Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake Read Online Free Page A

wouldn’t be happening. I began to roll side to side to gain momentum. Like a sausage roll stuck on the shelf in the bakery, I rolled until I reached the edge of the bed. Then using my elbows, I hoisted myself upright and turned to face the mirror.
    Wow.
    I looked amazing. My stomach was so flat you could have put a tablecloth on it and used it to serve dinner. That is, if you discounted the fact that the fat from my hips and stomach had formed an enormous muffin top above the waistband. Actually, it was more like a cake shelf. There was no way the silver top would cover that, not even with neck-to-knee Spanx on.
    Hands trembling, I cajoled the jeans back to my ankles and flopped to sitting on the edge of the bed. The company must have sent the wrong size. It happened frequently — well, to me at any rate. I couldn’t have put on that much weight. Ignoring the red marks around my middle, I picked the jeans up and turned them inside out to reveal the label. Size 12. When I saw the promo on the shopping network, the women had definitely said you should order a size down from your usual. Thus, I ordered a 12. But these were nowhere near my size.
    Diving to the wardrobe, I dug through the pile of clothes, meant for ironing. At the very bottom I retrieved my Levi’s — the ones I’d shoved there because the shade of denim was wrong — or, if I was honest because they were getting a little tight. I measured them against the new jeans.
    Crap.
    Exactly the same. No discrepancy in size.
    I knew I’d been wearing those wide leg linen pants because they were ‘in’ and I did wear track pants around the house more than I used to but that was only for comfort. It wasn’t because I had no other clothes that fitted me without a fight.
    Was it?
    And in that moment of uncertainty, the craving hit me again. The longing for something sweet that would make me feel better about myself was so great I would have stabbed someone if they’d stepped between me and that sticky date pudding and double cream I had in the fridge.
    As I stood at the open fridge door, stuffing my face and feeling the sadness disappear, I felt truly grateful yesterday had been a good enough day that I’d been able to save half the pudding. There was no way I was going to be reduced to begging for a biscuit over at Mum’s place.
    *****
     
    When Mrs Sotheby arrived the next morning with her dog, Snuffle, I was up to my nose in fur. My first client of the day had been a particularly shaggy Old English sheepdog that looked like he hadn’t seen the back end of a pair of clippers in a long while. Consequently, I resembled a snowman, only with fur. Silver, grey and white fur that clung to every part of my body and no matter what I tried it refused to budge.
    I wasn’t in the best of moods either. Accepting Connor may have been right about my weight was like accepting you needed help from your most hated enemy. You only did it begrudgingly and it left a very dirty aftertaste. I wasn’t prepared to go down that road yet.
    At the tinkle of the doorbell, I leant my broom against the wall, did another swift fur brush down and went to greet my client. Mrs Sotheby had been on an Asian Escape cruise followed by a trek around the Great Wall of China for the past three months. We hadn’t seen each other in quite a while.
    “Hi, Mrs Southby.”
    I bent down to scratch Snuffle behind the ear. The dog pushed against my hand, enjoying the attention.
    “Olivia. How are you?” The elderly lady stretched, giving my forearm an affectionate rub. Mrs Sotheby was such a sweet old thing. Her hair, carefully dyed, was cut into a chic bob and held with a vintage clip at her temple. Her dress reached her knees, revealing a pair of super fine hose and buttery coloured shoes that matched her handbag. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when my shoes matched my handbag. Not even when I was a minor G list TV celebrity. Most of the time, I looked like I dragged my clothes out of the