Girls Under Pressure Read online

  “Feel free to insult him all you like, Magda,” I say, and I tell her about Dan and his new love.

  We end up having a really good laugh about it until Dad’s phone card runs out.

  “That was a great Christmas present,” I say.

  I get some great real presents the next day too—a book on Frida Kahlo, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, a stylish black designer swimming costume and a big box of very expensive artists’ chalks—all from Dad and Anna. Eggs gives me a new sketchbook. I spend most of Christmas morning doing a portrait of each of them.

  We’re playing Happy Families.

  But then it all goes wrong.

  We sit down to Christmas dinner around two o’clock. I’ve told Anna I want a really small portion but all the plates are piled high. She sees me looking anxious.

  “Just leave what you don’t want, Ellie,” she says, trying to keep the peace.

  It’s not that easy. Once my teeth get started they won’t stop. It’s truly delicious: large glistening golden turkey with chestnut stuffing and cranberry sauce, little chipolatas and bacon rolls, roast potatoes, sprouts, parsnips, beans. I eat and eat and eat, and it tastes so good I can’t put my knife and fork down, I cut and spear and munch until every morsel is gone. I even wipe my finger round my plate to savor up the last smear of gravy.

  “Ellie! You’ll be licking your plate next,” says Dad, but he’s smiling. “It’s great to see you’ve got your appetite back.”

  I don’t stop there. The mince pies were all eaten at the party last night but there’s still Christmas pudding with brandy butter, and then I have a tangerine, and then three chocolates with my coffee.

  “Glug glug,” says Eggs, downing a cherry brandy liqueur chocolate.

  “Oh, God!” says Anna. “Spit it out at once, Eggs!”

  Eggs swallows, his eyes sparkling.

  “Am I drunk now? Ooh, goody! Am I going to sing silly stuff like Dan’s dad did last night?”

  “You sing silly stuff without being drunk,” says Anna. “Don’t you dare touch any more of those liqueur chocolates.”

  “That’s not fair. You let Ellie.”

  “Well, Ellie’s nearly grown up.”

  I’m not so sure. I don’t know whether it’s the half glass of champagne at the start of the meal or the three chocs at the end, but I’m starting to feel seriously woozy. My stomach hurts, I’ve stretched it so much. I put my hands on it gingerly. It’s huge, like I’m suddenly six months pregnant.

  I suddenly panic. What am I playing at, stuffing myself with all this food? I must have put on pounds and pounds. I’ve messed up all the past weeks of careful dieting.

  I’ve got to do something about it. Quick.

  “I feel like a bit of fresh air,” I say, getting up from the table.

  “Hang on. We’ll just tackle the dishes and then we’ll all go for a walk,” says Dad.

  “No, I feel all funny. I’m just going outside for a bit. Leave the dishes. I’ll help with them later,” I say.

  I rush out without even stopping to grab a coat.

  “Ellie?” says Dad.

  “She’s drunk!” Eggs declares. “Um! Ellie’s drunk.”

  I do feel drunk as the icy air hits me. The mountain moves, the woods waver, the little brick privy fades in and out of vision. I feel sick. Thank God, it’s going to be easy.

  I breathe in deeply inside the loo. I retch at the smell. I get ready, tuck my hair back behind my ears, shove two fingers down my throat.

  It all happens in a rush and a roar. My eyes are tightly shut, tears seeping down my cheeks. Then I hear someone gasp. I open my eyes and see Anna peering round the door at me.

  “Anna! Leave . . . me . . . alone!” I gasp.

  She’s waiting outside when I stagger out.

  “What the hell are you doing to yourself, Ellie?”

  My heart pounds. I hold my neck. My throat’s so sore now. I’m trembling.

  “I was being sick, that’s all. Don’t look at me like that. I couldn’t help it. It’s because I ate so much. The chocolates must have been the last straw.”

  “Don’t lie, Ellie. I followed you. I saw what you were doing.”

  “You followed me into the lavatory? What sort of weird snoopy act is that?”

  “I care about you, Ellie. I’ve let you pull the wool over my eyes these past weeks but now we’ve got to sort this out. We’re going to talk it over with your father.”

  “Now? For God’s sake, Anna, it’s Christmas Day.”

  “Yes, and it was the Christmas dinner I spent all morning cooking on that awful stove, and it all turned out OK in the end, and I was so thrilled when you ate it all up so appreciatively, and we were having such a lovely time and then, then you go and spoil everything.”

  “I was sick. That’s not my fault.”

  “You liar! I saw you put your fingers down your throat.”

  “OK, OK, I felt sick and I just needed to help myself––”

  “You’re bulimic, Ellie. You did it yesterday too. I knew you had, but you kept lying to me. Why are you doing this? It’s so mad. I can’t understand how anyone could want to make themselves sick.”

  “I don’t enjoy it! It’s awful. But what else can I do when I’m so weak-willed and eat myself silly? I’ve got to get rid of all that extra food before it makes me even fatter.”

  “But you’re not fat.”

  “I am. Horribly fat.”

  “You’re not, you’re not!”

  “What on earth are you two doing out there?” Dad calls from the open kitchen door. “Why are you shouting at each other? Come indoors, you’re both shivering. What is it? What’s happened?”

  We go in. Anna starts. I tell her to leave it for another time. Dad tries to lighten things up, but Anna insists he listen to her. She says all this stupid stuff about me, exaggerating heaps. I’m not bulimic. I’ve made myself sick three times, that’s all. No big deal. And I’m not anorexic, either, though Anna insists I’m that, too.

  “Ellie can’t have that slimming disease thingy,” says Eggs. “She isn’t thin, she’s fat.”

  “See!” I say, and I burst into tears.

  Anna says Eggs doesn’t really mean fat. Eggs says he does. Anna tells Eggs to be quiet. Eggs says it’s not fair. He bursts into tears. Dad says this is ridiculous, it’s Christmas, and he’s bought this brand-new television and now nobody’s watching it and why did Anna have to start this stupid row. Anna says she’s desperately concerned about me, and Dad ought to be a better father and she’s sick to death of worrying about me and she bursts into tears. Dad says we’re all getting upset about nothing and of course Ellie isn’t really anorexic or bulimic and neither is she fat and there’s nothing to worry about and let’s stop all this nonsense and make the most of Christmas.

  So we try.

  Thank God for the television. There’s a good film on and after a few snuffles and sighs and wounded glances we all get absorbed. We’re almost playing Happy Families again—but then it’s teatime.

  I daren’t risk starting eating again in case I can’t stop. So I just sit there quietly, sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea with lemon, doing nobody any harm.

  “Ellie! You’re not eating,” says Anna.

  “I still feel a bit sick.”

  “Don’t start now.”

  “I do.”

  “Have some of this yummy Christmas cake. Look, this bit’s got extra icing,” Dad says heartily, as if I’m Eggs’s age.

  “I don’t want any cake, thank you,” I say, though the rich moist fruity smell is making my mouth water. I especially like the icing, that lovely crisp bite in and then the sweetness spreading over the tongue blended with the odd almondy tang of marzipan.

  “How about just a tiny slice if you’ve really not got any appetite?” says Dad.

  I could eat a huge slice. Two. I could eat the entire cake in one go, for goodness’ sake.

  “I’m really not hungry.”