, thoughtful for a moment, then her gaze falls on Kylie. She looks down at her hands, as if Kylie's speech has given her much to contemplate.
We watch and we wait, the camera panning from Mona, to Kylie, and back again.
The studio is so silent you could hear an olive fall off a slice of pizza.
Finally, Mona Morrissey speaks.
"Kylie, you need to stop fooling yourself."
Right on cue, the screen is filled with a close-up of Kylie's chubby face.
The timing is perfect. We see the very moment her world is destroyed, as her cheerful expression fades into one of shock and shame.
The camera moves back to MoMo. Her perfectly painted mouth smiles, but her eyes hold a look that is sad, regretful but caring and determined, all at once.
At last, she continues.
"Eating yourself into obesity is disastrous for your health, your self-esteem, your social life and your future career. Is a chocolate bar worth all that? By gobbling junk food you're setting yourself up for heart disease and diabetes. Your job prospects will be poor. Employers may declare that fat shaming is wrong, that it's the person inside that matters, but you can't control your gut reaction, and that gut reaction will be, 'This person is fat. Fat equals lazy and greedy. Fat equals no self-discipline'."
A gasp runs around the studio.
"Sorry, but it's true―and in today's competitive job market, employers can afford to be choosy." She lifts a hand. "Actually, no, I'm not sorry. Kylie, all those people who tell you that big is beautiful and a little of what you fancy does you good are hurting you. I'm the one who's going to save you. I mean it; I'm going to save your life. It's that serious. I implore you: get your mojo back, starting today. Now. This minute. I'll help you all I can, but first you need to change your entire mindset."
The camera zooms in on Kylie. She looks too shell-shocked even to cry. The presenters glance at each other; should they step in? Support Kylie? Challenge this national treasure, this wife of the most popular PM in decades?
But MoMo is far from finished. She turns to the camera.
"You know what I'm saying is right. It's not sizeism, or body-shaming, it's sense. Kylie isn't 'big' or 'curvy', she's fat. Maybe you're waiting for me to apologise for offending anyone here who, like Kylie, is allowing greed to sabotage their lives, but I'm not going to. This is tough love. Jobs are scarce. If you want an employer to take you seriously, you need to present yourself at your very best. The Fit For Work movement isn't just a trending hashtag, or a slogan on a sweatshirt. It's a real solution to a real problem, but you have to do your bit, too."
Kylie Jordan bursts into tears.
Twitter, LifeShare and uChat are in uproar. #KylieJordan trends everywhere. As I watch, though, the anti-fat-shaming brigade fade into the background. They're getting shouted down by MoMo's 'street team'. Within half an hour, the first blog posts appear: yes, MoMo's words were harsh, but she's right. The tweets pour in:
Thanks, MoMo. You've opened my eyes. I'm not curvy; I'm fat.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. #FitForWork #FitForLife.
Imagio users are posting pictures of their fat bits.
#FatNotCurvy #NoMorePizza #FitForWork #FitForLife #WeHeartMoMo
I put fingers to keys, too, and post my piece by evening. I write that whereas maintaining the ideal weight for your height is always a good idea, we must not let the 'Kylie Jordan Effect' get out of hand. Eating disorders abound amongst the under-thirties as it is―we do not want to exacerbate the problem. Since this morning, girls with youthful, slightly rounded stomachs have been posting pictures declaring themselves 'fat, not curvy'; we need to keep this in perspective, and not let it herald a return to the 'size zero' ideal of twenty years ago, because being a size fourteen instead of a size eight will harm neither our employment prospects nor our health.
The post gets over six thousand views within its first hour, and I am inundated with requests to review everything from fat-buster pills to diet books to stomach crunching apparatus.
By ten p.m. I turn off all devices, and Kendall and I watch MoMo being interviewed on Late Talk.
She is unrepentant.
"I only said what everyone's been thinking for a long, long time. We've been politically correct about obesity for far, far too long, and look at what's happened―we've become a nation of butterballs. The change is long overdue; didn't I say that my aim was to change the BMI of the nation? It starts here!"
I can't resist. I turn my phone back on.
Trending: #ButterballNation #KylieJordanEffect #FatNotCurvy
Kendall reckons the #KylieJordanEffect phrase came from my blog post.
"Go Lita!" says Kendall. "You are such an influencer!" She's kidding me, because she knows how much I hate the tag. I laugh, but I've got a weird feeling. Like this is all too much. Already there are discussions about Jordan being a plant, saying she was paid a vast sum to be mocked on TV.
I wouldn't be surprised.
Why, though? To promote MoMo's business, or to stir up discrimination?
A week later, Kylie Jordan has become a celebrity. Town Crier announces that she's been signed by one of the major networks for her own weekly reality show: #FitForLife with Kylie Jordan.
Cameras will accompany her during her waking hours, as she endeavours to get fit and lose four stone. Already she has lost six pounds, I read.
"I can't thank Mona Morrissey enough! If it wasn't for her reality check, I'd still be sitting on my sofa, stuffing myself with chocolate!"
Yeah, I think we can safely say that it was staged.
I don't foresee how far-reaching the Kylie Jordan Effect will be, though, until it is brought home to our own little world.
Kendall and I go clothes shopping. We both have bad trouser shopping days; Kendall finds that those big enough to fit comfortably in the bum and thigh area are too big in the waist. Size sixteens appear to be made for women who are well-covered all over, not those with an hourglass figure.
I'm straight up and down, with no hips and thin legs, so I have the opposite problem.
I like quirky little boutiques and charity shops, but Kendall prefers high street, so that's where we go today, and I'm pleased to find a great pair of black zouave pants in the first shop we go to: Chic. It's the chain store that works best for me, for basics, as it does for Kendall.
Not so today.
Apart from odds and sods left over from the sales, there are no size sixteens.
The rails go from size eight to fourteen.
Yes, you heard that right. Sixteen is the average size for women in the UK, but it's vanished from one of the main high street clothing chains.
"It's the new store policy," says a bored-looking shop assistant with lips so heavily filled that she looks like a mad puppet. I forget, because I don't go to trendy places, that the permanent duck face pout is the latest hot look; you can have it done in your lunch hour for as little as twenty-five quid, stick your selfies on Imagio and be back at your desk for two o'clock.
The assistant has pale mauve hair, and is probably a size eight; she regards Kendall's hips with ill-disguised disgust. I feel like slapping her. Kendall is way more beautiful, and she's probably the only woman I've ever met who doesn't colour her hair; it's a fabulous shade all on its own.
"That's ludicrous," I say. "Doesn't it mean that you'll lose at least a quarter of your custom?"
Duck Face shrugs. "Dunno. It's the same everywhere, or it's going to be." She studies her black and purple fingernails, picking at a bit of diamanté. "It's the Kylie Jordan Effect, isn't it?" She fishes her phone out of her back pocket, swipes at the screen a few times, and thrusts it at us. "Look! She's lost another four pounds this week, and tomorrow night you can work out with her in real time; she's going live, at MoJo Milton Keynes."
"Jesus." That's me, muttering.
She tucks her phone back into her pocket. "Anyway, yeah, you can get sixteens on our website, in plus-size."
"Size sixteen isn't plus-size!"
"Tis now. Our sixteen stock's been shipped back to the warehouse. Look, here's plus." She reaches for a tablet on the counter, and brings up the Chic site, moving swiftly to the 'Curvy Chic' section. A few taps, and we're watching a video of the spring collection. The models strutting down the runways are well-padded, yes, but they're impossibly well-proportioned and gorgeous.
At the bottom of the page, I read these words, in tiny print: Models created by Populus.
Ah yes.
I've read that some mid-price range chains and designers are now using computer generated images to show off their clothes, to save vast amounts of money on model fees, photographers, cameramen, make-up artists, you name it.
The images created by programs like Populus and Humanoid are a hundred per cent lifelike; the modelling industry is yet another casualty of technological advance. All those associated with it are up in arms.
The other downside, as far as I can see, is that the perfect proportions of these images, designed of course to show off the clothes as well as possible, is that they give both men and women unrealistic expectations of the 'ideal'; although companies are required by law to state that the images are computer generated, not everyone notices that little sentence in tiny print, or even knows such programs exist. Kendall is the best proportioned 'curvy girl' I've ever seen, but she looks like a heffalump compared with the Populus women.
Duck Face shows us the sale items available. "You can still get sixteens in the granny shops like M&S, and in cut-price; you know, New Image and Primark. Or Nu-Mart." Duck Face looks Kendall up and down once more. "Nu-Mart do, like, sweatpants in sizes right up to XXL."
"Nu-Mart? But what if you don't want XXL sweatpants? What if you're just a healthy size sixteen and you want to buy a decent pair of jeans?"
Another shrug. "Like I said, you can go to M&S."
Kendall pulls at my arm. "Leave it, Lita. It's not her fault."
Her face is pink with embarrassment, and I see that by protesting on her behalf I've made the situation worse. Dammit. I just feel so incensed. Bloody MoMo.
"I think Next has still got lots of sale stuff," calls out Duck Face, as we hasten away. I call out a thank you; she's been helpful. And yeah, it's not her fault.
Kendall is subdued for the rest of the morning, and doesn't want to go for our usual latte and panini; too many calories.
We go home and drink herbal tea, and it occurs to me that Kylie Jordan can't be the only reason for the disappearance of the size sixteen. Shops order their stock at least a season in advance. Their buyers must have seen the writing on the wall a while back. Unless they've all gone 'oh shit', and sent them back to the warehouses.
I investigate. Yes, according to the fashion blogs, the Kylie Jordan Effect is snowballing. Body shaming is back. One blogger reminds us that back in the 1970s, the high street boutiques sold clothes no bigger than size fourteen.
'I see it as a positive. Let's say goodbye to Butterball Nation!'
Meanwhile, women like Kendall all over the country are skulking around, thinking they're obese, that it's okay to be told that their size is so unacceptable that shops won't even stock clothes to fit them.
This is bad.
What's worse is how quickly and easily the collective mind-set has been changed.
8
Blue Monday
The Monday morning after the size sixteen trouser fiasco is when it starts.
I believe in random occurrence, not fate, but that dismal, damp first Monday of February certainly seems like the moment when Lady Luck decides to throw a few banana skins our way. The first lies on the pavement outside Aduki; I know, even as I approach the café, that something is not right.
The shop is in darkness. The door is open, but the A board has not been put out.
When I walk in, I notice how bare the place looks. Menus and pictures are missing from the walls. The tables aren't laid.
Has Esme decided to close for redecoration? If so, why didn't she tell me?
She's standing behind the counter when I walk in, and walks out to meet me, hands in the pockets of her long cardigan. I can tell by her face that something is very, very wrong.
"Sorry, darling. It's over. No more Aduki. I've phoned the others, but I wanted to see you in person."
For a moment I just stand there with my mouth open. "What? Why? What's happened?"
She doesn't answer, so I go to switch on the light, but she stops me.
"No, don't. People will think we're open." She flops down onto a chair. "Lock the door. Come and sit."
And so I do, and she tells me. She's been bought out by Nutricorp, who are going change our lovely little home-from-home into a branch of Plant Base, their chain of vegan cafés.
"I couldn't say no." Her voice sounds so flat. "They offered me a good price for the months left on the current lease, non-perishable stock, and fixtures and fittings. I come out of it in the black." She won't look me in the eye. "I'm sorry, Lita. I should have told you before. I just couldn't bring myself to, because I know how you feel about Nutricorp and big chains, and―"
She rests her head in her hands; I reach over and touch her arm.
"It's okay. I understand. But why? I thought we were doing okay?"
Her head jerks up, and she looks at me in a way she never has before.
"We? Who's we? You just worked here. All you had to do was manage the place for sixteen hours a week and check your bank balance to make sure I'd paid you. It's me who's spent night after night going over the figures, trying to work out if there's any way on earth I can keep prices down, the wages stable, and still actually make the blasted place pay."
"Of course. I'm sorry. But you could have talked to me, I would have taken a drop in salary―I'd have worked here for nothing, just to help you out."
"Thanks, but that would have been a drop in the ocean. My accountant told me I needed to get rid of Ben and Cassie, at least, and either Jake or Anik, but that would have meant the place wouldn't run so smoothly, and―oh, what the hell, it's all water under the bridge now. It's over."
I'm at a loss for words. Useful words, at least. "What will you do?"
Her eyes are so tired, and her grey roots are showing. Esme has always been fanatical about personal grooming.
"Right now? Pack up and go home. Ah well, there's the good side. I'll be able to spend more time with Bob, and with Tilly before she goes. The latter of which will mean even more expense, of course."
Esme's husband, Bob, is in poor health, and is at home most of the time; he has ME and fibromyalgia. Tilly is off to college in the autumn.
She stands up. "I'd better get on. I really am sorry, Lita, but you'll be okay, won't you?" She seems distracted, vague. "You've got your blog, and you can maybe get something else―you know I'll give you a glowing reference."
"I'll be fine; don't worry about me." She's not, of course, and I don't expect her to.
"Okay." She turns, hands still in pockets, gazing around the dark, quiet room.
I stand, and hoist my bag onto my shoulder. "We'll still see each other, though, won't we?"
"What? Oh, yes, of course. Yes."
"I'll text you in a few days, shall I? See how things are going?"
She turns to look at me. "Yes, yes, do―sorry, I'm just preoccupied. You know, it's not only the café. I don't know how I'm going to cope with being at home all the time―"
I remember, then, that she once said that she felt guilty for enjoying Aduki so much, because of Bob being ill.
"Well, we're friends, aren't we? If you want to talk―you know, just give me a call and we can meet up, or I can come round, perhaps."
"Yes. You must come round. We'll do that." I can tell she's anxious for me to leave.
I walk home feeling depressed, and guilty for feeling so, because my problems are nothing compared with Esme's.
I'm deep in thought as I pass the Horizon shelter, with its crappy rainbow logo stuck onto the window. There are no queues outside because it's only nine-fifteen in the morning, but the front door is open, and the lights are on.
I stop and think for a moment, wondering what it would be like to have to sleep the night in one of these places, then be chucked out and spend the rest of the day looking for somewhere, anywhere, to keep warm and dry.
On impulse, I walk down the steps and peer through the open door into a drab corridor lit by stark strip lights. I don't know why; I just want to look.
I hear talking, a radio in the distance, and canteen sounds; the clattering of pans. The odour of overcooked food seems to be embedded in the walls. I detect base notes of sweat, wet socks and that bleach-mixed-with-piss smell, like the men's urinals in the clubs I used to go to.
I take a tentative step forward and make my way down the corridor, where doors lead to the canteen on my right; on my left, I see an open door marked 'Office'.
Maybe it's because of my visit to Hope Village and the blog post I didn't get to write, I don't know, but I find myself wanting to know more about these places.
