Girls Under Pressure (8 page)

“Well, I don’t know. Not personally. But I’ve seen the way all the boys act when they’re around you. Flies. Honeypot.”

“I certainly started to feel sticky. They had all these cans of lager—and after a while they got a bit silly. One or two of these guys started kind of mauling me about. But I thought it was all just a bit of fun. Nothing heavy. And anyway, I was sure we’d be shot of them all soon enough. I suggested to Mick that we go off for a meal. He said, “Come on, guys, Magda’s hungry, let’s all go to McDonald’s.” I didn’t think this sounded very romantic and I wanted to get rid of all the mates, so I asked if we could go to a proper restaurant, just him and me. He says, “Oooh, Magda can’t wait to get me on her own,” in this stupid nudge-nudge wink-wink way. Larry and all the rest fall about laughing and I’m starting to get seriously pissed off by all this and so I start walking off by myself. Mick can see I’m serious and he puts his arm round me and suddenly starts to be so sweet. He apologizes and asks me where I want to go, saying we’ll eat anywhere, so I suggest going to the Ruby—you know that lovely Indian restaurant with the marble elephants? I always thought it would be dead romantic to eat there on a proper date. He goes ‘OK, for you, Magda, anything, but let’s hope you’re worth it’ . . . and I
still
didn’t twig what this was all about. Oh, God.” Magda bends her head over Patch, trying not to cry.

I sit on the bed beside her and put my arm round her. I can feel her quivering.

“What
happened,
Mags?”

“I—they––”

“They didn’t
rape
you?”

“No! No, I’m just making this stupid fuss over nothing.
They’re
nothing. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I should have just laughed in their faces. Anyway. We went to the Ruby, Mick and me. The others were still hanging around the park so I thought everything was fine. Mick was . . . he was really sweet, he said all this stuff . . . It makes me feel sick now, but I liked it at the time, I liked
him,
I thought—I thought this was really it. True Love. Oh, God.
So,
we had a couple of beers, Mick told the waiter we were eighteen, and we had a curry. Well, we shared one. It was a bit embarrassing, the waiter wasn’t happy about it, but I thought maybe Mick doesn’t have much cash. I started to feel mean for suggesting the Ruby. I decided I’d offer to pay myself, doing it ever so discreetly so he wouldn’t be embarrassed.

“It was getting hard to think straight. I’m not really used to beer. I slipped out to the ladies’ and splashed my face with cold water, and I started making all these stupid kissy-kissy faces in the mirror, thinking of Mick—and then when I came out of the ladies’ there he was, right in front of me, waiting for me. He kissed me and it was just amazing to start with, the way I’d imagined it would be,
better,
and he said he’d paid and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here,” and he took me round the back to the place where people park their cars and I thought this was a bit crazy because Mick doesn’t have a car and I started to tell him this but he wasn’t listening, he just had hold of me practically under the arm so he could shove me along, and he got me to these trees right at the back and then—well, at first I didn’t mind, he was just kissing me, I
liked
it, though I was a bit worried about my shoes because we were standing in all this leaf mold and mud, so I said couldn’t we get out of the mud and he didn’t understand, he took off his jacket and said I could lie on that. I said, “What do you mean, I’m not lying down,” and he said, “OK, OK, standing up, fine by me,” and then he pressed me back against this tree and . . . Well, I just thought he was trying it on at first, and I told him to stop it, but he didn’t, and his hands started going all over the place, and then he got to my jeans and I started to get mad and told him to cut it out, what sort of girl did he think I was, and he said . . . he said, ‘Everyone knows what sort of girl you are, Magda, so stop acting hard to get, right?’ and he started getting really rough then, and I got scared he really
might
rape me. I slapped his face but it just seemed to make him madder so I sort of twisted round and suddenly jammed my knee up hard and he practically fell over, grunting and groaning.”

“Good for you, Magda!”

“But then when I started running away from him and got back to the cars there were all these cheers and his mates all bobbed up and one of them said, “It’s our turn now, Magda,” and then Mick staggered out of the trees and he was calling me these awful names, and then they all started, and this couple came out into the car park. They’d been in the Ruby and they looked at all these boys and they looked at me, and the woman came over to me and asked me if I’d like a lift home and so I said yes. They were very nice to me, but I felt so dreadful, I knew they must be thinking I was a real little slag, just me and all those horrible drunken boys. I had my lipstick smeared all over the place and mud all up my jeans. I looked like a slag and . . . maybe I
am
a slag. That’s what they kept calling me, that’s what they think I am.”

“You’re
not
a slag, Magda. Don’t be so crazy. You’re a lovely gorgeous-looking girl who went out with a total perve who got entirely the wrong idea,” I say fiercely, hugging her. “I hope you kicked him so hard he still feels sick. How
dare
he treat you like that!”

“He said I was asking for it. He said why did I dress like a tart if I wasn’t willing to act like one,” Magda sobs.

“Well, he acts like a sick creep and he talks like a sick creep and he
is
a sick creep,” I say. “Forget him, Magda. Forget all about him.”

giant girl

I
go swimming on Monday morning. Zoë is there too. I hear two girls gasp as she takes off her tracksuit in the changing rooms. Zoë turns her back on them and ties her hair up in a ponytail. It hangs lankly, much thinner than it used to be.

“Zoë?” I say uncertainly. “Zoë, you’re getting so thin.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, but she looks pleased.

“How much do you weigh?”

“I’m not sure,” says Zoë. “Anyway, I need to lose a lot more because my dad’s still insisting we go away for Christmas and he’ll practically
choke
me with food so I’ve got to be a bit on the skinny side to start with.”

“Zoë, you’re not skinny, you’re skeletal,” I say, but I can’t persist.

Maybe she’ll only think I’m jealous. Maybe I
am
.

“Is your friend Magda coming today?” Zoë asks.

“No,” I say, and my heart aches thinking about her.

I forget Zoë. I forget me. I just think of Magda as I swim up and down, up and down, up and down. I can feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins. I swim faster than usual, faster than Zoë, faster than all the girls, faster than some of the boys.

There’s a little crowd larking about at the shallow end. I can’t see them clearly without my glasses. I’m not sure if they’re any of the ones who know Mick, ones who might have been there on Saturday night.

But there’s no mistaking Mick himself in the café. I go in there, hair still wet, glasses steaming up, legs bright pink from swimming, but I don’t care if I look awful. I march straight up to him, sitting there with his mates. He’s smirking all over his face.

“Who’s this, then?”

“What do you want, girlie?”

“It’s Magda’s mate.”

“Where’s Magda, then?”

“Where’s Slaggie Maggie?” says Mick, and they all laugh.

My hand reaches out and I slap him really hard across the face. His head rocks in shock, his eyes popping like they’re going to roll right down his cheeks.

“You shut up, you creep,” I say. “Magda’s not a slag. She’s a very picky choosy girl and she’d never have a one-night stand with you or anyone else for that matter. If you dare call her names or spread rumors about her I’ll tell her brothers and their mates and they’ll chop you stupid schoolboys into little pieces. So shut
up
about her, see?”

I storm off, the whole café staring. Some of the boys jeer, some laugh. Then they start shouting after me. They call
me
a slag. They call me Frizzy Face and Four Eyes. They call me Fat Bum. And yet I don’t care. I truly don’t care. I’m pleased I struck a blow for Magda. That’s all that matters.

She’s still very quiet and droopy at school. Nadine is also totally hangdog because everyone naturally asks her how she got on at the
Spicy
heat and she has to say she wasn’t chosen. So at lunchtime we go off by ourselves. We huddle on our favorite steps by the Portakabins and we have a good long self-indulgent moan. Magda goes on about boys and what pigs they are and so why does she still fancy them? Nadine goes on about
Spicy
magazine and what a tacky tedious bore it was on Saturday so why is she still desperate to model for them? I go on about being fat and how I know it’s what you are that matters, not how you look, so why am I still desperately dieting?

“But you’re
not
fat, Ellie,” says Magda.

“And your diet’s driving
me
bonkers the way you drool whenever I eat a bar of chocolate, so God knows what it’s doing to you,” says Nadine.

“Hey! Thanks for your overwhelming sympathy and understanding,” I say. I’m sitting in the middle so I can elbow them both in the ribs. “Look, I’ve been Ms. Incredibly Supportive Friend to both of you. You could try being a bit sympathetic about
my
problem.”

“You haven’t
got
any problems, you nutcase,” says Magda, snapping back to life.

“That’s right, you’re just being completely and utterly loopy,” says Nadine. “You’ll end up like Zoë if you’re not careful.”

“All right, I can see Zoë’s really gone a bit too far. But . . . if I could just get to be
normal
size––”

“You
are
normal! For God’s sake, you keep acting like you’re a freak or something, total fat-lady-in-the-circus time,” says Magda. She grabs a hank of my frizzy hair and holds it against my chin. “You could be the Bearded Lady, easy-peasy. But fat? Forget it.”

“I
am
fat. I’m much much fatter than you two.”

“I bet we’re about the same weight,” says Magda. She says how much she weighs.

It’s only a few pounds less than me.

“Rubbish. You’re fibbing. You can’t weigh as much as that,” I say. “Or if you really do then it’s because your body’s different. Heavy bones. And big muscles from all your dancing.”

“You’re making me feel like a Russian shot-putter,” says Magda. “How much do you weigh, Nadine?”

Nadine says. It’s a
lot
less.

“See! Nadine’s much taller too,” I say. “I’m the squat tubby one.”

“You’re the deluded nutty one,” says Magda. “But we still love her to bits, don’t we, Nadine?”

“Our old Ellie-Belly,” says Nadine, and she starts tickling my tummy.

“Don’t! Get off! Stop it!” I shriek, as they both tickle me mercilessly.

I try to tickle them back and we roll down the steps, writhing and squealing.

Two Year Sevens scuttle past, looking as if they’ve stumbled on an orgy. That makes us laugh even harder. I feel so good that when Nadine produces a Twix bar I accept a bite happily. Two bites. Half the bar.

Maybe I’m going to stop dieting now. Maybe it’s mad to fuss about the way I look. It’s all so stupid, anyway. Magda looks like a movie star and yet it just gives all those slimy sluggy schoolboys the wrong idea about her. Nadine looks like a fashion model and yet she was just one of a huge crowd of thin pretty girls on Saturday.

Maybe it’s OK being me. Magda and Nadine like me. And Dan likes me too.

Dan.

What’s
happened
to Dan? He sent me a funny postcard last week—but no letter. He used to write practically every day. And phone. He came down to stay one weekend. But he hasn’t been back since.

I
did
tell him that he shouldn’t keep bobbing up like a jack-in-the-box and we’d have to wait to see each other at Christmas. He seems to have taken me at my word.

I ask Anna when we’re going to the cottage for Christmas.

“A couple of days before, I thought—just to get that awful cooking range prodded into action,” says Anna, sighing. “Oh, God, the thought of all those lists, and all the shopping, and the packing, and the unpacking, and then all of us shut up in that damp cottage for days––”

“I thought you
liked
going to Wales for the holidays.”

“Well. Yes. Of course I do. It’s just . . . I saw Sara again today, you know, my designer friend, and
she’s
spending Christmas in New York.” Anna sighs enviously. “I mean, I wouldn’t really want to swap with her, not seriously, but imagine wandering round great big luxurious shops like Bloomingdale’s and going up the Empire State Building on Christmas Eve.”

“Imagine looking at all the Nativity paintings in the Metropolitan Museum and then going skating outdoors at Rockefeller Center,” I say, because I’ve seen them doing it in films.

We both imagine endlessly . . . and sigh.

“Tell you what,” says Anna, “if I ever get a decent job when Eggs is a bit older—Sara says
she
can maybe fix me up with something—I’ll save up and
we’ll
go to New York one Christmas.”

“Dad hates flying. And Eggs would be a right pain in the shops.”

“Not them. Us. Well, we’ll maybe come back for Christmas itself, I wouldn’t want to be away from them then, but we could easily whiz away for a few days, just you and me.”

I feel an odd squeezing feeling inside me. I know Anna’s only playing games, it’s not like it’ll really happen—but even so, it’s weird us playing games together. We’ve always been on separate sides of the family. Yet now it’s almost like we’re best friends.

I don’t mind. I
like
Anna. And yet, I think of my own mum and I feel so horribly mean to her.

“Ellie? What is it?” Anna says.

“Nothing,” I say, and I rush away quickly before I burst into tears.

I seem to be in an ultra-weepy watery mode at the moment. The last day at school is a serious strain. Oh, it’s fun too, because the sixth grade put on this special entertainment and it’s seriously rude and we all fall about laughing. But when we have our last homeroom lesson with Mrs. Henderson she suddenly produces this big carrier bag and she’s bought every girl in the class a little chocolate Santa. Not as big as the one Mrs. Lilley offered as a prize but this is a Santa for every single girl. Sometimes the teachers give you cards but I’ve never had one give you presents before, especially a really strict old-fashioned teacher like Mrs. Henderson.

Most of the others chomp up their chocolate straight away, a gulp of bearded head, a gollup of tummy, a crunch of boots and he’s gone. I wrap mine up carefully in a hankie and put him in my schoolbag.

“For God’s sake, Ellie, one little chockie isn’t going to make you fat,” says Magda.

“I’m saving him for sentimental reasons, not because I’m trying to get slim.”

“Don’t you overdo things, Ellie,” says Mrs. Henderson, overhearing as always. “Tuck into a few mince pies and the Christmas pudding and really let rip this holiday. You can always work it off in my aerobics class in January.”

She’s being so nice I almost wish I’d got
her
a present.

I
have
got a present for Mrs. Lilley. Well, for little baby Lilley. I find Mrs. Lilley in the art room at lunchtime and hand it over, feeling stupidly shy as I thrust the little red crepe parcel into her hand.

“Can I peep at it now?” Mrs. Lilley asks.

“OK. If you want,” I say awkwardly, wishing it was more special.

I made it in a rush in a couple of hours last night. It’s a little yellow cloth teddy bear wearing a red jumper and purple trousers.

“I had buttons for his eyes at first but then I thought the baby might choke, so I sewed eyes on instead. They look a bit crossed, actually.”

“No, they don’t, he just looks a bit anxious. Oh, Ellie, he’s lovely.” Mrs. Lilley makes him pad about on his soft paws, acting like a little kid herself.

I’m so pleased she likes the teddy and so sad that she’s going that I have to swallow hard and sniff.

“It’s going to be horrible without you for art,” I mumble.

“Ah! I think you might enjoy art even more,” she says. “I met your new art teacher the other day. I think you’re in for a surprise.”

“Is she really nice, then? Is she young? What does she look like?”

“I’m not going to say another word,” says Mrs. Lilley, laughing. “But I think your art lessons are going to be fun. You could do with a bit of fun, Ellie. You’ve seemed a bit down the last few weeks. There’s nothing really serious troubling you, is there?”

“No. Not really. I just wish I could change myself sometimes,” I say.

“In what way?”

“Oh. You know,” I say, blushing. I wish I hadn’t started this now.

I wish I could tell her how much I want to be thin. But what’s the point? She’ll just say something comforting about my looking fine the way I am. And I know it’s stupid to be so utterly self-obsessed. I know I should start caring about heaps of other things. I
do
care about the awfulness of war and starving babies and tortured animals and destroying the countryside. It’s just that if I’m totally one hundred and one percent honest I care about being fat just a weeny bit
more
.

As the teddy seems such a success I decide to revert to my old homemade habits and make everyone an appropriate soft toy for Christmas. I quite enjoy the first few days we break up from school because I go shopping for material in the market and then cut and pin and stitch for hours on end.

Eggs is a bit of a pest because he keeps wanting me to play with him, so I get him some cardboard from a cornflakes packet and show him how to do cross-stitch. He quite likes stabbing away at it, doing these great big wobbly crosses.

I find it helps me stop wanting to nibble all the time as you can’t really eat and sew. It’s annoying that it’s such a sedentary occupation. I haven’t been swimming for a bit. I’m a bit scared Mick’s mates might drag me right under and drown me if I dared show up. I wonder if Zoë’s still going, or if she’s already been hauled off for her holiday abroad? I bet she’ll do aerobics up and down the aisle and refuse to eat so much as one free peanut on the plane. I don’t know Zoë well enough to make her a present but if I did, her soft toy would definitely be a stick insect.

I make Magda a fluffy white cat with big blue eyes, very proud and purry-looking. I tie a red satin ribbon round its neck. I make Nadine a lemur with huge black-ringed eyes, black claws and a long stripy tail.

We have a special Girls Day Out on the twenty-second so we can give each other our Christmas presents. Magda and Nadine want to meet at Pizza Hut. I argue. I don’t win. So I go through agonies before I order. I so badly want a pizza, a huge great deep-pan four-cheese pizza with garlic bread and a giant glass of Coke—and yet I add up the calories in my head and the numbers flash like pinball machines, 100, 200, 500,
1000
—and so I dither desperately.

Magda orders. Nadine orders.

“Shall I come back in a few minutes?” says the waitress, raising her eyebrows.

“No, she’ll have a pizza too, with all the trimmings you’ve got, pineapple, pepperoni, you name it,” says Magda.

“No, I won’t!” I say.

“Go on, have it on me. You’ve got to start eating properly sometime, Ellie, it’s getting to be such a
pain
.”

“You’ve lost heaps of weight, look,” says Nadine, fiddling with my skirt waistband. “Positively fading away. Have the pizza special, eh?”

“Get
off,
Nad. No. I’ll have a mozzarella and tomato salad and a mineral water,” I say, although the only time I ate mozzarella cheese it was like someone had filled my mouth with soap.