No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  And as if by magic, the title track of my Hairpins record comes on, whispering to me through the vinyl, through the needle, through the speakers, into my room.

  But you never wanted me around

  Thought you could pick me up and put me down

  Make me feel like this was never real

  Like I’m no big deal.

  I lie back on my bed, thinking, slowly nibbling away at the remnants of the little pink cake Mum brought me earlier. And then I’ve thought too much and just want to get out of my own head. I get up and go downstairs to discover that Katie and Dad have both gone to bed while I ruminated in my room. But Mum’s still up, watching the same Victoria Wood rerun that they show every Christmas.

  I stick my head around the living-room door. ‘Mum . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you want to watch something?’ I ask.

  She smiles. ‘I haven’t seen Gentlemen Prefer Blondes in a while . . .’

  ‘Me neither,’ I lie, reminded of one of the first times I ever hung out with Joe. But watching it lying here on the sofa with my mum – finally, weirdly at peace with each other – feels better than any date with Joe ever did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘No More Tears (Enough Is Enough)’ –

  Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand

  I wake up on the morning of New Year’s Eve feeling like there’s a lead weight on my chest. This is how it’s felt every day since The Bad Party. I can’t wait for this year to be over. I just wish things had gone differently with Joe.

  A group of us are going to Ella’s for a ‘Select Gathering’ while her parents are at a friend’s party. I’m just grateful to have something to take my mind off Joe. I’ve already decided on a black velvet dress with a Bardot neckline and some chunky-heeled ankle boots. It’s a relief not to be dressing for Joe tonight. Not to be second-guessing what makes me look cutest to him, what’s most likely to make him fancy me. I thought I was above that, but, hey, turns out I’m not. Anyway, there’s no point wondering about him now. He’s all in the past, I think to myself. The thought feels like a knife twisting in my chest. I miss him already. But I am definitely ready for a clean slate.

  Because it’s a special occasion, we have prosecco. It makes us feel extremely adult. We put on a playlist I’ve made of particularly banging party bangers. We play drinking games. There are only ten of us (Select Gathering, remember?) but it feels just right. I’m kind of numb right now. It’s hard to accept that Joe would rather have Holly than me. It’s hard to accept that Joe was ashamed of me, didn’t want me to meet his friends, didn’t want to be seen with me, didn’t want anyone to know we were anything other than mates. But I’m trying to accept it. He was meant to be here tonight, but obviously after not speaking to him for a couple of weeks, there was no question of casually dropping him a line to see if he still wanted to ‘hang out’ on New Year’s Eve.

  We’ve settled into a sprawled mess across Ella’s living room. Couples and friends reclining comfortably on soft furnishings, basking in the warm glow of the fire. Camila begins telling me about how she went over to Ryan’s house on Boxing Day and how it felt like a Big Moment in their relationship for her to be at a family gathering . . . but I don’t catch the whole story, because I think I hear the doorbell ring. At first, I wonder if it’s just the music. But then an insistent knocking breaks our cosy peace.

  ‘A few people said they were coming post-midnight, but I thought everyone we were expecting was here already,’ Ella says, scanning the room with a confused expression as though trying to figure out where the gap is. ‘Clearly not.’

  As Ella bounds off to the front door, I pour myself another glass of prosecco. Nibble a few more crisps. It’s New Year’s Eve after all. When she returns, she looks intensely uncomfortable.

  ‘Emily . . . Joe’s here,’ she says, biting her lip. ‘To see you.’

  ‘To see me?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘I can tell him to leave if you want,’ she offers.

  I know she would if I asked. But am I ready to do that?

  ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll talk to him.’ Clearly I’m not quite ready to tell him to leave just yet.

  And then I see him, slowly and awkwardly making his way into the room behind her.

  ‘Hey, Emily,’ he says.

  I scramble to my feet and brush the crisp crumbs off myself as gracefully as I can.

  ‘Hello, Joe. What can I do for you?’ I ask. I sound like a middle-aged man. Real smooth.

  ‘I . . . I wanted to talk to you. To explain things. I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m sorry for crashing the party, but I just needed to see you,’ he says, lowering his voice and looking at me very seriously.

  Talking quietly can only ever half work when there’s a group of girls trying to eavesdrop on your conversation. They will catch everything. Over Joe’s shoulder, I see Abi raise her eyebrows at me as if to wordlessly say, ‘Go!’ They can definitely hear us.

  We creak up the stairs to find somewhere private to talk. We settle on Ella’s sister’s bedroom, a riot of pink and pop stars and trinkets and glitter. Joe sits down on the bed. I sit next to him. We sit in silence for a few seconds before he puts his hand on mine. I don’t pull away. He’s so soft and warm – how could I pull away from that? We look at each other, but neither of us says anything. Silence.

  ‘So . . . what did you want to say to me?’ I finally ask.

  But instead of answering, he just looks into my eyes, cups his hand around the nape of my neck and fondly strokes the back of my hair with his thumb. Then he leans forward and kisses me. This is everything I want. Joe. Back. My heart beats fast, and I let myself go, and everything feels like it’s swirling around me. This is everything I want. But it just doesn’t feel right.

  ‘Would you do that downstairs?’ I ask abruptly, pulling away from him. ‘In front of people? Would you do that in a restaurant? On the street? In the cinema, before the lights go down? Would you tell your friends you’re seeing me? How would you feel if you had to show them a picture of me?’ I can’t keep it in – it’s all pouring out of me, and I can’t stop it.

  Joe shifts uncomfortably next to me on the bed and buries his face in his hands. The spell is broken. Well, that certainly bodes well for his reply.

  ‘Is this about Holly?’ he asks, looking shifty. ‘Because if it is, I’m sorry. It was a stupid mistake. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’ve regretted it constantly ever since.’

  ‘No, it’s not about Holly, but that didn’t help me feel good about myself.’ What’s the point in holding back now? Might as well tell him the truth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emily . . . It’s not like that . . .’ he says.

  But in that moment, I know for sure that it is like that. And the crushing realization that I can’t pretend any more washes over me like rain.

  ‘Please don’t deny it. If you deny it, it just makes me feel like I can’t trust you,’ I say.

  ‘Why do I have to demonstrate it all the time? I like you. Isn’t that enough? Why do I have to perform it for other people?’

  And, just like that, I start to second-guess myself. Maybe he’s right. Why isn’t that enough? He’s all I want. And now he’s here, and he wants me. Can’t that just be enough? Why does he have to be making out with me in front of the whole world? What if this is my only chance at love and romance and sex? What if no one wants me ever again? That could happen. It’s not totally out of the question . . . I feel alert with panic and indecision. And the indecision gives way to a softening. I’m all ready to cave and melt and be grateful. I even open my mouth to speak, to say, Yes, yes – it’s enough. It’s OK. Let’s just be in love.

  ‘Maybe . . . I guess . . .’ is what I say instead. I chew the skin on my lip and shift around on the bed. ‘I just wish . . .’

  ‘What? You wish what?’ Joe’s looking at me with a kind of dread. Like he doesn’t really want me to answer.

  But I hear a voice in my head. A wise, sisterl
y kind of voice. A voice that has advice just for me. Advice I wanted to ignore – advice I wanted to believe didn’t apply to me – but, my God, it really, really does. Compromise. Compromise. Compromise. If I start compromising now, I’ll never stop.

  ‘You know what? No,’ I say, not really knowing for sure where I want to go from here, but knowing all the same that it’s where I have to start. I have to start with ‘no’. ‘I wish you would treat me better. That’s what I wish, but I know you can’t give me that. I deserve better than this. I deserve better than you. I deserve more, and I’m happy to wait for it. I was crazy about you. I feel like I dreamed about you for nights and nights. I was always so excited to see you, always so scared that every time would be the last time, and you would just disappear.’ I know I sound completely wild at this point, but if I don’t say this stuff now, then maybe I never will. ‘And I just fancied you so much, and I had so much time for you, and wanted to get to know you, and wanted to know everything about you.’

  I look him in the eyes. ‘When I kissed you that first time, I really meant it. That was the real me, showing you what I really meant and what I really wanted, even though it was embarrassing for me because, come on, who does that out of the blue? And I was so painfully ashamed of it because I thought you would just not want to see me again and you would be totally freaked out by it, but it turned out you weren’t. And that was so amazing. The fact you said you had feelings for me too was just so completely amazing . . .’

  I stop for a second because it’s painful for me to remember that. To have had that conversation with him, for him to have said those things, to have given me so much hope and so much excitement. I take a deep breath.

  ‘But those feelings you say you have . . . what do they mean for me? What do they give me? Because it seems like your feelings just add up to nothing because you’re at war with them. I can’t be with someone who finds it so hard to care about me.’

  As I speak, Joe has stopped looking me in the eye. He’s looking around the room, at the floor, at the posters of pop stars on Ella’s little sister’s wall, at his sleeves, at his hands – anywhere but at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure you are. Because I would have been the best girlfriend in the world if you’d given me a chance. I would have done just about anything for you,’ I say. Jesus, why can’t I stop baring my damn soul to this guy? ‘This isn’t about Holly. But if it was, I think that would be OK, to be honest. It’s about all the ways you treat me like I’m not important, like I’m not special, like you can pick me up and put me down and play with my feelings and pretend you don’t have any feelings when someone’s around to see them. You don’t need to say it out loud. I can tell why it is . . .’ I trail off. I need to say it out loud. I need to. But acknowledging this feels like something I can’t come back from. Naming the problem is like acknowledging the elephant in the room. And here, the elephant is me.

  ‘I know it’s because of my body,’ I finally say very slowly. ‘And I know you fancy me. I know you would have slept with me if I hadn’t freaked out after hearing those rumours you were super experienced. But, Jesus, the way you can’t even kiss me in public. The way you tried to make sure none of your guy friends would ever suspect we were dating. The way you go out of your way to avoid even standing near me at a party in case I try to do something as disgusting as hold your hand . . . I now totally realize that’s why you only wanted me to come to the shop when no one else was around – why you told me to message you rather than dropping in while you were there—’

  ‘I really fancy you! I always have!’ Joe protests, his voice shrill. ‘But . . . you know what guys are like. They can be total dicks. About, like, dating and sex and stuff.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that you fancy me, or that you think I’m great. But you need to chill the hell out about what other people think of you dating a fat girl. And I don’t think you can.’

  ‘So . . . that’s it?’ he asks.

  Is that it? Do I mean it? Is that really it?

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Wow,’ he replies. He’s shaking his head in disbelief, like I’ve said something completely absurd.

  ‘I like you, Joe. I like you so much. But I like me more. And you’re not capable of being proud of me, of being excited to be with me, and I really believe that there’s someone out there who is. Maybe not right here, right now – maybe not even in Croydon. But I’m not scared any more. I’m not scared of being left behind, of being the odd one out. I’m just scared of letting myself believe it’s normal to be treated like I’m an embarrassment. I can’t do that to myself. I can’t let myself think it’s normal for someone to be ashamed of me. Because then it becomes normal. And I deserve better.’

  Joe laughs, but it sounds defensive. ‘I’m not that bad . . .’

  ‘But . . . you’re not that great, either. I felt like you were such a catch, like you were so much better than me, like I didn’t deserve you. But you’re not.’

  Oh God, my mouth is totally running away with me now. But honestly, after the pain of the whole Holly drama, I can’t help twisting the knife a little. Anyway, it’s all true.

  ‘You’re just an average guy, who does average-guy stuff, like reading average-guy books and caring about average-guy opinions.’

  He can’t look me in the eye. At least he’s not protesting any more.

  ‘And I think we’ve spent enough time on this, to be honest,’ I say. ‘I’m going to hang out with my friends now, and I would assume you have somewhere else to be. I’m sure Holly’s having a party tonight.’

  I thought what I wanted more than anything was Joe, but I think what I really wanted was to be sure of myself.

  And now I am.

  As I descend the stairs to see Joe out, I realize it’s only a few minutes until midnight. Joe will walk out into the darkness, alone, and I will be here in the warm glow of my friends.

  And it feels good.

  At midnight, we all crowd into the garden, and Ella and Sophia let off fireworks. Ella kisses Sophia. Camila kisses Ryan. Abi hugs me tightly. It would have been nice to have someone to kiss at midnight, for the first time. It would definitely have been nice to have someone as cute as Joe to kiss at midnight. But it’s even better to be going into the new year as a new me. I know it sounds cheesy, but it really feels like it. An Emily who can stand her ground.

  An Emily who knows what she’s worth.

  By one o’clock, we’re dancing to 80s music in the living room. I’m the only one that hears the doorbell over the sound of ‘Tainted Love’, so I go to answer it, even though I’m pretty sure we’re not expecting anyone else.

  I peer cautiously round the door, half wondering if it will be Joe. If he’s come back to try and win me over . . .

  ‘Hey,’ the guy says.

  It’s not Joe.

  ‘I’m Ravi. I’m a friend of Ryan’s. I was at another party, but it got kind of boring, so he said I should come and hang out with you guys. If that’s all right with you?’

  My jaw drops and kind of hangs open. I can’t reply.

  He’s the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you first and foremost to Rachel Petty, without whom this book would literally not exist, not one word. Thank you to Sarah Hughes for making this book 1000% better than I ever could have done alone. Thank you to Annemarie Blumenhagen for introducing me to Siobhan O’Neill at WME and to Siobhan in turn for agreeing to be my patient and kind agent. Thank you to Simran Sandhu for your absolutely invaluable cheerleading and insight. Thank you to Kat McKenna and Sabina Maharjan for marketing and publicising this book like the absolute dreams that you are. Thank you to the great authors Alice Slater and Will Dean for listening to me, giving me support and reminding me I am a real writer. Thank you to Jenny Tighe and Beth John for being there every step of the way. Thank you to Rachel Vale and Kristina Mordokhovitch for creating the perfect cover. Thank you to Dan Barker fo
r such a truly extensive list of things I don’t know where to start. Thank you to my family, but especially my parents, for the endless encouragement, enthusiasm and for fostering a love of reading. Thank you to Paul Haworth, the artist and the person, for everything, always.

  Author’s Note

  Hello reader!

  I am not Emily, I am Bethany, and I wrote this book. With that being said, a lot of the things that Emily experiences and feels are things that I experienced and felt, not just as a 17-year-old but into my twenties, right up to the present day. In some ways, it doesn’t matter how far you come with your own personal story of self-acceptance, it can still feel hard to live in a world that demonises and vilifies fat bodies. No amount of self-love can change that.

  Between writing No Big Deal and the book being published, I was struck with a bit of fear that the way the story plays out will reinforce an anxiety among fat girls that they are unloveable, that their partners are always ashamed of them, that they are doomed to an unhappy romantic life. But what I really wanted to say is that romance will come and go, but the great love of your life is yourself. That figuring out your limits and boundaries and priorities will enable you to have better relationships, even if sometimes that means walking away from them when your approaches and desires and levels of commitment aren’t compatible. This is something that everyone, whatever their size or age, would benefit from.

  Emily is incredibly confident in herself, but if you’re not quite there yet, I found that the most powerful and meaningful way to embrace my body was to find a community of people who looked like me. Feeling like the odd one out is so incredibly hard and confusing, and realising that’s not the case at all can be life-altering. Seeing people who look like me, who understand my struggles, who can relate to my experiences, who can advise from a place of real knowledge and empathy, has been really wonderful for me. We don’t always have to agree or have had exactly the same experiences, but just knowing I’m not the only fat person in the world is a good place to start.