I stare at the reflection in the full-length mirror on my wardrobe wondering what exactly Steve would change about me if he could. I know if I asked him, he would say nothing. He would say I’m perfect as is. But I don’t believe that. No one’s perfect, certainly not me. I would change a hundred things about myself. But I would love to know what he would change. I just wish he’d be honest if I asked him. Would it be my nose? My finger grazes the bridge, feeling a slight bump. I would change my nose. Shave off the bone. Smooth it out. No curve. No bump. Would it be my chin? My dad always says the slight dimple in the centre was ‘cute’. But I don’t want to be ‘cute’. I’m sick of ‘cute’.
I wish my eyes were bigger. Boys like big wide eyes on girls, lined with fluffy thick eyelashes slick with black mascara, rimmed with soft dark eyeliner. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I can line them with as much mascara, eye pencil, shimmery shadow as possible, but there’s no surgery to make eyes bigger. Or at least I don’t think there is?
I turn to the side and take in my profile next. OK, my tummy is finally getting flatter. I’ve been cutting out starches, so no bread, pasta and rice. And definitely no to any sweets and crisps. I already feel so much better with myself. Even Ulana commented that I was looking thinner.
A ripped patchwork of magazine cutouts line the rectangular mirror. The ones I most aspire to look like are taped up at my eye level so I notice them more. The bottom is reserved for more fashion-based inspiration, or hair and make-up ideas.
I’d never thought about my body much at all before I met him. Everything was so much easier back then. I wouldn’t do anything to change my relationship with him, to ever risk it, but I miss the innocence of that time, that confidence I had in myself because I didn’t know about expectations and pressure. I didn’t know there was one body we all had to have. No room for difference. We live in a factory where we’re all built to look the same, be the same weight. And if the mould skips us, then it’s our job to create it.
The perfect female body.
No excuses. We can all attain it. Anything else is just laziness. And I’m not lazy.
My eyes wander over to the shopping bags on the bed. Thin strips of lace and ribbon folded neatly in tight tissue paper secured with pink heart seals that I would have to split to open them. It was so nerve-wracking going into Boux Avenue after school today. I was terrified one of my mum’s friends would be walking by, or worse, that someone from school would see me. Everyone would know why I was in there. I have a boyfriend, I’m seventeen, and I’m in a lingerie shop. Hmm, who wouldn’t be able to guess the explosion of thoughts thrashing around in my mind right now?
I didn’t know what size to get and I was too embarrassed to ask the shop assistant to measure me so I got a few different sizes and I’ll just have to face going back in there to exchange them.
I try on the black Brazilian panty first, slipping my ankles through the very small leg gaps. Then I slide it up my legs and stand in front of the mirror. I longingly gaze at the soft cotton briefs on the bedroom floor that my mum bought me and sigh deeply. I guess those days of comfort are gone.
Next is the red chemise. But there are so many ribbons and straps, my limbs get tangled up. Arms flailing overhead, I try to pull the lace fabric over my head to start again, but the elasticated ribbon is looped around under my arm and over my neck and it’s too tight. I feel like it’s slicing into my skin.
I thrash about for a few seconds until I hear the front door bang.
My body is frozen in front of the mirror, right arm twisted up and back, left wrist caught in a ribbon. I just need to move my arm this way and—
‘Sophia?’ calls my mum from the bottom of the stairs.
No. Please no.
She’s going to come up. She’s going to find me like this. Then she’ll know. And she’ll try and stop me. She’ll tell me I’m too young, too impressionable, that I should wait until I’m least forty years old and married to a respectable man. Probably a banker. Or an accountant.
‘Sophia?’
It’s worse if I don’t answer her because then she might rush up the stairs and find me sooner.
‘Hi Mum!’ Too cheery. She’ll pick up on that. I clear my throat and deepen my voice. ‘I’m just changing from school. PE was really sweaty. I’ll be downstairs soon.’
But she doesn’t go away. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Coming closer. One step at a time. And she’s rabbiting on about a sale on coleslaw at Sainsbury’s.
I rush over to the bed and with my free elbow drag the Boux Avenue purchases off onto the floor. Then I frantically kick them under the bed. The door starts to open so I run and slam my body against the wall behind the door. I stick my foot out and catch the door.
‘Mum! I told you I was dressing. I’m completely naked!’
‘Oh sorry, honey. I just wasn’t sure if you could hear me—’
‘Coleslaw. Sale. Yes, I heard you.’
This ribbon is cutting off my circulation. My body is tingling with pins and needles. I may have to cut myself out of this one and just suffer the thirty-pound cost.
‘Do you want tea?’
Yes, give her a task to do. Downstairs. In the kitchen. At the other end of the house. Away from here.
‘Yes, I would love tea! I’m so desperate for a cup of tea, Mum.’
She turns and starts down the stairs.
Thank. God.
I kick the door shut behind her and stagger over to the mirror. Twisting my elbow up, I yank it out from under the elasticated strap, likely dragging some skin with me, and then start on the ribbon that’s slowly but certainly suffocating me.
When I’m finished, I stare at the red lacy near-death experience on my bedroom rug. Nodding confidently, I fold it up as neatly as possible and slide it back into the shopping bag, tag a little crushed but thankfully still attached. I’m all done with that one. No thanks.
I have time for one last try-on so I choose the one-piece body suit. Blue, like the colour of an early mid-morning sky. It slides on like a swimsuit, much easier than the lace contraption, and hugs close to my hips. While I stand in front of the mirror, deciding whether it’s hugging a little close, my phone beeps from the bed. I know it’s Steve because I set up his ringtone and text alerts to play ‘Love’ by Lana del Ray when it beeps.
I rush over and plop down on the bed. Huddling the phone close to my chest, to my heart, I open his text and immediately feel a big smile stretch tight across my face.
What are you up to?
Fingers trembling slightly, I curse auto-correct as my text comes out jumbled.
Noting much. Juice trying on sun clothes from Box Avenue :)
Stupid auto-correct! Now I sound like I’m drunk.
Sorry. Auto-correct! I’m just trying on something from Boux Avenue…
After what feels like a solid two minutes, he finally writes back.
Really?
Yep!
For me?
Maybe.
Can I see?
My mum is downstairs, so no! :)
Send me a photo?
I tip my head back so it lands softly on the pillow under me. A photo? A weird feeling settles into the bottom of stomach. I feel strange sending a photo of me like this out there into what…the ‘Cloud’? Or is it called the ‘iCloud’? Is that where it goes? And then what? I hear about hackers all the time who steal intimate photos of celebrities then post them on the internet. But I’m not a celebrity. And this is Steve. He’ll make sure it’s kept safe.
Promise you won’t show your friends?
Promise.
And don’t lose your phone!
Promise.
I slide off the bed and head back to the mirror. Phone raised, I start clicking, more than I need but I only want to send him the best. The ones where I look the prettiest and the thinnest. And definitely not ‘cute’. I turn the camera around and start the selfie mode next, filling up my picture library.
Plopping down on the rug, I start scrolling through them, deleting most of them. I choose three and edit them as best I can – ‘Enhance’ to make the colour pop, ‘Glamour’ to soften the edges, ‘Vintage’ on the last one so it looks hazy and dreamlike. I exhaust all of the photo apps on my phone within minutes. My hands are getting clammy. Thumb hovering above the Send button, I take a deep breath.
It’s just Steve. I know him. I trust him. I love him.
Send.