Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
The lift’s doors slide closed and I press number three. Moments later, I reach the editorial floor just a couple of minutes before nine o’clock. I go up to Irfan’s desk and put down his favourite takeaway coffee. Farah approves of him having an occasional hazelnut latte now. After what happened with Bella, she says moderation is safer.
Not that I call anorexia Bella any more. She is an it ; an illness that robbed me of my joy, my friends, my sanity, who robbed me of me. I wrestle a paper bag out of my purple rucksack, take off my light jacket and offer Irfan one of the chocolate croissants.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asks.
‘It’s what you’re going to do,’ I say and wink, before sitting down at my desk opposite. Sun rays stream through the nearby window. I take a deep breath before biting into the croissant. I’ve come a long way. Yes, I’ve put on weight, but I can see now that those curves are normal, essential parts of my body, protecting me from bumps and scrapes, safeguarding vital internal organs; curves that were celebrated in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Ultra thinness is nothing but a fashion. I can see that I look better – when I’m feeling positive, that is; when I’m not looking in the mirror and still listening to the disease’s insidious voice.
‘It takes time,’ Kath says. ‘You’re doing great. You’ve got many unwritten, exciting chapters ahead.’
That’s another thing. My period’s come back. Imagine jeopardising your chance to have kids for the sake of a smaller dress size?
Yet that’s not all that anorexia is about. I’ve learnt so much, thanks to my doctor, my counsellor, to Kath and Farah. It’s about looking for control if life’s become unstable; about coping with trauma.
‘I want you to read a submission I’m really hoping we’ll take further,’ I say. ‘Then help me persuade Felicity. The writing speaks for itself but…’
Irfan puts down his cup and raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m concerned I’ll be seen as biased as the subject matter is… close to my heart.’ My cheeks heat up. ‘It’s a Young Adult novel about a group of teenagers living in an eating disorder recovery facility. The story displays a refreshingly raw talent. It sends a powerful message without being preachy. There’s just the right amount of humour and romance. It’s one of the most standout submissions I’ve read all summer.’ My heart races and I take a large swig of coffee.
Irfan reaches forwards and stretches out his arm. ‘I’ll read it tonight while you and Farah are at the cinema.’ I hand the manuscript across. He takes it, looks at me and clears his throat. ‘We’re both so proud of you.’
My eyes prick. ‘I’m just grateful you’ve forgiven me for my terrible behaviour.’
Irfan exhales loudly. ‘Believe me, it’s nothing out of the ordinary for us. Daily forgiveness is very much a part of being married.’
We catch each other’s eye and smile. My phone buzzes. Lenny. Am I still up for a drink tomorrow after work? His new signing is acting like a pain in the arse; a total diva even though they’ve not been published yet. He needs to get it off his chest. He sends a gif of a bodybuilder flexing his pecs. I send back a thumbs up.
Lenny. A true friend, as it turns out.
As was the rough sleeper Tim, who reported me to the police all those years ago, who saved me from running away with my imaginary friend Flint. He had my best interests at heart and has inspired me to do what I can to help others with friends like Bella. Publishing this Young Adult book would be one small step, but nothing like what he’s achieved. You see, this time last year when I finally admitted Bella wasn’t a real person, I had no idea how I was going to climb out of such a rock bottom. Therefore I looked for Tim on social media. I remembered his unusual surname, Pepperpot. It made him easy to find. Tim manages a homeless shelter now. He’s married to a kind-looking man called Ed. He’s made something of his life despite the worst circumstances; he’s making a difference; he’s happy.
I didn’t reach out to him but it warmed my heart to see he’s got the life he deserves.
I pick up the latest copy of the Bookseller and flick through the pages. My breath hitches. Casey. That jet black hair, those inky eyes. There’s a tsunami of excitement about Alien Hearts that’s due out in the autumn. We bumped into each other at an event last month.
‘Vi?’ He stopped, gathered himself and took my elbow. He led me over to a private corner in the bookshop. ‘How are you? I… I’ve thought about everything this last year. You look good. Really… well.’
‘I’ve thought about you too.’ I took a deep breath. ‘How I messed up. Big time. I never meant to use you but I can see now that’s exactly what I did.’ I lifted my chin. ‘But the feelings for you, Casey, they were genuine.’ I gulped. ‘I… I don’t blame you for walking away.’
We left the book signing and went for a drink. Yes, he’d got a big six-figure advance. Yes, he was still working at his salon. He’d had a long chat with his colleague, Judy, whose sister has been bulimic for several years.
‘I understand more now,’ he said.
‘Still, it’s no excuse, on my part,’ I replied, glad that he didn’t politely protest. Honesty was going to be essential if we… gave us another go. Because since then we’ve been out for a drink twice! It’s early days but I’m holding out hope that, at the very least, we’ll rekindle our friendship. And the look in his eyes last week, when we hugged goodbye, suggested there might be more than that waiting around the corner.
I put down the magazine. But if not, that’s okay. I’m so lucky to be hanging out again with my dear, kind book club buddies, and that my friendship is back on track with Irfan and Farah. With Lenny too, and Casey and I are talking. Anything else would be a bonus. Finally I recognise that the most important people in my life are the ones who accept me as I am.
I gaze at a photo on my desk of me and Uncle Kevin holding ice creams, both of us in odd socks, silly grins on our faces, my hair all curly like it is today. I run a finger over the frame and smile at the pair of us living our best lives.