CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Observation #89:
If men had periods, more time would be spent researching painkillers. Just sayin’.

My ankle wobbles, the shoe goes and I go with it. Instead of locking lips with Matt, I’m sitting on my fat arse on the rather sticky floor, being looked down on — in every sense — by all the cool people. This was not the way I planned it. Matt reaches down and hoists me back up again. Being hoisted is the least romantic thing that can happen to someone.

“You okay?”

I put my best brave face on. “Yes, but now I know why they are called killer heels. I’ll be back in a minute.” I need time out, and that drink from earlier means a trip to the toilets is in order. Off I career, walking from pillar to pillar, still struggling to do the very simple task of moving from one place to another. Would Mum kill me if I broke the heels of these things? I mean, I’m her daughter. What woman would choose a pair of shoes over her daughter? I shake my head, stupid question. Mum once said she’d sell us all for a fully funded shopping trip to Paris and I don’t think she was joking.

The second I’m behind the door, I rip off the shoes and squeal with delight. My toes are singing with joy but secretly sobbing at the same time. They’re all red and crushed together, and a nail has cut into another toe so that the inside of the shoe looks like a Halloween massacre. And all this for beauty?

“Great shoes but they’re a bugger to wear.” I look up to see a girl a few years older than me, large but rocking a sparkling blue catsuit, redoing her fabulous makeup in the mirror. I take note of how confident she looks. She’s not draping her curves in baggy shirts and layers, like I do.

“I love what you’re wearing,” I find myself saying. “Where did you get it from?” As she tells me the name of the online shop, I decide that she looks familiar. Is she looking at me the same way? It’s all a bit awkward. “Sorry to stare, but I think I recognize you from somewhere,” I say.

With eyes narrowed, she’s still assessing me, and then a broad beam of recognition crosses her face. “You’re Fat Girl!” I wince. Oh yes, on so many levels, I am. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m Imogen Hattersley. I blog a bit. I didn’t mean to be rude, but you’re from the clip, aren’t you? ‘Fat Girl vs. Mean Girl?’”

Then it hits me. I’m talking to Fat Girl with Attitude. “That’s me,” I say. “Half, well, maybe two-thirds, of the clip is standing before you.”

“Cool,” she says, “I love that video. I played it when I was feeling down. Before it got taken down, that is.”

I look at her, bemused. “You don’t.”

Smiling as she expertly applies her lip gloss, she says, “Yeah, you know, when I have a fat day …”

“A fat day?”

“A day when you feel fat and don’t like it. A day when someone says something nasty about how you look or you can’t fit in your favorite jeans. Well, when I was having a fat day, I watched that and how cool you were, and then it made me feel that I could take on the mean girls, too.”

Wow to infinity and beyond.

There’s too much to handle here. First, I’m cool. Second, I’m an inspiration. I feel like asking, But don’t you just see how big my belly is? But I don’t, because a) I don’t want to spoil the moment and b) it’s clear that she didn’t notice at all.

“That’s the first time someone I don’t know has recognized me,” I say. “I think this is my fifteen seconds of fame.”

“Isn’t it fifteen minutes?”

“I think since the Internet came along, the whole world got a lot faster.”

She laughs. “Well, the Internet has a lot to answer for. Cute cat videos are great but it’s a Wild West for people like us.”

“That’s so true. But you have a really great blog. I love reading it.”

“We are the fabulous fat people of the North West!”

I start to babble. “Your posts are great. You say what I think and feel, only better. And you look fabulous! I struggle with fashion.” I gesture down at my clothes. “My friends helped me out tonight. But I love your pictures. I need to start shopping where you do.”

She holds out her hand. “So, I’m Imogen. What’s your name, Fat Girl?”

“Jesobel but everyone calls me Jess.”

“You should totally go with Jesobel. Jesobel is a name with attitude. Well, Jesobel, if you want to, I’ll take you shopping sometime.”

I know that you shouldn’t arrange to meet people you only know from the Internet. I know that there is a small chance that she’s some crazed stalker who will kidnap me, kill me and then impersonate me by wearing my skin. But I don’t think it’s very likely. The strange thing is that I feel like I know her already.

“I would love that.” I look at myself in the mirror. “I don’t know what my look is. I don’t think this is my look. I feel like I’m at a fancy-dress party.”

“It’s hard,” Imogen sympathizes. “I think you look great but no look is going to work unless you like it.”

My false eyelashes are starting to droop and fall, and the sweaty heat of the room is doing nothing for my lashings of mascara. “Here.” Imogen takes one look at my sad face and starts to fix me up. For someone who can cook, get good grades and generally cope at life quite well, I seem to spend a lot of my time being fixed up by other people.

“Now, that’s better.” And it is. We get out our phones and swap numbers. “I’d love to stay but I have to be off. How strange to meet you here! I have a thing for nineties’ one-hit wonders. What brings you here?”

I feel a sense of pride for Dad, though I don’t think that has ever happened before today. “I’m Steve Jones’s daughter.”

Imogen claps her hands in glee. “Perfect. Of course you are.” She looks thoughtful. “Okay, Jess, I think it would be really cool if you wrote something for my blog. I emailed you, didn’t I? But you never got in contact.”

Oh my days.

“I’d love to …” I start with a rush of emotion. “But I’m just not sure what I’d have to say that would be of any interest.”

“Nonsense. I’ve got to run. I need to write this up for a newspaper and get it out before anyone else does. But I’ll be in touch. Good to meet you, Jesobel Jones.” And with a hug, she’s off.

I look in the mirror. Imogen wants to go shopping with me. Imogen is my new best friend. I’m so excited by this, I’ve completely forgotten about Matt. Or about going to the toilet. Getting those jeans up and down is an ordeal, especially with the long fake nails that Hannah has stuck on me, and it takes ages. The nails are a HUGE issue when … let’s say, you could easily remove/damage important parts of your anatomy if you’re not careful with them.

All hot and bothered, I rush as quickly as the shoes will allow. They really are just a patriarchal instrument to stop women taking an active part in life. I peer through the crowd for Matt, but spot my dad instead. He’s surrounded by friends and fans, but I wave enthusiastically and give him a big thumbs-up when he sees me.

That’s all good — my daughterly duty is done. But where is Matt?

I see a tall figure leaning against one of the pillars in shadow. “Matt?”

He steps forward. I sigh with disappointment. “Hey, Alex. Do you know where Matt is?”

“I do. Can you walk in those shoes?”

Vaguely annoyed by him changing the subject, I say, “Evidently. I was there. Now I’m here. I think you just saw me walk. Why?”

Alex seems amused. “Nothing. It’s not your normal look, that’s all.”

“A girl can have more than one look. A girl can express herself through clothes however she wants.”

“Of course a girl can. I just thought that you would normally laugh at shoes like that and say that they are a patriarchal way to oppress women.”

I look at him in surprise. Is he a mind reader? Instead, I just sniff. “I don’t take fashion advice from a Ron Weasley wannabe.” It’s a bit cruel but he just laughs. “Seriously, where’s Matt?”

A shadow passes over his face. “He sent me to wait for you. He’s sorry but an amazing thing happened. He got talking to a promoter who’s interested in the band, and they’ve gone off to listen to the demo we did.”

“Oh,” I say. The word oh can contain so much. Like, that’s great for him but what about me? The best night of my life has peaked too early.

“I’ll give you a lift home if you like,” Alex offers. I had really been looking forward to the lift home. All warm and cozy in the Mini. Matt’s hand on the gear stick, inches from mine. I might have accidently brushed it while getting something from my bag. The chance of a goodnight kiss. All gone. Oh.

“That would be great.” I look around. Dad’s busy, Matt’s gone, even Imogen’s just disappeared. There’s nothing here for me.

I take the shoes off. “I’ve decided I don’t like this look anymore.”

Alex grabs Mum’s heels from me. “I accept that you can express yourself however you wish but these are stupid shoes.”

“I never want to see them again.” I sigh. With one expert throw, he chucks them in a nearby bin.

“Alex! They cost £500!”

“Waste of money. You could get a good guitar for that.”

I scrabble through the bin. “You idiot, I’ve got to give them back.” Thank God, they’re just on the top so I don’t have to get my hands too far down in the rubbish. “It’s not funny.”

Alex thinks otherwise. “It’s a bit funny. And you think they should be there, really.”

“Maybe. I think they’re great. Unless you have to walk.” I’m suddenly very tired. All the days of anticipation, all the hours to get ready, all the emotions this evening. And here I am, removing a pair of shoes that I don’t even like from a bin.

“Can you take me home?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Going home on my own is not how I imagined this night to end, I think sadly. But then I remember the party. I do have a second, final chance.