I stare at her in total astonishment.
“I’ve been trying to psych myself up to asking you for ages. I kept telling myself I was jumping to mad conclusions. I haven’t said anything to Dad. I promise I won’t breathe a word till you say it’s OK. And it
is
OK. I mean, obviously it’s not what anyone planned, and we’ll have to consider all the options, but the world isn’t going to come to an end. We’ll manage no matter what you decide. And it’s
your
decision, Ellie, because it’s
your
baby.”
“Anna. Listen. I’m not going to have a baby.”
“Well, if that’s what you’ve decided––”
“I’m not pregnant! Anna, are you crackers or something? Baby? Me?” Then I suddenly gasp. “Oh, God, is it because I’ve got so fat?”
“No! You’ve got
thin
over the past few weeks, but I thought that was because you were worrying—and unhappy because Dan hadn’t got in touch.”
“Dan? Oh Anna, you didn’t think
Dan
was the father!” The idea is so ludicrous I burst out laughing.
Anna can’t help giggling too.
“Look, Dan and I haven’t done anything at all. Just a few kisses, that’s all. How could you think . . . ?”
“I know, it did all seem so unlikely. But you must admit, you’ve been a bit withdrawn and moody lately, completely off your food, being sick, suddenly terrified of looking fat—and then I couldn’t help noticing you haven’t touched your Tampax box this month. I know you’re not really regular just yet but it all started to add up. Oh, Ellie, you’ve no idea how great it feels that I’ve got my sums wrong!”
She gives me a hug, but then she tenses.
“You
do
smell of sick.”
“Stop it! Don’t start
again
!”
Anna holds me at arm’s length and looks me straight in the eyes.
“What
is
wrong, Ellie?”
‘Nothing.”
“Come on. You haven’t been yourself for ages.”
“Well, good. I don’t like myself. I want to be a
new
self.”
“I liked the old Ellie,” says Anna. “You’ve lost some of your sparkle. You’re so pale and drawn looking. I was mad to encourage you with that stupid diet. You’ve lost too much weight.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve hardly started. I’m still horribly fat, look.” I pluck at my clothes with disgust.
“
You
look,” says Anna, lifting my thick jumper.
“Get
off,
Anna,” I say, trying to pull away. “Stop staring at me.”
“You’ve lost
lots
of weight. I didn’t realize just how much. Oh, God. Ellie, you’re not anorexic, are you?”
“Of course not. Look, I eat heaps. Like two dinners today, right?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Unless . . . Ellie, you didn’t deliberately make yourself sick, did you?”
My heart is thumping but I manage to meet her eyes.
“Honestly, Anna, give it a rest. First I’m pregnant, then I’m anorexic, then bulimic!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m making a complete mess of all this. Look, the Dan situation. You say you’re not friends anymore?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what the situation
is
because I haven’t seen Dan for ages.”
“Are you two women going to stay gassing in this kitchen all day long?” says Dad, putting his head round the door. “Come and watch the new telly now I’ve got it.”
“OK, OK, we’re coming.”
“And you’ll be seeing Dan soon enough,” says Dad. “I bumped into his dad in the pub. I invited the whole family over for a Christmas drink this evening!”
family girl
“
Y
ou’ve done
what
?” I say to Dad.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” says Dad, bewildered. “You’ve been dying to see young Dan, haven’t you?”
“No! Well . . . the point is, I wanted
him
to get in touch with
me
. Now he’ll think this is all my idea. Oh, Dad, how could you?”
“Yes, how
could
you?” says Anna. “You idiot! Christmas drinks? What drinks? We’ve only got wine for the meal tomorrow and a few cans of beer. And then there’s all their kids. How many are there, five, six? And what about
food
? We’ll have to give them snacks of some sort. I’ve got one jumbo bag of crisps and one tin of peanuts. They’ll wolf them down in one gulp.”
“Is Dan coming, Dad? I like Dan. He plays good games and makes me laugh,” says Eggs.
“Yes, pal. Dan is coming. I’m glad
someone’s
pleased.” He hoists Eggs onto his shoulder and they go back to the television.
“I’m not going to be here when they come,” I insist. “I’ll go out.”
“Don’t be daft, Ellie. Where can you go? You can’t tramp up and down the mountain in the dark.”
“But it’ll look so gross. Oh, God, if I stay
I’ll
look gross. I haven’t brought any of my decent clothes with me.”
“Neither have I. Still, Dan’s family aren’t exactly stylish dressers.”
We both have a catty giggle. They are dedicated anorak wearers.
“So what
are
we going to give them to eat?” Anna says, looking through the cardboard boxes in the kitchen. “I’ll have to drive down to the village and raid the Spar shelves. Honestly. As if I haven’t got enough to do. I was going to get all the veg prepared and stuff the turkey ready for tomorrow.”
“I’ll get started on all that,” I say.
I scrub potatoes and peel sprouts and stuff turkey until my hands are sore. Then I dab at my face in the freezing bathroom and try to pull my hair into place. I pull on my black jeans and my black-and-silver shirt. My stomach still seems bloated and I’m scared they won’t fit—but I can button the jeans easily and the shirt doesn’t pull across my chest the way it used to. So I must have lost weight. Quite a lot . . .
Anna is really grateful when she gets back from her trip to Spar, and even more so when I grill little sausages and fill pastry shells and wrap brown bread around tinned asparagus spears. I arrange them ultra-decoratively, making little faces with wedges of cheese and pineapple and olives on crackers for the children. I don’t have as much as one nibble, although I’m feeling a bit faint—but I get a weird little thrill out of this. I’m in control now. I’m getting thinner.
I’M GETTING THINNER!
But I feel fatter-fatter-fatter when I hear the car draw up outside the cottage and the slam of doors and lots of voices.
Anna, Dad and Eggs go to the front door. I hang back, trying to look cool.
Dan’s brothers and sisters pour in, wearing hand-knitted old jumpers and baggy dungarees. There are far more than I remembered—some have got friends with them. It’s a good job Anna did her Spar trek. Then Dan’s mum and dad come in and they’re wearing matching sheep sweaters and jeans that go in and out in all the wrong places. They’ve got friends, too—a man with yet another jolly jumper (manic woolly frogs) and smelly old cords, and a droopy woman in a patchwork waistcoat and an Indian skirt with an uneven hem.
Then another stranger comes in. A girl about my age. Another refugee from the Style Police. She’s wearing a man’s rugby shirt and saggy tracksuit bottoms. There’s a lot of bottom in the bottoms. She’s not exactly fat—just big all over, and brawny with it. There are serious muscles under those stripes. She’s got long hair that looks even frizzier than mine but it’s scraped back in a schoolgirly plait so tight it’s making her forehead pulse. She smiles.
“Hi there, folks.”
Oh, God. She’s even heartier than I thought. Who is she?
“I’m Gail,” she says, waggling her fat fingers. “I’m Dan’s friend.”
I stare at her. The whole room goes suddenly quiet. Waiting. Dan himself makes his entrance. He trips over the doormat, staggers dramatically, and is about to go headlong but Gail catches his arm and yanks him upright.
“Whoops!” she says.
“Whoops indeed,” Dad mutters, suddenly by my side. “Hey, Ellie, what are you drinking, sweetheart? Coke? Orange juice? Tiny drop of wine?”
He is being sweetly supportive, even offering me a chance to drown my sorrows.
“Ellie, can you pass round some of the plates? Ellie did all the food. Hasn’t she done it artistically?” says Anna, forcing everyone in the room to nod admiringly.
Dan is standing still, red in the face, but his eyes are gleaming behind his steamed-up glasses. His severe crew cut has grown into a strange scrubbing brush that defies gravity. Gail grins and ruffles his bristles affectionately.
“Honestly, Danny, you are a fool.”
Dan certainly looks a fool. He’s wearing a man’s rugby shirt too. The shoulders droop at his elbows, the hem flaps round his knees. It is sadly obvious that this is a virgin rugby shirt that has never seen action on a muddy field. Perhaps Gail has another kind of action in mind. She can hardly keep her hands off him.
Eggs does his best to elbow her out of the way.
“Hi, Dan, hi! It’s me! Eggs!”
“Hi, Eggs,” Dan says, and he picks him up and turns him upside down and tickles him.
Eggs squeals and wriggles and kicks. One of his feet catches Gail right in the stomach. Anyone else would double up, but she seems to be made of india rubber.
“Hey, little sprog! Watch those Kickers!” she says, and she takes him from Dan and shakes him.
It’s good-humored and if it was Dan, Eggs would adore it—but he stiffens instead.
“Stop it! Put me down! You’ll make me sick!” he screams.
Gail puts him back on his feet, her eyebrows raised.
“Hey, calm down! You’re fine,” she says.
Eggs ignores her. He looks straight at Dan.
“Who
is
that girl?”
“That’s Gail. She’s my friend,” says Dan.
“Do you mean your
girlfriend
?”
“Hey, hey, Eggs, that’s enough,” says Anna. “Come over here.” She can’t remove him physically because she’s balancing three platefuls of food and her hands are working overtime as it is.
Dan shuffles in his plimsolls. Gail is nowhere near as reticent.
“Sure, I’m Dan’s girlfriend,” she announces.
“No, you’re not,” Eggs says, outraged. “
Ellie’s
Dan’s girlfriend, not you.”
“Shut
up,
Eggs,” I say, backing against the wall.
Eggs won’t shut up.
“Why can’t Ellie still be your girlfriend? She’s much nicer,” Eggs insists.
“Button it, Eggs,” says Dad, and he whisks him up and takes him upstairs.
Eggs remains unbuttoned, shrieking as he goes. There’s a terrible silence downstairs.
Oh, God. Everyone’s trying very hard indeed to pretend I’m not here.
“Who’d like a pastry?” Anna says desperately.
“I’ll fetch some more,” I gabble, and rush out to the kitchen.
I lean against the sink and pour myself a glass of water. I gulp it, trying to calm down.
“Ellie?”
I splutter. Dan has followed me into the kitchen.
“Are you OK?”
I’ve got water dribbling out of my nose and he asks me if I’m OK! Dan thumps me hard on the back.
“Hey! Don’t!”
“Sorry, sorry, I just thought you might be choking.”
“Well, I’m not. And it should be me thumping you, not the other way round.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ellie. I didn’t know what to
do
. I thought I’d just sort of fade out of the picture. It would be easier for everyone, right? I thought you’d maybe sussed things out already, and anyway, it was always me crazy about you, not the other way round. I thought we’d maybe not even meet up—but then your dad invited us all, and
my
dad said it would look ever so rude if Gail and I didn’t come too. I felt awful. I mean, it wasn’t like I was trying to flaunt Gail in front of you. Even though I’m so crackers about her now, you’re still my
first
girlfriend and—and—and I know I should have told you about her but I kept putting it off and––”
“Dan. Stop burbling. It’s not like we were ever a real
item
. It’s no big deal. Honestly.”
Am I just saying this or do I really mean it? Dan is a good mate but I was mad to think I could ever nurse a grand passion for him. Or a weeny passion. Or any passion at all.
If Gail was a slender stylish sort of girl then I’d feel horrible. But she’s like a cartoon version of me—only even fatter. Built like a tank, in fact. With the same knack of squashing people flat. She comes bounding into the kitchen even though it’s obvious Dan and I need five minutes together to sort things out in private.
“No hard feelings, eh, Ellie?” she says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I’ll have a large bruise there tomorrow.
She insists on telling me this long and totally dreary tale of how they met. She was part of a girls’ rugby team playing a match at Dan’s school and he provided the oranges at halftime. Oh, please, is this
romance
? Then they saw each other on a bus and Dan was just bowled over. Apparently. Anyway, what do I care?
I really
don’t
care. And yet . . . even though Dan is such a totally sad case it feels a bit weird not to have anyone at all now. I originally invented a relationship between us just to kid on to Magda and Nadine that I had a proper boyfriend at long last. After they found out, I went through a stage of thinking maybe Dan could still be a boyfriend. He looks a complete idiot and acts like it too but he
can
be bright and funny and inventive. Occasionally. And he always had this one redeeming feature. He treated me like I was Juliet and he was Romeo.
Only now it turns out I was just his Rosaline.
Gail
is Juliet. They’re acting out their major love scene right in front of my eyes. They’re hardly Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes, granted. But when they look into each other’s eyes and laugh it’s as if they’re in a little world of their own. And everyone crammed into our moldy cottage belongs to someone else and I suddenly feel so lonely, because I’m on my own and I haven’t got anyone—not even Dan.
There’s one good thing. I feel so out of it that I don’t even feel hungry. I pass plates of food round and round the room and I hand out glass after glass of drinks but the only thing I have all evening is water from the tap. No calories at all.
Anna dodges out to the kitchen and comes up to me.
“I think you’re being marvelous, Ellie.”
“It’s just as well you don’t still think I’m pregnant,” I say. “Oh, Anna, imagine Dan being a dad. He’d wrap a nappy round its head and tie a bib on its bottom.”
Anna and I laugh, all girls together. Half an hour later I see Dad hold up this corny bunch of mistletoe and they kiss like love’s young dream. I feel so lonely again. So totally out of it that the social smile stiffens on my face and tears prick my eyes.
I know what I want to do. I want to phone my girlfriends. But the phone is in the living room and all these people are milling about talking and kids are dashing around all over the place and it’s simply not possible.
“Ellie?” Dad leaves Anna and comes over to me. “Ellie, are you all right?”
“No. I’m all wrong.”
Dad drops the mistletoe onto the carpet.
“I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I’m an idiot. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Make them all vanish so I can phone Nadine and Magda.”
“Mmm. I’ll try,” he says. He wiggles his nose, shuts his eyes and mumbles, “Hocus pocus, gobbledegook, please disappear when I next have a look.”
“Er . . . it hasn’t worked, Dad.”
“True. Do you really badly want to phone Magda and Nadine?”
“Yes. But I can’t. Not in front of everyone.”
“Well, I’m Father Christmas, right? So shove a coat on and come and have a ride on my sleigh.”
Dad takes my hand and we slip out of the house. He drives me down to the village, parks outside the public phone box, and presents me with his own phone card.
“Oh, Dad! Hey, you’re
my
Father Christmas. Thanks ever so,” I say, giving him a hug.
I phone Nadine first.
“Oh, Ellie, I’m going completely off my head,” Nadine whispers. “My aunty and uncle and my gran are all here and the curly-haired lisping infant is showing off till it makes me sick and everyone keeps nagging me to cheer up because it’s Christmas. It’s the total pits.”
I soothe in sisterly fashion, and reassure her that I’m actually having a
worse
time, with my ex-boyfriend parading his new girlfriend at my party.
Then I phone Magda and she’s got a party going on at her house too.
“But I just can’t get into the party mood somehow,” Magda says. “There’s several really tasty-looking boys, my brothers’ mates, and normally I’d be bouncing about in my element, but since that awful night with Mick I’m kind of scared. I don’t want anyone else to get the wrong impression, so I’ve just been really quiet and hardly talking to them and my entire family keep telling me to cheer up because it’s Christmas and I’m, like,
so
?”
“I’ve just phoned Nadine and she feels exactly the same way.”
“Well, at least you’re OK, Ellie. You’ve got Dan and
he’s
hardly likely to leap on top of you and then spread filthy stories about you. He’s a total sweetie even if he’s a bit of a berk. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounds.”
“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.