Making It Big E-Book

Lyndsay Russell

• Herausgeber: Oldcastle Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 510

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

An alternative world where big curves are cool... Sad, lonely Sharon Plunkett is a plus-size girl. She's tried every fad, every diet and every cream, but like stains of grease on a pure silk blouse, her rolls of fat refuse to budge. The man of her dreams isn't interested, and her skinny best friend only uses her to look good. But all that changes when Sharon visits Dr. Marvel's Miracle weight clinic, and steps into a strange new world where bill boards and magazines spill over with pictures of gorgeous size 20 celebs! Suddenly life is fantastic for Sharon, her platinum hair and voluptuous figure make her the perfect choice for designers Z&Zak. Before she can scoff another doughnut, she finds herself a top model moving up the ladder of fame. Rung by rung, she nets a footballer, dates a rock god, and snares the ultimate Hollywood heartthrob. Sharon, now known as 'Shaz', becomes a trend-setting icon of fame, and her life is bliss until the time it all starts to go very wrong. ...Sharon starts to lose weight. A deliciously wicked satire, Making It Big bites back at the 'skinny insanity' currently gripping the western world. Size Zero, celebrity weight-obsessed magazines, the fashion and advertising industries, high society and Hollywood - all are hit by a giant, witty dollop of fun.

Leseprobe

‘Funny wicked satire on size 0, the fashion industry, advertising industry, high society and even Hollywood!’

– Lifetimes Magazine

‘Hilariously funny – I do recommend it.’

– LBC Radio

‘Like Harry Potter … this is going to fly off the shelf!’

– TalkSPORT

‘Curl up with this book! Very imaginative and at times sad … a perfect, filling winter read!’

– Take A Break

‘A summer must! … Fabulous feast to enjoy. A wicked satire bound to make you laugh whatever your size!’

– Time & Leisure

‘Smart look at the size 0 debate that’s more funny than preachy!’

– Elle

‘A funny, weird satire on size zero perfectionism … I loved it!’

– Sun

‘The world turns on its head and fat is the new thin!’ ****

– OK! Hot Stars

‘I loved that book … I think I have read it 20 times now! … I still think its the best book I have read.’

Chloe Marshall,

Miss England Runner up, Miss Teen Britain and Ford Model (Plus-size)

‘A delicious, page-turning novel that highlights press manipulation, and hits back at the “skinny insanity” currently gripping the western world.’

***** – Yours.co.uk

Other books by this author

The Rainbow Weaver

First published in 2011

by Oldcastle Books

P O Box 394,

Harpenden, AL5 1XJ

www.oldcastlebooks.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

All rights reserved

© Lyndsay Russell 2011

The right of Lyndsay Russell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN

978–1–84243–273-0 (paperback)

978-1-84243-438-3 (epub)

978-1-84243-439-0 (pdf)

978-1-84243-514-4 (kindle)

For further information please visit

www.amazon.co.uk/lyndsay-russell

www.amazon.co.uk/lyndsay-russell

Dedicated to every person who feels that they are not the ‘perfect weight’

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

It feels a little weird and premature to say all those pompous ‘I’d like to thank my editor/agent’ bits, because even though I’d love to, who knows if this book will actually be a success? Indeed, with so many novels out there, what are the actual chances of really ‘making it big’? So, instead, I thought that maybe I would just share with you a little fantasy that happened to me last night.

I had a dream…

I’m alone on a stage (but for once, not in a ‘naked actor’ nightmare) and I’m making a speech …

‘First, I’d like to thank … Annette Crossland. My eccentric, but utterly brilliant, publisher. Taking chances on new writers is always a gamble. A huge thanks for publishing my first book, and now for having the belief in this one … the second. Ms Crossland is a remarkable woman whose beauty, intelligence, unstinting enthusiasm and love of her job make her a joy to work for – I suspect that any company she chooses to go into partnership with is very, very lucky.’

Publisher smiles warmly, and waves big fat contract for third book.

‘I’d also like to thank my team buddy and husband Mike, whose fantastic support, talented mind, critical eye, and editorial suggestions were invaluable. I’d also like to hug our adorable daughter Tippi for her understanding when I was “too busy”. By the way, sorry, kiddo – I’m not changing my mind. The “naughty bits” will be blacked out in your edition. And highlighted in my husband’s.’

Wild applause and laughter. I pause graciously – smile, and look earnestly towards TV cameras …

‘I’d also like to thank my mother, Reeva. Hi, Mum, I know you’re watching … Thanks, you’ve been a terrific help with the book. I’ll never forget the “night of the cocktails” at the Petersham, bouncing ideas off you in the rain. Or the day in the pool in Antigua, bouncing ideas off you in the sun. I love you.’ Blow kisses. ‘The same goes for my sister-in-law, Anita – who was there for me when my father was ill and my inspiration flagged. Great suggestions. You are so much more creative than your family give you credit for. I won’t name names, but he’s my brother … he’s a sod. What can I tell you?’

My voice breaks, wavering with emotion …

‘At this stage I’d also like to send a big thank-you to Diana at Guards Polo Club for the low-down on Cartier International, (any tickets?), Julie D. on PR, Patty on fashion, Hannah and Hazel, my editors, and Ion, – publishing head honcho and signatory of important monetary contracts. Thank you one and all.’

I wipe a tear as I clutch the Man Booker award to my breast…

‘Finally, it’s vital that I thank you, the press, for supporting a book that tries to correct the sad, twisted notion that ultra skinny is desirable, and that we’re all butt-ugly if we’re above a size ten. Together, we can address this mess …’

Paparazzi photographers and journalists get to their feet, and applaud. I sob unashamedly and place a steadying hand on lectern.

‘But most important of all … Sorry, please – I just need to take a moment.’

Dramatic pause as I swallow deeply …

‘Most important of all, I want to thank you, the public, for buying a novel that hits back at the celebrity fashionistas. A novel that struggles to correct the model images that have so distorted our minds. A book that fights to give us back … our dignity.’

‘Bless you, thank you. This statue means so much to me, I will treasure this moment for ever …’

Uniformed Body Police march on stage. They try to drag me off. I resist, wearing a martyred facial expression. I raise a fist, I cry out:

‘Comrades! Sisters! Join forces! Do whatever you can … Fight back! Just remember these words …It’s better to light the candle on the double chocolate triple-layered birthday cake than to curse hungrily in the dark.’

One

Poor sad lonely Sharon Plunkett: she had tried every fad, every diet, every exercise and every cream – but like a stain of grease on a pure silk blouse, her rolls of fat refused to budge. Life had never been a bed of roses, just a solitary thorn of despair. A big, fat thorn that constantly pricked her fleshy body, draining every drop of self-confidence.

Blinking away bulbous tears, she savoured the square of milky chocolate, marvelling at the way it melted on her tongue. It veritably oozed. As always, the guilty pleasure hit her taste buds with masochistic force.

As she clutched the giant bar to her bosom, the ridiculously expensive low-calorie salad waiting in front of her seemed deeply unappealing. The mushy grated carrot and sesame seed coleslaw looked like something prised from the cheeks of a hamster, while the black-eyed prawns stared at her reproachfully. Avoiding their accusing gaze, she disdainfully tipped the plastic package into the office bin. There! I’ve just saved myself a few calories … she reasoned, trying hard not to think of the squandered pounds. Feeling a digging pressure on her waistband, she shifted awkwardly in an effort to ease it.

So what if the other girls hadn’t invited her to the wine bar for lunch? She knew why they’d left her out. A tight little coterie of skinny girls obsessed with fashion, they saw themselves as ‘cool’, and she cramped their style just because she was a bit plump.

Who was she kidding? screamed her inner voice. Size eighteen-to-twenty isn’t plump. It’s fat, Sharon. FAT, FAT, FAT. The only thing she hated more than her life was the bathroom scales. Had it always been so? Throughout her twenty-one years she couldn’t really remember a time when she hadn’t felt ‘lumpy’.

As a child she had usually been first in the school meal queue, often up for seconds, and always last in the Sports Day run. Nope, there wasn’t an age she could remember when what she ate hadn’t ruled her day. Now halfway through the chocolate, she had to make the rest last as long as she could. She sipped her tea, dunked a couple of precious squares, and sucked the resulting sticky mess noisily, like a baby finding comfort at a nipple. As it dissolved, so did her resolve. She sighed, and reluctantly let the sad memories of the weekend re-enter her head. The night had started off as usual …

Her ‘bestest’ friend Debbee had insisted they go to a kitsch country-and-western theme night at Kingston’s hottest club, Kool Kat’s. Sharon had dressed with care. Well, sort of. She’d applied a splash of blue eye shadow, donned a black A-line tent dress, and half-heartedly curled her long shiny hair in a Tammy Wynette sixties style. But it had started to drizzle. Fearing her damp waves would turn into a frizzy tsunami, Sharon grabbed a spotted scarf she’d picked up in Top Shop and, in an attempt at bandana ‘trendy’, tied the knot at the back of her neck.

Alas, instead of ‘American Cowgirl Chic’, the fashion look was more ‘Albanian Peasant Crap’, and she desperately wanted to change. But as she surveyed the dismal choice in her wardrobe Debbee was honking the car horn, and Sharon knew she hated to be kept waiting.

As expected, Debbee was impatiently clicking her acrylic French-manicured nails on the steering wheel – a habit that made Sharon grit her teeth.

‘What took you so long?’ Debbee wanted to know. ‘Strap in, kiddo! Yee-haw! Hey, girl, it’s time to round ’em up!’

For a split second, Sharon didn’t know if she meant the male population of Kingston or her large, spilling breasts. As she struggled to pull the seatbelt over her stomach, she glanced jealously at Debbee’s lithe form. It was Saturday night and, as usual, her friend had morphed from trainee suburban beautician, into a sexy, sophisticated wannabe WAG, her perfect, pert breasts displayed in a tight leather waistcoat, her slender hips in a short suede Versace skirt from eBay. Kitten-heeled white cowboy boots completed the look – ‘Best Lay at the Chicken Ranch’, thought Sharon, though she’d never have had the nerve to say it.

The muscles in Debbee’s long, St Tropez fake-tanned leg tautened as she pressed down on the accelerator, Sharon couldn’t help admiring how the outside of her smooth thigh hollowed. Like an athlete’s. She could feel her own thighs spreading over the plastic front seat, like melting margarine. ‘You look fantastic,’ she said, hating herself for crawling. But somehow she fell so easily into playing her expected role: to make Debbee feel great.

In response, Debbee preened her blonde Farrah Fawcett mane in the car mirror. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, knowing the answer.

‘Sure – every man’ll drool over you. They always do.’

Debbee smiled at Sharon warmly. ‘Actually, that outfit’s pretty trendy you’re wearing,’ she said, awarding Sharon a rare compliment. Sharon smiled back. A tiny glow-worm of confidence lit up inside her.

‘Not sure the look is you, though.’

The worm curled up and died.

Totally oblivious, Debbee studied her face lovingly in the car mirror and smoothed her new hair extensions. Applying a slash of crimson Urban Cool lipstick at the next traffic light, she teased, ‘I heard Simon’s coming tonight, Sharon.’

Sharon’s heart did a little two-step as she heard his name. Simon Mercier. Sleek, handsome Simon. Like a shaggy-haired lurcher. A vision in denim. Secret crush of her life for two yearning, burning years of unrequited lust. Something about the way he always looked deep into her eyes made her feel he could see the real her buried under the mounds of massive flesh. His smile made her feel special. Normal.

Last time they’d been to Kat’s, he’d even bought her a drink. But not long after they sat down to talk, Debbee had staggered over and said she wanted to leave because she was feeling sick on Sea Breezes. The two girls had made a hasty exit, and Sharon hadn’t seen him since then, which she knew was exactly four weeks, six days and twenty-two hours ago.

‘I said, I hear Simon is definitely going tonight … really sorry about spoiling it last time. If you see him, use your brains! Offer him a drink or something – and go for it!’ Debbee said patronisingly, applying mascara now as she accelerated through the changing lights.

‘And you could use your brains to take a PhD in Transit Makeup Application,’ quipped Sharon, in an attempt to deflect the comment.

‘Don’t ignore me – I know you think he’s gorge. Tonight could be your big chance!’ Debbee giggled.

‘Big’ was the operative word, thought Sharon. Big, indeed.

‘Simon? Nah, do I look bothered?’ she said, with nonchalance so naked her real feelings were completely exposed.

‘Yeah, right. Whatever.’ Debbee had heard every detail of that famous ‘drink’ a few times too many.

As she concentrated on crashing the gears of her Clio convertible and cursing the lack of parking spaces, Sharon made occasional clucks of sympathy and let her mind wander back to when she had first met Simon.

He’d walked into her life the moment he stepped through the door of her office to chase up a missing invoice. For the first time since joining top advertising agency Sharpe, Bates and Colt, Sharon was thrilled her job was only junior filing clerk in Accounts. Because it was her he had to talk to.

‘Hi, I work for your company as a freelance photographer, and there seems to be a problem with my invoice. The account exec’s told me it’s been lost,’ he’d said, shooting her a sparkling I-floss-twice-a-day smile. As Sharon’s heart did a springboard high-jump-double-twist in response, she realised there had been no mix-up at all. The agency had a mean-spirited secret policy to ensure a three-month delay of payment to lesser mortals by any means, fair or foul. The ‘sorry, we lost your invoice’ schtick was a rite of passage reserved for the absolute newcomer whom they could always replace.

Yes, sirree, SBC hadn’t become a successful conglomerate from its advertising talent alone. But Sharon couldn’t resist his lazy charm. She dug out his invoice and promised to put it through ASAP. But as she glanced at the address, she caught her breath for the second time that meeting. He lived in Kingston! Same suburb as her.

‘Ohmigod! We’re neighbours!’ she blurted.

‘Really? You live in Kingston? Whereabouts?’

Sharon began to describe the university area and the flat she owned around the corner. They fell into an easy, laughing conversation about the joys of drinking down by the river and picnicking in Richmond Park.

It turned out Simon had studied photography at the local college and decided to stay because he loved the buzzy little market town and its holiday atmosphere.

‘Condé Nast say there’s now an open-air coffee bar for every three residents,’ joked Sharon.

‘Then we must go for a coffee some time,’ he said, leaning on the desk towards her.

‘Sure, whatever, I’ll see you around,’ Sharon answered curtly, looking down at the paperwork to hide her reddening face.

He stood back, a bit surprised. ‘Oh, okay, then. Another time,’ he said slowly, staring at her.

Sharon had done what she always did when anyone showed the slightest bit of interest. She’d come across as cold and dismissive, a protective habit she’d adopted from an early age, even if people were just being friendly. Poor man. Perhaps she’d trapped him into suggesting coffee because she’d waffled on so much about the coffee bars. She’d just wanted to let him off the hook, having to arrange something he couldn’t possibly want to do. Silence hung in the air like a frosty mist. She tried to think of a witty icebreaker but her mind was an empty deep freeze. When she looked up again, it was to see him heading towards the door. Politely, he turned and thanked her again for sorting the invoice.

‘I’ll no doubt bump into you around town,’ he called out, with a farewell grin.

For many days after, Sharon would wonder whether he had been making a reference to her mammoth size. If he had, she deserved it.

But the strange thing was, they had bumped into each other. Quite a few times. Nearly always at Kat’s. And whenever they saw each other, he always stopped and chatted. ‘How’s Sharke, Bait and Caught?’ he’d tease her about the agency – he was wise now to the fact that Sharpe, Bates and Colt was run by a board of heartless bastards.

‘Still reeling the clients in,’ Sharon would laugh, enjoying their mutual bond.

*

‘It’s looking gooood, girl!’ growled Debbee, parking the car and bringing Sharon’s attention to the nightclub queue ahead. It was long and, as always, Sharon quaked with nerves that she would be turned away. But, as usual, Debbee had it all under control. Guarding the door, like a pompous pit-bull, her bouncer cousin was playing God with the crowds. Sharon pondered which was thicker – his neck or his head? He was currently arguing with two skinny young teens who, despite the chill night air, insisted on walking around with bare midriffs and indecently fringed micro-minis. ‘Are you sure you girls are eighteen?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘Course we are.’

Of course they weren’t, thought Sharon. You could practically see their nappies.

Unceremoniously, Debbee elbowed the kiddies out of the way and after air-kissing the bouncer, like a famous VIP greeting an equally famous VIP, she swanned through the crowd, Sharon waddling in her wake, the perennial ugly duckling.

The club’s Denim and Diamonds Country Night was in full swing. The wooden floor was a mangled mob of bobbing cowboy hats and clicking, tripping pointed boots, as the drunken British attempted a display of line dancing.

Blocking the bar, a gaggle of three tarty girls looked like backing singers out to upstage Dolly Parton. Sharon felt like the tour’s big, butch roadie as she elbowed through them to the counter.

The barman took her order. ‘Okay, I’m just going to have a Diet Coke,’ she emphasised loudly (and totally unnecessarily, as she was the one getting the drinks).

‘Make mine a tequila,’ shouted Debbee, over a sea of floating bottle blondes. Turning her back to the bar she stuck her thumbs in her rhinestone belt, flashing her flat midriff, thrust her slim hips forward and struck a raunchy cowgirl pose. Men stared. Women glared.

As Sharon waited for the drinks, she pondered for the zillionth time why someone like Debbee was happy to hang out with her. Fair enough when they were best friends as toddlers – they’d grown up next door to each other, shared nursery toys and gone to primary school together. At secondary, though, the balance had changed. In the same class, they’d stayed mates throughout teenage acne, angst and adolescence – but Sharon had grown in weight and size as Debbee had grown in looks and vanity.

Regardless, Debbee still chose to see her when she was at a loose end. And Sharon was grateful – though a deeply insecure part of her suspected her friend liked to have her around purely because, when they stood next to each other, Debbee knew she appeared even more pretty and petite.

Sharon hated the way those two words went together: pretty and petite. But there was no getting away from it. As Debbee sipped and Sharon slurped their drinks through purple straws, she was painfully aware that they looked like a gazelle and a buffalo sharing the same watering hole.

Together they surveyed the cattle market. Dusty images of Dallas sprang to mind, with the dazzlingly tacky outfits more Rodeo Drive than rodeo.

Dirk, the club owner, sat in his usual booth, alone and aloof, eyeing up the women. With an Indian bootlace tie, white hair and a fake moustache, he looked like General Custer surveying the last one-night stand. His wife, Kat, was busy chatting to the DJ, her hair so teased it could have performed its own strip.

‘Howdy, gals!’ They turned round to see an extremely cute-looking cowboy doffing his hat and directing his white smile totally at Debbee.

‘Gee, are you a real cowboy?’ she flirted back.

‘Course, ladies. I’m Chuck from the States – Tucson, Arizona.’

‘Nah, are you really?’ simpered Debbee, eyes wide. ‘Hey, Sharon! He’s the real thing! A gen-u-ine cowboy!’ She giggled, nudging Sharon so hard her face dipped into her glass and emerged with a frothy Coke moustache.

‘Sure am. I’m visiting mah English cousins. We thought this would be a hoot for a night out. Show them mah roots. Ya don’t believe me, do ya?’

‘Um … no,’ said Debbee, suckling her straw and batting her eyelashes, like a newborn colt.

‘Okay, lady. D’you know how you can tell a real cowboy?’

Debbee shook her mane of hair and practically neighed.

‘First, check out the boots. None of that fancy pointed crap. They’ve gotta be ropers.’ These were round-toed versions, apparently ideal for roping steer.

‘Now, check out mah jeans. Wranglers.’ He flashed the label, which sat perkily on an even perkier male butt. ‘Gives you more room when you’re in the saddle,’ he whispered suggestively, his accent changing mysteriously mid-flow.

Yeah, right, sniffed Sharon, narrowing her eyes. She reckoned the nearest he’d ever got to a steer was eating steak.

But too late. With a whooping ‘YEE-haaw!’ from ‘Chuck’, Debbee was on the dance floor, doing a two-step, and Sharon was alone at the bar. Feeling hungry, she asked for a packet of crisps – barbecue steak flavour. She shrugged – hey, she was just getting into the theme of the evening.

Although Sharon felt painfully self-conscious standing on her own, it was amusing to watch Debbee struggle to keep in step. It was impossible to say whether the toe-crunching was the result of her inept dancing or his adept drinking.

But then, as the music wailed ‘Ma Man Gone An’ Did Me Wrong’, in walked Sharon’s ultimate Mr Right.

And Sharon panicked. Had she time to race to the loo to reapply some lippy? Rooted to the spot with indecision, she watched him fall into relaxed chat with some friends and swig beer from the bottle in a very languid, sexy way. He looked so damned cool that Sharon actually moaned.

Wearing his usual faded denim shirt, he resembled a young, laid-back Clint in a Sergio Leone movie. Suddenly, as if sensing he was being watched, he turned his head and squinted through the dark in her direction. That was it. Too late. She was dead. He caught her eye, smiled – then sauntered towards her.

Stuffing the crisps into her bag, Sharon grinned a welcome.

‘Hey, how’s it going, partner?’ he asked, giving her a friendly kiss on the cheek.

‘Well, not so great. Debbee’s abandoned camp and gone off with an outlaw!’ Sharon laughed. Despite her nerves, something about Simon made joking so easy. Normally she would mumble like a moron to any male between sixteen and sixty. But not with him. There was no doubt that he brought out the best in her.

‘An outlaw? Which one this time? The Good, the Bad … or the Lousy?’ laughed Simon.

‘Judging by the way he just stomped on her toe, I’d have to say the Clumsy!’

‘Drink?’ he offered.

Oh, yes! screamed Sharon’s inner voice. ‘Er … okay, why not?’ she answered serenely, and asked for a spritzer – sophisticated and refreshing, she reckoned, without getting her too light-headed to make conversation. As he turned to order, Sharon spotted Debbee now rowing with the guy on the floor. She pushed him back, and he slapped her bottom, laughing. But Debbee wasn’t. She stormed towards them in a furious mood.

‘Bastard says I dance like a heifer! He’s got a bloody cheek – told me to call him when I’d learned to walk. I’ll show him … How dare he?’ Seeing Simon, Debbee grabbed his arm. ‘Hey, Simon, I need you!’

‘No!’ whispered Sharon, pleadingly. ‘He’s getting me a drink!’

Debbee shot her a shucks-too-bad look, and pulled him away from the bar.

‘Honey, can you come with me for a while?… I jus’ wanna have a little ol’ dance with you,’ she said huskily, in a tone developed to melt the one male brain cell that controlled ‘decency’.

‘Um, er … I was just getting dri – Well, okay – sure. Sorry, Sharon … maybe later,’ he muttered, as Debbee trailed him on to the floor like a lassoed stallion.

Crestfallen, Sharon watched the couple move to the music. Chuck the cowboy was wrong: Debbee was a great dancer normally, and she took pains to show just how good she was. Her sinewy silhouette snaked sexily against Simon, and as he instinctively moved towards her, she threw back her head with a throaty sigh.

The cowboy watched, amused, from the sidelines, as Sharon stared aghast. The music changed to ‘Jolene’, and Dolly Parton started trilling how she couldn’t compete with her rival’s beauty. Oh, the mocking irony, thought Sharon … if blonde, drop-dead gorgeous ol’ Dolly could be usurped in love, what bloody hope did she have? Sharon’s eyes welled with emotion. She leaned forward to pick up her bag, and a tear plinked on to her ample cleavage – lost like a drop of rain in the Grand Canyon.

What the hell was she thinking? As Mr Blobby’s ugly sister, what on earth did she expect? Simon probably didn’t even recognise her as female, let alone an attractive mate.

Debbee now draped a loose hand over Simon’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. He whispered something back … She twiddled her hair extensions coyly.

Standing there like a plum pudding, Sharon dug her fingers into her pudgy, sweating palm to stop the sobs. Debbee, her closest friend, was moving in on the only man Sharon had ever confessed she wanted. She caught Debbee’s eye with a look so plaintive it would have shamed a puppy.

Deliberately ignoring her, Debbee just pulled Simon closer and rested her head against his shoulder. It was a calculated move, as if she was flaunting her power over Sharon.

The country song now twanged on about the ‘bitch rival’ taking Dolly’s man just because she could – the lyrics dangerously egging Sharon’s bitterness on. She literally saw red. Painful, red-raw scarlet. Crimson. Blood. She saw his muscular arm brush Debbee’s naked shoulder. And with that simple move, he began ripping Sharon’s heart out of her body. Moving towards them, unsure what she was going to do, she knew she had to find a way to stop Debbee. Tell her she had a call on her mobile phone … trip her up … blowtorch her smug face off and stamp the scorched flesh into the ground … whatever.

As their lips danced closer and closer, with every gyration from Debbee, Sharon felt as if a loaded gun was pointing at her chest. She had to stop it before it exploded.

Seeing the Ladies behind the pair, she decided to head that way and gently remind them she existed. Pushing past a smooching couple and two girls swaying round a handbag, she found herself in earshot of their conversation.

‘So, my place, about eight o’clock, then,’ said Simon.

‘Sure, I’d love to come. I’ll see you then, sounds fun,’ said Debbee, breaking free and wiggling her pert arse to the instrumental.

The gun had gone off. Sharon could not deny what she had heard. She was dead. Killed by her best … well, actually her only friend. Slain by the betrayal of her erstwhile ‘love’ – a man like all the others, weak and stupid, who had fallen for Debbee’s quack doctor charms.

Stumbling past them, she headed into the foyer, and the cool night air. If only she could just ride off into the horizon and never be seen again. If only she could disappear. But this wasn’t a movie, and she would never have a happy ending.

She hated herself. Every single hundred, thousand, million inches of her fat, fat self.

The phone rang. Sharon sat up at her desk, startled. She had been so immersed in reliving that night, she had almost forgotten where she was.

It was unbearable. She had been a means for Simon to get to Debbee, that was all. A pathetic joke. And as for Debbee – she could have torn her foxy little face to shreds. The bitch. And an affected one, at that. Fancy changing your name to put two ‘e’s at the end. So pathetic.

Sharon felt desperate. She couldn’t bring herself to be friends with Debbee. But as the loneliness of night after night stretched ahead, she was at a complete loss. Sharon stared around the empty office. Time to kill, but she’d already read the morning’s paper and had forgotten her book.

Glancing up at the office clock, so cool in design you struggled to read the time, she worked out there were still another twenty minutes before the girls would come back from lunch. The chocolate bar she’d been eking out was now down to a mere three squares and, as usual, she craved more. To take her mind off it, she looked around for something to read. She noticed that Lou-Lou, the daffy blonde in the office gang of six, had a stack of rag mags beside her desk. On the top lay some copies of Now, a glossy dedicated to celebrities and their body image. She picked one up and flicked through it, consuming the endless pages of slim Hollywood stars, studying their slender limbs and lithe bodies enviously. Then she looked down at her own reality.

Compared to the celebs, she might have been an alien reject from the planet Heffalump. Miserably she reached for another square of chocolate for comfort. If she was slim, her life would be so different …

She reached out for the second issue of Now, read the headlines, and nodded, shocked.

98% OF WOMEN ARE UNHAPPY WITH THEIR BODIES!

31% THROW UP AFTER EATING.

62% FEEL UNLOVABLE BECAUSE OF IT!

Opening the pages, she read on, eyes widening at the statistics, yet identifying with each one.

69% WOULD RATHER BE AN UNHEALTHY SIZE 0 THAN A SIZE 16.

How ridiculous, she snorted. Though she knew she would eagerly choose size zero. How the hell had it come to this madness, she wondered. Yet every single statement rang deafeningly loud and true. She tossed the publication back on to the desk.

On a neighbouring chair, she saw a different kind of magazine poking out of a recycled-hemp shopping bag. What’s Saffron got in there? thought Sharon. Saffron, hippie child of the office, was the only one who was vaguely pleasant to her … But she was nauseatingly pleasant to everyone, from snotty little kids to Teutonic traffic wardens. She was ‘at one’ with the universe and always muttering on about karma.

Predict was its title. Well, I predict this is a load of old crap, thought Sharon, feeling like a thief as she leafed through its pages. Guiltily she flicked past the ‘I talked to Elvis’ article, past the ‘My Granny Runs A Coven’ exposé, and the ‘Do You Have Alien Blood?’ quiz.

Her eyes alighted on the small ads at the back of the magazine. Along with ‘Half-price Crystal Balls’ and ‘Navajo Indian Dream Catchers – buy one get one free’ nestled three little lines that leaped right out of the page.

MIRACLE WEIGHT PILLS

HATE BEING FAT?

A MAGIC CHANCE TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE

A celebrity remedy from Beverly Hills – end of stock offer only £80

There was no telephone number … just an address.

For an appointment write to:

DR MARVEL’S

Miracle Weight Clinic

150 Riversal Road

London W1

Director: Dr Maximus Marvel BSc, DDc, TGIF, ACDC, Assoc. Hon. Diploma Neuro-nutrition

Sharon studied the advertisement, hooked by the dream, as always. The doctor had so many degrees, titles and diplomas. She didn’t recognise the letters after his name but they looked impressive. He must know something others didn’t. The advert was tantalisingly simple and to the point. Could it work? Maybe this was the answer to her problem – the ‘big one’, she thought ironically.

Nah, this was ridiculous. She worked in an advertising agency, for crying out loud. She knew all about false claims and irresistible promises. Every time she looked at the back of shampoo bottles she’d remember not to be fooled. Not since the day she had come across one of the agency’s creatives writing copy for a new conditioner.

‘Senses. Give your hair the scent of fresh air – a touch of silk with the sheen of ice,’ read the mock label he wanted to test on her. But when she asked to smell the product to see if it lived up to the claim, the writer laughed arrogantly. He had no idea what it smelled like because the manufacturers hadn’t yet produced a drop of it. Production depended entirely on whether the agency could create a brand image to fill a perceived market gap.

The experience served as a warning to Sharon never to believe a single word of packaging descriptions – 99.9 per cent of the time. When it came to slimming, her desperation was such that she’d believe anything. Against all her intelligence, she couldn’t help thinking, Something new! Feverishly, Sharon copied down the advert and the address. MIRACLE and MAGIC.

The two words missing from her life.

Two

Lonely, the Saturday-morning blues felt just as bad as the Sunday-morning blues, thought Sharon. And in fact, with nothing planned, twice as bad as the Monday-morning blues.

It had been nearly a week since she had posted her request for an appointment at the clinic – a long, miserable week in which Sharon had refused to acknowledge any contact from Debbee. Well, actually there had only been one attempt, on the answerphone. But, to be fair, it was a long, rambling diatribe – and the slaggette did say, ‘Sorry,’ twice.

‘Still, that’s not good enough,’ huffed Sharon. ‘May her Manolo fakes snap, and her highlights turn green,’ she cursed, looking in the mirror at her own puffy eyes.

Sharon was not a staunch drinker, and her head felt muzzy from last night’s three-quarters finished bottle of Merlot. Also, downing that much on her own made her feel she was spinning out of control and into the depths of alcohol dependency.

‘My name is Sharon, and I’m a chocoholic. Er … sorry, wrong meeting,’ she practised in the mirror, with a wry smile. She looked so pathetically sad that she put her hand out to the glass to touch her reflection in comfort. The ache in her eyes was always there. The look of a kitten that had been abandoned by its mother. Which was, in effect, what had happened all those years ago. Her mother had been gasp-breakingly beautiful. Gizelle … A glamorous, graceful creature, who had totally suited the gazelle-like nature of her name. A fairylike sprite, who had gently alighted on the arm of her father, never to leave his protective side. Until she’d had to …

‘Jeez, I look nothing like her. Maybe we have the same-shaped little finger.’ She sighed. Maybe if she hacked off the fat she would see some similarity. She pulled back her cheeks. She did have very high cheekbones, but they were more curved than razor sharp, like her mother’s.

Dispassionately, she studied herself and, as always, decided her hair was her best feature. She put her hand to the small of her back and felt it brush softly against her fingers. Long, straight and white-blonde, it had the touch of silk with the sheen of ice – and that had nothing to do with conditioner. It was also the one part of her that never changed, whatever she ate.

As for her eyes, no matter that they were large and almond-shaped, they were just too damn tragic. Green. Unusually luminescent in hue, they had a strange tendency to match and reflect whatever shade of green she wore. Her eyes could change from palest duck-egg to rich peacock. But right now they were a delicate shade of puke – tinged with bloodshot red. A charming look, thought Sharon. Matched her blotchy cheeks perfectly. What was to become of her …?

As always the bathroom scales stood waiting; lurking behind the door like a silent assassin, ready to stab her self-esteem. Every morning, before getting on to them, she had a pee, took off every bit of jewellery (including studs) and every item of clothing.

This morning was no different. Standing sideways so she could see past her tummy, she gingerly placed her feet on the surface. It should be okay today, she thought. Mentally she raced through all she had eaten the day before. She’d been good. VERY good. Only wholegrain cereal for breakfast. Um, she’d had a little bit of double cream with it, but only two spoons of low-cal sugar to make that lovely, yummy creamy crust. For lunch she’d had a chicken Caesar sandwich, very good for you. And, okay, there were those peanuts, and a bar of chocolate on the way home, but for dinner she’d only had scrambled egg, a couple of low-fat sausages, some fresh bread and butter …

As she stepped on the scales the pointer wavered until ‘210 lb’ swam alarmingly before her eyes. ‘Ohmigod! Fifteen stone! This is insane!!’ she cried. Another pound gained. How could that be? Hitting the fifteen-stone mark for the first time made her heart palpitate with panic. Mentally she calculated, and felt sick. She redid her maths. But there was no getting away from it: 210 pounds divided by fourteen equalled what now felt like fifteen giant slabs of concrete.

Impossible. She’d starved herself yesterday. The scales had to be faulty. She lifted them up and checked the pointer was spot on the centre. She wanted to hurl the hideous mechanical device out of the window, but she contained her pain and put it on the floor again.

She stepped on once more, as lightly as she could, balancing her body by holding on to the towel rail … then gently released her hand. To find it read exactly the same. Despair weighed her down. As tears welled in her eyes, she struggled to understand why on earth she had gone up.

‘After a day of being good, I’m not even the same weight,’ she wailed. Again, she counted the calories in her mind … cereal … Did she have two Branbix? No … it was three … Oh, and there was a banana as well. She’d forgotten that. The first thing she had consumed, in an attempt to get into eating more fruit.

Then she remembered there had been a mid-morning break. What did she have? The latte … But that was liquid, and didn’t really count. She only had two sugars with it, and the spray of cream on top was so light and fluffy, it surely couldn’t contain many calories. Not even worth counting. Oh, there had been a slice of pizza too, but the topping of artichoke and pineapple was healthy.

The flapjack she’d had with afternoon tea was full of raisins and oats – good for you, all fibre. In the evening, she remembered, she’d finished off a carton of Stilton soup before it went off. But she had missed pudding with great resolve and just hit the bottle of wine. Liquid again, like the soup. No, she just couldn’t understand it.

She pulled a fluffy dressing gown around her for comfort, and stuffed her swollen feet into a pair of matching slippers. The bulky wrap added stones to her frame and she looked like a pink, pregnant polar bear. What the hell? It was cosy.

Sharon knew her dress sense was always battling to surface but was daily drowned in sail-sized clothes. Still, at least her surroundings had some style. Her home was her sanctuary, and every penny she earned that didn’t go on the odd night out or straight into her mouth went on her studio flat. For the third time that morning, she rearranged the sweet peas in the triangular glass vase from Habitat, polished the glass table and plumped up the deckchair-striped cushions on the soft feather-stuffed sofa.

The colours of the room were peaceful ice-cream pastels. Pale peppermint, pink and duck egg blue. It reminded her of happier, younger days by the seaside …

She heard the iron garden gate swing open.

Since answering the Predict advert, Sharon had watched the post flop through the communal hallway door every morning. The draught swept around her feet as she went downstairs to wait, turning her ankles a fetching shade of purple. Finally a curious pale pink envelope poked its nose through the letterbox. It was addressed to her, marked ‘URGENT’.

‘A reply!’ she squealed. Ripping it open, she found a gold-edged appointment card with the address of the clinic, the date and time of her appointment with Dr Maximus Marvel.

‘Ohmigod!’ gasped Sharon. It was that day, at noon.

She raced back up the stairs, grabbing the banister and heaving herself up two at a time – it was already ten thirty, and she had to get dressed and find the place. London W1. From Kingston to the West End would take at least an hour and a half.

Sharon panicked. Would she have to undress for this appointment? Possibly. The thought filled her with dread. It was a clinic, after all. They might want to measure her or weigh her accurately. As she avoided any activity that involved a communal changing room, and was a thousand light years from having a lover, her underwear drawer held every conceivable shade of grey. Well, at least everything matched and toned. She groaned. Grabbing the only bra that didn’t currently cut under her arms, she teamed it with a high pair of knickers, favoured for not creating an extra ridge around her tummy.

Yanking on a caftan top and an elasticised skirt, she picked up her rucksack and headed for the station.

Everyday events made her aware of her size. She always dreaded going through the automatic ticket barrier, squeezing through sideways, terrified she wouldn’t clear it in time. Boarding the tube or train meant either squishing into a seat with arms, or spilling over her allotted space and elbowing the poor sod reading the paper next to her, so she usually stood, which made her worry that an unexpected lurch would send her flying, flattening some poor toddler or helpless pensioner.

But more than that, she hated the advertising that surrounded her everywhere. As she waited for the train, she eyed the giant poster showing a new range of lingerie. The model’s body was amazing, with a firm, elongated and impossibly tiny waist, metal-smooth stomach and long, slender limbs. She posed provocatively, one knee perched on a velvet boudoir pouffe, flaunting the daintiest, cutest bra and chiffon panties in the world. Edged in running-stitch satin and a frothy chiffon frill, the soft, pleated grey set mocked the dingy nylon undies Sharon was wearing. Well, at least the colour of my knickers is ‘in’. She laughed bitterly, sad that she would never wear such glorious confections.

The tube was even worse. The posters running alongside the escalator displayed an endless line of thin girls wearing bras, thin girls advertising makeup, thin girls advertising cars. And today, at the top, the perfect irony, a thin girl clutching a box of beribboned designer chocolates and popping one between moist damson lips.

Yep, thought Sharon, enviously, studying the model’s form. No doubt a skinny cow like her would have the willpower to stay slim enough to keep the kind of man who could afford to spoil you with such luxury. The model was probably like Audrey Hepburn who, legend had it, limited herself to just one chocolate a year, on her birthday. Sharon bristled at the irony of the confectionary campaign, and looked away.

Instead, she decided to concentrate on her favourite game. Time to play ‘Who’s fatter than me?’ Hitting the start of the next escalator, she eyed up her fellow commuters and began counting. On a good day, there would be four or five, which made her feel better. And also worse, because at the same time she would check out the figures of all the other women sailing past in the other direction. Surreptitiously she’d enviously peek at slim, young girls flaunting their bare midriffs and skinny jeans. Or gaze despairingly at older women in their forties, fifties and even sixties who had better bodies than hers. No doubt she would grow old and grey, never knowing what it felt like to wear a mini-skirt.

On the other hand, maybe today her life would finally change. She glanced down at the gold-embossed appointment card in her hand. It was suspicious that his name was Dr Marvel. It made him sound like a real quack. Still, she knew of a dentist called Dr Savage … and there was an undertaker in Kingston called Fred Paine. Besides, the advertisement had said it was a celebrity remedy from Beverly Hills, and they loved flash names out there. He’d probably changed his surname to fit in, she assumed – chances were it was phoney.

Although she was an intelligent woman, Sharon refused to consider the next logical step: perhaps the miracle remedy she was chasing would be just as fake. But she ignored the possibility because she was so desperate for an instant cure. In her mind, anything was worth a gamble, however stacked the odds.

She checked her watch, then scoured the A–Z with growing anxiety. Riversal Road? The newspaper vendor she asked had never heard of it. But finally she found the name on the map. It was a little road behind Harley Street, famous for its leading doctors and medical consultancies. Well, that made Dr Marvel seem a lot more bona fida. And if he wasn’t such a mega-success, surely he couldn’t afford the rent.

Oh, hell, that meant the clinic would be smart, Sharon suddenly thought, apprehensive that the eighty pounds quoted might only cover the initial consultation.

Pushing through the crowds she glanced at her watch again. Only six minutes until she missed her appointment! The hordes thinned as she reached Harley Street and turned into Riversal Road. She spotted a grand house and peered at the number on the gatepost: 2. She was at the wrong end. Number 150 must be miles ahead. She quickened her pace, hurtling down the street, counting house after house. Then she stopped, out of breath and confused. The road had turned from elegant period properties into a series of smart boutiques and shops. The time sifted away like sand through an hourglass.

Scanning the names above the windows for numbers she realised her side of the street jumped from 148 to 152. On the other side they read 147, 149, 151, 153. She crossed the road. She crossed back. Still no sign of 150. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck and her heart was pounding with the unexpected stress. She asked a couple walking past, but they were tourists and didn’t even speak English. Turning away, her mind rambled in panic. She was late. She was going to miss the appointment. They would be cross. They would refuse to make another – she would be fat forever.

She steeled herself to look at her watch once more, and let out a breath of relief. Still one minute to go. Casting around helplessly for a traffic warden or someone else to ask, she saw two workmen carrying a heavy horizontal mirror out of a white van. As they crossed the road in front of her, she called out to them: did they know where number 150 was?

‘What’s that, luv?’ answered the older man, straining under the weight of the ornate gold mirror.

‘I’m looking for one hundred and fifty Riversal …’ Sharon stopped short. There, reflected in the antique-looking glass, was the series of shops right behind her, plus a red Regency door, with a sign above it that read Dr Marvel’s Miracle Weight Clinic. Good grief, thought Sharon, turning around. There it was – right behind her all the time. She turned back to look at the shops in the mirror.

Something was odd about the reflection, and she paused, trying to put her finger on it. But a nearby clock started its midday chimes and there was no time to think. Something about the lettering? What the hell? She’d found the place and that was the important thing. And she was on time.

Sharon swung around again and rushed towards the door, looking for a bell or buzzer. But there wasn’t one, only a gleaming brass plaque beside the door, inscribed with the doctor’s name and host of initials. On the door itself there was an impressive brass knocker in the shape of an open-mouthed gorgon. Above it, in gold lettering, the number: l50.

Relieved, she banged down the gorgon’s head.

On the last stroke of twelve.

Three

The door swung open of its own accord, and straight ahead of her sat a nurse at a smart chrome and white desk. She was wearing a brilliant white tunic and matching white smile. All the whiteness was dazzling.

‘Miss Plunkett? Hi, honey! We’re expecting you,’ said the nurse, putting down her nail file and standing up to greet her. Sharon tilted her head in surprise. The nurse must have been nearly six and a half feet tall. And every inch of her was stunning. Her impossibly long, slim legs disappeared into the cute pleats of a tiny white skirt that skimmed her thighs like a tennis outfit. She swiftly sashayed round to the front and whipped Sharon’s jacket off her shoulders.

‘Coffee? Tea? Elderflower cordial? Magazine?’ She pouted glossy red lips. On her platinum-blonde, wave-bobbed head perched a ridiculous nurse’s hat. She was every hospitalised man’s dying dream – a killer blonde who could raise the blood pressure faster than a coronary. ‘Take a seat.’ She gestured with a nonchalant flourish towards the right.

Tearing her eyes away from the nurse’s cartoon beauty, Sharon glanced around and noticed the waiting room was also pure white. So white, in fact, it was hard to see where the floor ended and the walls started.

In the corner there was a back-buttoned, white suede chaise-longue. A tinkling sound came from a fountain on the left wall – the plump mouth of a snowy cherub spouting forth water endlessly into a Baroque white basin. Above the tinkling, she could hear the strains of new-age music, a hideous mix of noises that sounded like Celtic harp, Andalusian sand pipes, and possibly mating humpback whales.

If God’s waiting room existed, this would be it, thought Sharon, uneasily. She carefully lowered her bulk on to the spindly chaise-longue and sat in a prim, knees-together position. The nurse was still waiting for the answer to her offers of refreshment.

‘Er, nothing, thank you.’

‘No problem, honey,’ replied the nurse, in a throaty transatlantic drawl, reminding Sharon of a gangster’s moll. ‘I’ll just go and check on Maximus – Dr Marvel. Tell him you’re here.’

She pressed a lever and seemed to disappear through the wall. When it shut, only the faint outline of a door was visible. No handle.

The surreal atmosphere intensified as long moments ticked by. The overwhelming whiteness of the surroundings was disorientating – it was like being in a thin, floaty cloud. As Sharon’s head swam with the dreamy sounds, from the corner of her eye she caught a movement. Startled, she could have sworn the cherub winked at her. She was walking over to investigate when the door in the wall flew open again, the tinkling at-one-with-nature Muzak suddenly competing with distant funfair organ music – a noise totally at odds with all the new-age purity.

‘This way, sweetheart. The doctor is ready for you,’ said the nurse, beckoning Sharon through. The narrow, winding corridor reminded her of an American 1950s Fun House. The wood-panelled walls were lined with distorting mirrors that made their shapes change from skinny to short to fat (in Sharon’s case, fatter) to wide to tall (in the nurse’s case, taller). Sharon longed to stop at the mirror that made her skinny, but the nurse grabbed her arm to hurry her along.

‘This is all – um – unusual for a doctor’s clinic,’ said Sharon, nervously.

‘What is, honey?’ asked the nurse, puzzled.

‘Well, the décor … and the music,’ she added, as the fairground organ got progressively louder.

‘That’s the “inner child” in Dr Marvel,’ sighed the nurse, with fan-like admiration. ‘He believes we should never lose it. Wrote a thesis in the Lancet about it – won three awards. Here we go,’ she said, pushing Sharon through a door before she could ask anything more.

A gold-fringed curtain – more befitting a Victorian vaudeville theatre than a doctor’s surgery – hung before her.

‘In here.’ The nurse drew it back with a flourish and shoved Sharon forward.

A handsome man in his late forties, sporting sleek hair, a black moustache and a charming Hollywood smile, grinned. ‘Welcome, welcome, I’m Dr Maximus Marvel.’ He talked and looked like a slick American game-show host, complete with an air of insincerity. Still, catching the merry twinkle in his eye, Sharon relaxed. It was as if he was sending himself up, having a private joke with her.

But then she took in the room. It was so not what she’d expected. Instead of clinical Beverly Hills it was predominantly pink – and in every possible shade. Pink and fleshy. Dark pink. Pale pink. Rose pink. Deep fuchsia. And almost red-pink. The only other colour was antique gold – beautifully carved filigree wood, which decorated the desk, mirrors and chairs, in the elaborate manner of a steam carousel.

He directed her towards his large, antique desk. ‘Yes, yes.’ He sighed as he walked around her. ‘I can see the problem.’ He rubbed his hands, as if he was loving the challenge, and delved into his doctor’s coat for a stethoscope. ‘Formalities, my dear. Just formalities. A few tests, that’s all … Nurse, bring the optimum fat measurer,’ he instructed, slapping the nurse’s cheeky butt, totally oblivious to Sharon’s presence.

‘Yes, Doctor.’ She giggled, opening a mahogany wall cabinet and handing him a pair of pincers that Sharon thought were more suited to an elephant. Her instinct was to make a bolt for it. But, then, she was an elephant. It focused her mind. That was exactly why she was there. And anything – and that meant ANYTHING – was worth a go.

Lifting her caftan, he applied the instrument. Sharon winced at the cold metal. ‘Lovely, lovely …’ the doctor murmured to himself, jotting down reams of figures and words in illegible handwriting.

The volume of the fairground music seemed to increase as the nurse returned with an empty test tube and a giant V-shaped glass that contained a smoking green liquid. ‘Take this, darlin’,’ she coaxed, sitting on the edge of the desk and crossing her endless legs. ‘It’s a neutraliser.’

What? Sharon pulled away, nervously.

‘Sure, sweetheart. All those nasty little ol’ toxins currently swimming around your body, it wipes them out and prepares you for … You wrote and said you wanted the Celebrity Remedy, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right, that’s right,’ cajoled Dr Marvel, now studying her eyes with a spotlight and a giant magnifying glass, his own enlarged eye looming through it with a mad gleam.

The nurse handed her the glass of swirling green liquid. With no way to escape, Sharon gulped and swallowed, then waited for an explosion of foul taste. Instead, the very sweetest flavour imaginable hit her tongue. Like a juicy mint leaf dipped in sugar and morning dew.

‘Well done, darlin’. Now, this way,’ said the nurse, wiping Sharon’s mouth with a silk handkerchief. But as she tried to stand, things seemed to speed up. Sharon’s head felt a little woozy and happy. The carousel music grew even louder.

‘I love this tune,’ laughed Dr Marvel. ‘Reminds me of travelling funfairs. I used to hang out with them all the time when I was a kid. Roll up, roll up!’ he barked, like the great Barnum himself. ‘Come and let me do some measurements.’

Feeling like the Fat Lady With the Beard, Sharon let him pull her towards a stark, full-length mirror on a far wall, surrounded by bright light bulbs – the kind you’d find in a clown’s dressing room.

Out came a tape measure and a lot of ‘Ah … huh … uh … huh … um …’ from the doctor as he wrapped it round various parts of her anatomy and jotted down yet more figures.

‘You’re exactly between the classic official measurements of sizes fourteen and sixteen.’

‘Really?’ said Sharon, delighted.

‘That’s fourteen to sixteen in American sizing … In England, you’re a big size eighteen.’

Her joy popped, like a fairground balloon hit by a dart.

In the unforgiving light, Sharon could barely face herself in the mirror. The white bulbs gave a ghostly pallor to her skin. To the side of the mirror was a giant jackpot handle, and without warning the doctor put his clipboard aside and pulled down on it with two strong hands.

Suddenly the lights began to flash in rotation around the edge … and it started to change. Like the mirrors she had passed on the way in, her shape began to distort … but this time, all in one mirror. With a life of its own, the glass rippled and bulged in different places, altering her torso and limbs as it did so. From fat to thin, tall to wide … like a fruit machine window gone wild.

Dizzied by the fast, repetitive movement, Sharon felt her head spin. She closed her eyes and held her hand out – she was going to faint. The doctor slammed the jackpot handle to a standstill. The mirror came to a halt.

‘I have the perfect solution for you,’ he announced, supporting her elbow.

She opened her eyes and saw her reflection. It was the same as when she had first looked.

‘It’s the lights, my dear. I do apologise – they tend to make one feel a little strange. Now, there’s one final test we have to do, to make sure you’re really suitable – the change is very drastic, you know. We have to be absolutely sure. Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely certain.’ She wavered a little, nervous at what he was planning to do to her. He didn’t look convinced. She tried again. ‘I’m dying to be slim – please, anything you can do …’

After a long moment’s consideration, he nodded to his gorgeous assistant, who jumped to attention.

The nurse steered her to a corner of the room where an old-fashioned giant weighing machine stood waiting. It was red, and a sign on the top said, ‘Speak your weight.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Sharon, half laughing, half horrified. This was hardly hi-tech Beverly Hills! The doctor and nurse looked at each other, as if sharing an intimate secret, then smiled. Saying nothing, they ushered her on to the platform.