“I hope you’re not going to get a snack.”
I jump back as the beautiful, gaunt specter of Cat looms in the doorway. I’m not sure how someone so thin can loom. Maybe it’s more that she lurks. Anyway, in short, Cat is standing in the doorway, staring at me with laser eyes as if I’m about to eat a bagel. With lots of cheese. The double sin of carbs and full-fat dairy. I start to mumble, “I was going to …” but my voice trails away. I don’t even have the energy to lie to my sister properly. What is wrong with me? (Rhetorical question — I NEED TO EAT!)
But my brain does work enough to ask one question. “What are you doing in there?” Surely, Cat doesn’t have food in secret. Does she nibble like a rabbit on a huge block of dark chocolate or shove salted caramel popcorn down her throat in handfuls?
“I came for this, of course.” She waves a bottle of water in my face. “Still, I find sparkling water makes me bloat.” She taps her flat belly as if to make a point.
“Fascinating,” I reply. Ninety-nine percent of me wants to make a sarcastic reply about how bubbles of gas can’t make you fat, but I’m too tired and also it strikes me that this is the second conversation I’ve had with Cat in three days. Which is huge. So, I don’t want to blow it. Instead, I find myself wandering after her. “Farewell, unsalted nuts, our time will come another day,” I whisper back to the shop.
“Are you talking to yourself?” Cat spins round.
“Only to the shop. It’s the only sensible conversation I get some days,” I fire back.
We walk in silence for a few paces. So back to normal, then. Cat surges ahead, as if we’re in a race. Am I supposed to keep up with her or trail behind like a needy child?
“Do you have to walk so fast?” I blurt out.
“Don’t you want to burn off fat? This is the perfect fat-burning pace,” Cat says, as she taps the fitness tracker on her wrist to measure her progress. “Yes, heart rate at optimum level.”
I stare at her in awe. This is the longest conversation we’ve had in weeks, and I’m seeing her in a whole new light. My heart is full of Matt, but hers seems to function just as a workout tool. I’m not sure which of us is right, but she’s off down the road, long legs pumping at such a rate that I have to almost run to catch up with her.
“So …” she says as I puff alongside her, “what are you planning on cooking tonight?”
“Did you like what I cooked the other night?”
“It was better than your normal carnival of fat and salt.”
“I like to think of it as worshipping at the temple of flavor.” I’m thinking “carnival of fat” my arse, but then my arse is wobbling as we walk, and Cat’s tiny bum just propels her legs forward without so much as a jiggle. Like Mum, she is a jiggle- and giggle-free zone.
Cat gives me a side glance. “But you have to admit your choices aren’t healthy.”
This is getting personal. “Many vegetables and innocent salad items are slaughtered during the preparation of my meals, so I refute wholeheartedly any suggestion of lack of vitamins.”
“But you use fat, cream, butter, cheese.” She spits the words out as if just saying them will make her blow up to the next size.
Breathing heavily now, we sweep past our house. Are we going on a walk? Where is she taking me — a quick stroll round all of the UK? But if I want to keep talking to Cat, I need to stay with her, so I just fire back, “These are all elements of the well-known Mediterranean diet that contribute to long life and good health.”
“We’ve been to France. It’s full of fat old women who get their flabby boobs out on the beach. I’d rather die than turn into that, so you can keep your Mediterranean elements, thank you.” Cat strides majestically on.
“Well, I was thinking of chicken in a Thai glaze on a green salad,” I shout after her.
She pauses for a second. “Sounds good.” She stops and turns to look at me. “Jess, are you trying to lose weight?” When she asked me this before, I lied. Do I still lie? Why does it even matter?
“Maybe,” I find myself saying. “Just a bit,” I hedge. “I mean, I’m not made for skinny.” Cat walks around me now, eyes scanning up and down, measuring me with her precise gaze. It’s worse than standing in my underwear.
“Hmm,” she says.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.” She keeps walking. “I’m just thinking.”
“You’re clearly thinking about me and this is all entering the territory of Very Weird.” I peek round. “You are staring at my arse, Cat. In public.” She keeps staring. I give her a good shove. “Stop it. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You’re not going to like it,” she warns me.
“Well, I’m not exactly loving it at the moment. Spit it out.”
Sighing, Cat begins. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I mean, we’re talking years of willful overeating here, so you’re not going to put that right overnight.”
“But I’ve less than three weeks,” I whisper.
“What?” Cat leans in to hear what I’m saying.
“Er, nothing, I’m just inwardly sobbing.”
“Good, you need to. You’re reasonably in proportion apart from being top-heavy, and nothing but surgery is going to sort that out.”
Really? Surgery?
“You do have a waist of sorts, but obviously, it’s far too big. Don’t leave the house without plenty of Lycra on underneath, for starts. Wrists and ankles suggest that there might be hope for you once you get rid of all the blubber.”
I like to think that I’m quite tough. I mean, I’ve survived the best that Zara and her crew have thrown at me for years. But my sister talking about my blubber makes me think a) I’m the subject of that Great American Novel that no one ever actually reads or b) I’m about to be harpooned and brought to shore. I turn away so she can’t see my eyes brimming with tears.
“Jess, didn’t you hear what I said? There’s hope.”
I sniff and find some words. “Hope, yes, that’s great.”
She peers closely at me. “You don’t look that great.”
Will she never give up? “I know,” I say, “you’ve made that very clear.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Then she says the one thing that I would not have expected. I’m feeling a bit faint anyway, but this nearly has me falling to the pavement. “I think you need something to eat.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Observation #45:
Guys work out to get bigger. Girls work out to be smaller. Go figure.
With that, she’s off again with me trailing after her like a weak puppy. Fortunately, we’re home soon so my poor legs can finally buckle. Cat is in the kitchen and beginning to chop things like a girl possessed.
“Okay, Jess, you really don’t have the hang of cutting back on eating. You’ve made a rookie error. You’ve gone right to starvation mode, and your body can’t take it.” She’s slicing something green like it has personally offended her.
“Oh, I think I can take a few days of eating less, thank you very much.”
She turns to me, knife in hand. “I don’t think so.”
“Can you put that down, Cat? You’re starting to scare me. Are you making me a snack?”
She sniffs but at least she lowers the knife. I was beginning to think Jess kebabs were on the menu tonight (but, then again, I don’t think Cat would eat anything with such a high fat content).
“You look like you need a smoothie.”
Hallelujah. My taste buds are singing. I can almost feel the sugar starting to rush through me, bringing me back to life. “Can you put mango in?” I start to gibber. “Or banana. I love bananas. If we had some raspberries, that would be perfect, but I think I used them all yesterday. I find that if you add a touch of icing sugar and lime …”
“Jess. Stop.” She’s got that dan
gerous look in her eye again. “No mangoes. No bananas. No raspberries.”
What madness is this? “Then what kind of smoothie are you making?” I stare in horror at what she’s getting from the fridge. “Everything’s green.”
“Like I said, rookie errors. You can eat. Only a fool would not eat. But you need to think very carefully about everything you put in your mouth.” She steps in. “Like now, Jess. Step away from the nuts.”
I look down. My hand has crept out and found the bowl of almonds that Mum leaves on the table to encourage healthy snacking. I’m just about to eat one. I didn’t even know I was doing it. “Just one nut, Cat. It’s not even got salt on it.”
She slaps my hand down. “Are you serious about this or not?”
I think of the dress. I think of Matt looking on adoringly as I walk toward him, how the sun bounces off the tiny gold highlights in his hair. I think about how close his face was to mine only yesterday and how badly I wanted him to kiss me. I think of Zara’s face if she saw us together.
“I am serious.” I make a big deal of putting the nut in the bin. “See, I’ve passed the test.” I’m not prepared to tell Cat the whole truth yet, but I’ll give her enough to put her off the scent. “So, Mum bought me this dress but it’s a bit tight. I just want to fit into it.”
Cat seems to accept this.
“So, tell me again, what’s going into this smoothie and will I like it?”
“Firstly, it’s a kale, broccoli, cucumber and coconut water smoothie. Secondly, it’s irrelevant whether you like it. It just needs to give you energy.”
This is not okay. “Food should be enjoyed.” This seems to annoy her, as she’s now chopping the kale into tiny pieces. “Is that fun?” I ask. “Or does cutting them this fine make them less calorific?”
I get a raised eyebrow but at least that’s better than a glare. “Very funny. I just like to do things properly.”
“Why don’t I chop and you get the blender out?”
Cat thinks over my proposition. “Can I trust you? I mean without constant supervision, you were about to eat a nut.”
“I was. I’m a bad person.” I make what I hope is a suitably sorrowful face. I channel what Lauren does when she’s caught out eating chocolate for breakfast. “I’ve learned my lesson and will not try to sneak in anything that’s not green.”
“Okay, you chop and I’ll get the broccoli.” Ha, now who’s made a rookie error? I grab a very ripe, very delicious avocado. While Cat is rummaging through the salad drawer, I split it open and cover the flesh with kale leaves. Which is a bit tricky as Cat has cut them so small.
Thing is, she’s so light, I don’t hear her creep up behind me. “I don’t think so.” I spin round and she’s right behind me, flourishing a head of broccoli like it’s a weapon. “And you promised.”
“I didn’t lie. Avocados are green. And very good for you. Even Mum eats them. Every celebrity who Instagrams their breakfast eats avocados.” I wiggle one in her face. “It’s only little.” I grab a pen and draw a face on it. “Look at his little cute face. It’s Anthony the Avocado. Don’t make him cry.”
There is a hint of a smile. “You are ridiculous, you know.”
I shrug. “It’s the lack of food.”
Cat puts all the veg in the blender. “You really want Anthony to go in? I mean, you say you don’t want to upset him, but you’re the one who wants to blend him.” She dangles a bit of avocado over the blades and then lifts it to her ear as if listening to it. “What’s that, Anthony? You’re too young to die?”
I stare at her. “Cat. You’re talking to an avocado. Have you gone mad?”
“Like you say, lack of food can do that to a girl.”
“I have a thought. How about we save Anthony and add just a drizzle of manuka honey. Even a date or two? That’s natural sugar, right? No harm there.” Now, I know there is very little nutritional difference between a date and a spoon of sugar, but it’s amazing the number of people who don’t. Will she fall for it?
“Okay. A very small drizzle of honey.”
Hurray — flavor wins. I mean, this smoothie may still be an abomination but at least it stands a chance now. Before Cat can change her mind, I grab the honey from the cupboard and put a dollop in the green gloop that she has created. After mixing, I pour it into two glasses, handing one to her.
“Bottoms up.” I clink glasses with her. “Here’s to all the poor green things that have been slaughtered just for us.”
“Cheers.” Cat clinks back. She takes a sip. I take a sip. She makes a face. I spit my sip back out into the glass.
“Hey,” she protests. “I made that for you. It’s full of nutrients.”
“I am eternally grateful. I will try it again, but you have to look me in the eye and say that you’re really enjoying it.”
She purses her lips.
“Go on. Look me straight in the eye and say that this is the most delicious smoothie you’ve ever had.”
She can’t even look at me.
“I’ll drink it all. I swear I will. Every last semi-blended broccoli floret. But you have to say you love it.”
Cat’s mouth is beginning to twitch.
I won’t give up. “Come on, you can do this.”
She takes a small sip, then looks at me. “This is the most —” Then she breaks. “Oh, I give in. It’s hideous.” Then she starts to laugh. “It’s like drinking compost.”
“Compost that a cat has weed on.” Then we both explode.
At this point, Dad shuffles in looking bemused. I don’t think he’s seen his daughters laughing together for some time. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Despite the fact that I’m still starving, I manage to reply, “Yes, Dad. We’re fine. Never better. Now, I’m going to whip up something light and delicious for Cat and me, and I can make you an espresso at the same time if you like.”
“Sounds good.” He slumps down, humming to himself. Cat sends me a small smile. And that is really rather tickety-boo.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Invisible Rule #49.7:
All women must worship shoes. But more than thirty minutes in heels and my feet start to bleed. #lovesneakers
Which is not how I’m feeling a few days later. Hannah and Izzie have been poking and prodding me for hours now to make me look acceptable for my maybe date with Matt. I look in the mirror. What looks back at me is best described as half girl, half pony. I’m all huge hair, braids, smoky eyes and ripped jeans. I asked them to make me into a rock chick, but I feel less like a rock chick than a total idiot. Even Mum is in on this. Izzie has somehow persuaded her to let me borrow a pair of £500 shoes. The good thing about this is they apparently make my legs look longer. The one drawback is that I can’t walk in them. No one else seems to think that this is a problem.
“What time is it?” I ask. Matt’s coming at seven thirty, or so his last text said. I had been watching the clock manically all day, but the whole makeover thing has distracted me.
“Nearly time for your carriage to come and pick you up,” Hannah quips. Matt has a car, which is another thing that makes him utterly wonderful. I’ve never been alone with a boy in a car before. Tonight is just going to be one first after another.
Izzie’s looking worried, and given my general level of anxiety, I start to panic. “What’s up? Do I look really awful? Do I look fat?”
Now Izzie just looks horrified. “You have never uttered that phrase before in your life. Where is our Jess and can we have her back?”
“She’s lost under all this hair spray, currently choking, but normal service should soon be resumed.”
The doorbell goes. We all look at each other and do a little scream. “Okay, time for a quick selfie.” We huddle, pose, the flash goes off and I hurtle to the door.
“What are you doing? Put this on your Instagra
m! Beats all those food pictures you keep posting,” Hannah says as I rush past.
Izzie cautions, “Be cool, Jess. We’ll tidy up and then let ourselves out.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m off, heart pounding.
But the sight that greets me at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t do anything to calm my nerves.
Standing right next to the huge photo of Mum as a stunning young model is the aforementioned mother herself. Except that she looks very much like she’s flirting with my date. He looks like he’s just wandered off the front of some magazine, all gelled hair and white smile. She’s giggling, she’s flicking her hair. She is in general behaving like a fourteen-year-old. Normally, I would stomp down the stairs to annoy her, but I don’t think that stomping would make me look hot, so I try to copy Cat’s gazelle-like grace. Trouble is, I’ve not done this before, and after a few steps, I lose my balance and slip down the rest on my bum.
Annoying Mother–1, Jess–0.
“Hey, Jess.” Two words. He’s looking down at me because I am lying at his feet.
“Hey,” I return. This is not what I had in mind. I stand up, beyond embarrassed. “I see you’ve met my mum.”
“Yeah,” Matt replies. “You’re coming along later?” he asks her.
Mum shakes her head. “I’ve spent years of my life watching Stephen play. I’d rather stay in. But you two enjoy yourselves.” She looks at the shoes that I’m carrying. I wince and offer them back to her in the hope that she’ll take them off me.
“Izzie said it would be okay but if you’d rather not, I’ll wear something else.”
“Despite Izzie’s goth tendencies, she does have good taste. She’s picked out a good look for you. You could learn a lot from her.” Thanks, Mum, for basically calling me unfashionable in front of Matt. “So, keep the shoes. But if you damage them, they cost £500 to replace.” With that, she drifts off. “Enjoy. I want to hear all about it in the morning. But back by eleven, Jess, it’s still a school night.”
Rebel with a Cupcake Page 9
