‘Sorcha is by no means overweight, but . . .'
. . . closing that dress was like trying to stuff a duvet into a microwave’
She said that we – we! – were going to do the five-day juice detox diet, the same one that Anne Hathaway did to look like bones and teeth for her role in Les Miserables and again for the Oscars six months later.
Seven pounds in five days was the promise and four juices per day, instead of actual meals, was the challenge. It was kale, spinach, parsley and pineapple. Or it was avocado, wheatgrass, spirulina and lime. Or it was beetroot, broccoli and the contents of the lawnmower grass box. Every breakfast-time, lunchtime, dinner-time and bedtime, Sorcha presented us each with a glass of something that was the colour of nuclear waste when you drank it, and weirdly, still looked like nuclear waste when it came out the other end.
She monitored the effects of the diet very closely, which is to say that every four hours there was, like, yet another attempted dress fitting. These became crankier and crankier affairs, which I put down to lack of basic nourishment more than anything else.
“Why can’t you focking fasten it?” she roared at me, early on Day Four. “If it was kicking a rugby ball between two posts, you’d find a way to do it.”
I smiled to myself, even though I’m sure it wasn’t intended as a compliment.
On my way downstairs, I thought I could smell bacon. I was literally storving and my nose was storting to hallucinate. When I pushed the kitchen door, I wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted me. The Chad was literally frying rashers and I couldn’t help but notice that the green light on the waffle press was on as well.
“Are you out of your focking mind?” I went. “You know Sorcha thinks you can take in calories through your nostrils?”
The Chad laughed. “I’m cooking you both your favourite breakfast,” he went.
That was when Sorcha suddenly appeared behind me. “Chad,” she went, “what are you doing? I’m sorry, I’m going to have to cover my nose and mouth.”
“I’ve got cinnamon waffles, bacon, fresh cream and peaches,” he went. “Sit down. Look, trust me.”
He put two breakfasts down in front of us, then he left the room. Sorcha went at hers like a focking donkey in a strawberry patch, while Honor arrived into the kitchen and laughed. “You’re definitely not going to fit into it now,” she went. “Er, blimp much?”
The Chad stepped back into the kitchen holding a dress bag, which he hung from the handle of one of the cupboards.
“I got you the dress,” he went, “in a size eight,” and then he just walked out. He didn’t hang around to drink in the – I don’t know – adulation, like I would have done.
That’s how cool he is.
Sorcha looked at me, bacon grease dribbling down her face. “No offence,” she went, “but I think I’m in love with him.”
I was like, “No offence taken. I’m kind of in love with him myself.”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE