Pretty Girls Don't Eat Read online

  About the author

  Winnie Salamon began her writing career as a journalist, writing everything from opinion pieces to celebrity gossip for magazines and newspapers including Marie Claire, The SMH, The Age and NW where she was once berated by a famous person for asking a shall-not-be named US singer about her celebrity cat-fight. She is the author of Facetime, a cult novel that explored geek culture and Internet dating. These days she writes, sews and teaches university students about writing and media. She lives in Melbourne with her husband, two kids, a greyhound, a duck and a couple of geriatric chickens.

  Also by Winnie Salamon

  Facetime

  PRETTY GIRLS DON’T EAT

  Winnie Salamon

  For Ivy, Fox and Paul. My favourite people.

  ‘Pretty Hurts’ – Beyonce

  First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of Hybrid

  Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204 Australia

  www.hybridpublishers.com.au

  Winnie Salamon ©

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted

  under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any

  process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests

  and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to

  Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd, 162 Hoddle Street,

  Abbotsford, VIC 3067, Australia.

  www.fordstreetpublishing.com

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Salamon, Winnie, 1976– author.

  Title: Pretty girls don’t eat / Winnie Salamon.

  eISBN: 9781925804027

  Subjects: Weight loss – Fiction.

  Body image in girls – Fiction.

  Career development – Fiction.

  Cover design: Cathy Larsen ©

  Editor: Robyn Donoghue

  Contents

  1: Sometimes Customer Service Is the Last Thing You Want

  2: Inspired by the Congo

  3: When Kids Say Your Mum Is a MILF

  4: Smash Face Sienna

  5: Never Been Kissed

  6: Curves: The New Skin and Bone

  7: Wake Up

  8: Does the Dog Park Even Count as a Date?

  9: Pretty Girls Don’t Eat

  10: There’s Nothing Like a Good Style Icon to Cheer Up a Girl

  11: Let’s Act Like Nothing Ever Happened

  12: George Really Is Gay

  13: The Phone Call

  14: A Normal Loving Family

  15: Who Needs Chocolate When You Have Praise and Constant External Validation?

  16: Churn and Burn

  17: More Than Just Friend Material

  18: No Cake, Thanks. I’m on a Diet

  19: Beauty Fades. Dumb Is Forever

  20: Melody Deserves a Break

  21: Ramping it Up

  22: Who Knew Diarrhoea Could Feel So Empowering?

  23: Fat Is Not a Dirty Word

  24: My First Client

  25: Oliver’s House

  26: Best Night of my Life: The Aftermath

  27: Mix Tape

  28: Tell it Like it Is

  29: A Keeper

  30: You Might Be Dog Ugly, but at Least You’re Not Bitter and Twisted

  31: My Friends Suck

  32: Don’t Try This at Home

  33: Not Pretty Enough

  34: Guess What? My Kid’s in Hospital ’cos of a Bout of Laxative Abuse

  35: I Didn’t Even Use a Spoon

  36: How to Achieve a Better Body Image 101

  37: The Gym

  38: Out There

  39: It’s Been a Whole Month Since My Last Binge …

  40: Perfect Is Boring

  Chapter 1: Sometimes Customer Service Is the Last Thing You Want

  Call me old-fashioned, but there’s nothing quite like a department store in the middle of the week. Quiet, shiny, anonymous. You could spend an entire day in the lingerie section, surrounded by lace, elastic and padded inserts and nobody would consider you a pervert because they wouldn’t even notice. Watching the flat screens in electricals, trying out mattresses in bedding, browsing through racks of dresses that cost $2000 each. Applying hand cream, perfume, lipstick. All without a single, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Melody held up a pair of black pleather leggings. ‘Too much?’

  ‘Hmmm …’ I created a mental picture of Melody, all long shiny black hair, slender limbs, the queen of neutrals, rocking leather. ‘Different for you, but I think they could work. Try them on.’

  Melody scrunched up her face. ‘Oh, okay. We’ve got time, right?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. We’re not meeting George for another hour.’

  While Melody tried on the leggings, I browsed through the new season autumn designer collections. Melody and I never bothered with the basement, where all the markdowns hung messily on over-stuffed racks, sad and dejected as a batch of unwanted kittens. If there’s one thing that makes me depressed, it’s ill-fitting, poorly constructed, sweatshop produced fashion that nobody wants even when it’s half-price. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of a Wedgewood blue lace shift. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I pulled it off the rack, turned it inside out and photographed the insides. Lazy overlocked seams, and it was $600! Criminal.

  ‘Honest opinion.’ Melody came out of the fitting room, barefoot in her leather leggings and oversized white button-up. She looked like an off-duty Hollywood star. Effortless.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘They’re pretty cool. If I was rich I might even buy them.’

  ‘Ha,’ I scoffed. ‘You don’t need to. You’ve got me.’

  ‘Really? Thanks, Winter, you’re the best. I’ll totally help you get an A in history.’

  Poor Melody. It was the first curriculum day of the year and I knew she felt like she should be in the library studying, but George and I convinced her to spend the day with us. We were only two months into Year 11 and when school gives you a day off in the middle of the week, it should be embraced.

  ‘Of course you will.’ I smiled. ‘But you are not allowed to feel guilty for not doing schoolwork today!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Melody said. ‘Why did I agree to do final year maths?’

  ‘Because you’re brilliant and everyone knows it,’ I said. ‘Now stand still for a second.’

  I took a quick photo, but I didn’t really need to. They were just leggings. All I needed to do was find the right fabric and I’d whip up a pair in less than an hour. Melody liked simple silhouettes; I’d sewn half her wardrobe with barely any effort. She always says that one day, when she has money, she’ll pay me. But there’s no way. Even when we finish high school and university and Melody ends up becoming a successful paediatrician, I’ll never accept payment from her.

  ‘See anything good?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m kind of into this lace frock. It’s cute, don’t you think?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Melody said. ‘Very you.’

  Unlike Melody, I never try anything on. There’s no point. Not many labels go up to my size and even when they do, the fit is usually off. The truth is, I haven’t seen the inside of a fitting room for years, not since I was eleven and Mum took me bra shopping.

  Talk about being scarred for life.

  Mum had made a really big deal out of me getting my first bra. She had said it was a special occasion so we caught the tram into the city and had lunch at a really fancy place that Mum said served lots of delicious healthy options. We ate tuna niçoise and Mum talked about the time she went into town with Grandma to
get her first bra.

  ‘Gosh, I was a 10A. I hardly needed one. Not like now!’ She laughed.

  The whole thing was pretty embarrassing. But I could tell Mum was trying really hard and that made me feel a bit sorry for her. There I was, getting fatter by the second, and there she was, all glamorous and excited about me getting boobs.

  ‘I think you’ll be a 14 something. But we’ll get you professionally measured, just to make sure you get enough support for the girls.’

  Please, ground, I thought. Swallow me up.

  Off we went down Bourke Street and into Myer. Mum said hardly anyone shopped here in person anymore, but that it was a really good place to have underwear fitted.

  ‘She’s well-developed, isn’t she?’ remarked the bra lady as she measured my chest.

  Thank God I was wearing a singlet.

  ‘It’s a beautiful age, when they still have their puppy fat, but they’re growing up.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Mum sighed.

  My body felt like a piece of meat being inspected to determine whether or not it would be fit for human consumption. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there in my singlet as the bra lady found me some bras to try on. I thought about all the puppy fat she said I had and how I might be able to get rid of it. I knew, even then, that it wasn’t going to disappear all by itself. I’d been scoffing down a lot of chocolate at the time. Puppy fat. If only.

  While the bra lady searched for bras, Mum chattered away.

  ‘That’s the advantage of being a bigger girl,’ Mum said. ‘The boobs. Not many skinny girls have boobs the natural way, if you know what I mean. Sure, some say they do, but it’s a load of crap. Look at me. I’d be flat as a pancake without a bit of help.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said the bra lady. ‘Why don’t you go and try them on and your mum and I will wait out here.’

  I stood alone in the cubicle and all I could see was the white blob of my body, surrounded by mirrors reflecting it back at me from all angles, front and back. I thought my hair was cute. Straight, dark and cut into a pageboy bob. And my face was okay except for all the zits. But the rest of me? Round and getting rounder. Like one of those Valentine’s Day cherubs. And not in a good way.

  ‘How are you going in there?’ the bra lady asked. ‘Sing out if you need a hand!’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said loudly, trying to sound as positive as possible.

  ‘She definitely shouldn’t be wearing underwire at the moment,’ I heard the bra lady tell my mother. ‘You’ve got to let the breasts fully develop before you move onto anything like that. At her age they change so quickly.’

  I knew the moment would come. When the bra lady would want to enter the change room and check the fit. The only thing that made it bearable was the fact that she had even more ginormous boobs than me. If she were all skinny and perfect like Mum I couldn’t have coped when she entered the change room and put her fingers under the elastic to see if it was too tight.

  ‘This looks lovely on you,’ the bra lady said. ‘I love this print. It’s gorgeous. I would definitely get this one. You can wear it under your clothes and it will feel more like a singlet than a bra, but it offers quite good support. Just stunning.’

  I thought stunning was pushing it a little, but at least she wasn’t going on about my puppy fat anymore.

  ‘Let’s try the others.’

  I felt like I would never get out of there. Trapped on a bra-trying conveyer belt of elastic flicking, boob-examining humiliation. I tried on bra after bra after bra. When I finished with the first pile the bra lady brought in more. And if there’s one thing my mum loves, it’s shopping. She was super excited when we left with five wire-free styles in bubble gum colours and pretty lace and butterfly prints.

  ‘My little girl’s growing up,’ Mum said, putting her arm around me. ‘You’ll be bringing home boys in no time.’

  ‘Winter!’ Melody interrupted. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about Mum.’

  ‘What’s she done this time?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the time she brought me here to get my first bra. It was ages ago.’

  ‘You can’t let her get to you,’ Melody said.

  ‘I know. She’s been okay lately, except did I tell you she’s trying to get me to try out for some roller derby team? She probably thinks it will make me lose weight.’

  ‘Argh,’ Melody sympathised. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse. What’s with that so-called sport? So violent.’

  ‘Violence is the least of my worries.’ I sighed. ‘I’ll probably fall over and break my arm before anyone has a chance to bash me with their hockey stick or whatever that thing is.’

  I waited for reassurance, for Melody to disagree. Instead, I saw the pity in her eyes and we just stood there in silence as I pictured my flabby, unco body lying face down in the middle of the rink while a group of bad-ass roller-derby girls looked at me in horror, no doubt thinking, ‘It sucks to be her.’

  Chapter 2: Inspired by the Congo

  Because his anxiety prevents him from ever being late, George had been waiting for Melody and me for fifteen minutes.

  ‘There you are!’ George grinned from his table in the basement of our favourite food arcade.

  ‘You know we’re early?’ Melody remarked.

  ‘I know, I know,’ George said. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Just looking at clothes in Myer.’ I took a seat. ‘Melody tried on leather leggings.’

  ‘Wild.’ George laughed. ‘Can you make me a pair?’

  ‘What worries me,’ Melody said, sitting down next to George, ‘is that I’m not sure if you’re serious. I mean, what are you wearing?’

  If Melody is Natalie Portman, all prim and classic with long straight hair and capsule pieces tastefully pulled together, George is John Waters meets Willy Wonka.

  ‘It’s inspired by the Congo.’ George flipped the collar of his leopard print blazer. ‘Check out the pants.’

  George stood up and showed us his two-piece animal print extravaganza.

  ‘I love it,’ I said. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘Savers, of course.’

  ‘Wow.’ Melody rolled her eyes. ‘You are one crazy Asian.’

  George’s real name is Hien Trang, but when he was little he decided he wanted an English first name and chose George because he was obsessed with this picture book about a naughty dog with the same name. It was either that or Clifford. This is one story George keeps quiet. These days George tells everyone that he named himself after his hero George Romero. Melody and I are sworn to secrecy.

  Before I met Melody in Year 8, it was just George and me. We met on our first day of high school. I knew we were going to be friends straightaway, mainly because when I impersonated Jeremy Wade from River Monsters he totally got it.

  ‘Can you see the muscular body on this fish?’ George continued. ‘What a monster. Look at those teeth!’

  All the other kids just stood and stared, but George and I, we couldn’t stop talking. At first I had a little crush on him, but he turned out to be one of those boys who has known he’s gay ever since he can remember so there was no point even going there. Which was no doubt for the best. I’m not exactly what you’d call a boy magnet. George once said that if we’re both still virgins by the time we’re twenty-one we can totally do it. The way things are going with my non-existent love life, I might need to take him up on the offer.

  ‘I’m so hungry,’ George said. ‘Can we get a double serve of Xiao Long Bao?’

  My mouth watered at the thought. I had been meaning to sign up for Weight Watchers, where each food is allocated a certain number of points, and you can eat whatever you want as long as you stick within your allocated daily point allowance. Mum went on it last year when she supposedly got too fat to fit into her size 6 jeans. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the skinniest person ever to join the program in Weight Watchers’ history. Still, she swo
re by it and lost the weight in a month.

  ‘Yum,’ I replied. ‘Let’s get some broccoli, too.’ Mum loves broccoli. She ate it all the time when she was on Weight Watchers.

  George used the touch screen at our table to order, adding pork ribs, the prawn dumplings and sticky rice to our selection.

  ‘I love this place,’ he said. ‘It never gets old, ordering via computer with minimal waiter interaction.’

  ‘You’re so anti-social,’ Melody scoffed.

  ‘It’s called social anxiety disorder. Hello.’

  ‘Hypochondria much?’ Melody said.

  ‘Gosh, the food comes quickly,’ I said, changing the subject. I filled my small bowl with broccoli and one prawn dumpling. No rice. ‘Can you believe we’re invited to Liam’s party next weekend? What a coup. Seriously, we’re up there with the cool kids now.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to go,’ Melody said. ‘I’ve got so much work to catch up on and …’

  ‘You have to come,’ George urged her. ‘Come on, Melody. James Lewis will be there and I need backup. I can’t go with just Winter.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘I just mean that if James and I hook up I don’t want to feel guilty for leaving you on your own.’

  ‘Yeah, come on, Melody. Please,’ I begged. ‘Everyone will be there and we’ve never been invited before. Olivia told me that Liam had a party over the summer and his parents’ hedge caught on fire and the fire brigade came and everything.’

  ‘Gee, you’re really selling it to me,’ Melody muttered. ‘Okay. I’ll come. But only for you guys. I wouldn’t do it for anybody else.’

  ‘So, you and James Lewis, huh?’ I asked George.

  James was in the year above us at school. Elusive and blue-eyed, he always wore a black 70s leather blazer and black jeans.

  ‘Last week I bumped into him in the corridor and I said, “Sorry” and he said, “No problem”.’

  Melody looked over at George. ‘You know you have told us that story, like, fifty times already.’

  ‘Come on,’ I interrupted. ‘At least one of us has the possibility of a love life.’