Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake Read Online Free

the eye from Anne.
    “Three. Three. Zero. Seven.”
    Anne swivelled, disappearing out the door to the post boxes.
    Having received the bulky yet squishy package, I set off down Harold Street towards home. I couldn’t wait to get my new jeans on and try a few tops with them. I was determined to look my best when Connor and I met again. I wanted him to see what he was missing. Not that I’d ever take him back but I wanted him to see, all the same. It was a matter of pride. Or was it principle?
    I walked down the street past the I.G.A and a few plops of rain fell on my head. Ignoring them, I smiled to myself. The mental picture was forming — the jeans, hugging my curves, a pair of heels like the girl, Adelaide, had been wearing earlier on and that nice sparkly top I’d picked up on a trip to Perth. That’d make a few heads turn. I reached the front door as the rain began to pelt. Giving the parcel a quick shake to rid it of rain, I flipped the hall light on before walking to the bedroom, biting the plastic satchel of the parcel open as I went. I was going to show everyone you didn’t have to be a size eight to look good. Once I got those jeans on, they’d eat their words. Because I was not fat. Curves were womanly. Sexy.
    Stepping out of the canvas trousers I wore at work, I tossed them towards the washing basket and shook the new jeans from their tissue paper wrapping.
    Oh, the smell of new denim, it was like getting a new car but better. Not that I’d ever had a new, new car but I’d smelled that scent you spray at the car wash tonnes of times.
    I slid open the second drawer of the chest and rifled amongst the ‘going out’ tops until I found the silver one I’d been thinking of. I tossed it on the bed, next to the jeans. Then, on hands and knees, I pulled a few pairs of shoes from under the bed. Holding two different heels aloft, I cast a critical eye over each. Clearly, updating my shoe collection hadn’t been high on the priority list since moving home. These shoes were about as fashionable as the ones grandma had worn before she met her untimely death at the nineteenth hole of the Merrifield golf course. When had I turned into such a fashion disaster? I’d been prancing around town in these, completely oblivious to their absolute hideousness.
    Disgusted, I stood up and took the silver top from the bed, slipping it over my head. I turned to look in the mirror admiring the drape and the way the fabric fell in soft folds around my torso. I hadn’t let myself go, had I? If I went to the party wearing this top, I wasn’t going to be the laughing stock of the town, was I?
    I turned to the other side. No, it looked nice. I looked nice.
    I picked up the jeans and slid them up over my hips.
    Okay. Maybe slid wasn’t the most appropriate word in this instance.
    As the jeans reached the centre of my thighs, they stubbornly refused to move another centimetre. It was as if they sensed the impending pain of trying to stretch across my bottom and had gone on strike.
    I pulled and yanked, finally managing to get the jeans up to my hips. The button and fly might be another story though. There was an expanse of skin exposed on my stomach that even I could acknowledge would pose a problem if I was trying to button anything up. There was only one thing for it. I was going to have to get the jeans done up the way Alice and I used to do them when we were in high school.
    One coat hanger hooked through the zipper, some rather uncomfortable breath-holding later and bingo, the jeans were on. The only problem was, I couldn’t get off the bed. I couldn’t even sit because the denim was so taut across my tummy, bending was not an option. I was so stuck I could die there, right on the bed because I couldn’t get off it to use the phone or get food. People would find me days later, prone on my back and wonder what the hell had happened. It’d be like a scene from that movie Seven but without Brad Pitt.
    Well, that certainly