Two Slices of Carrot Cake - REVISING

Sticky and Sweet

"Are you well enough to leave the house?"

Do you want to know the best thing about the food poisoning excuse? It gave me a legit reason for skipping breakfast and lunch. No need to dirty plates, chuck away food and pretend I'd gotten up hours before everyone else and eaten breakfast.

Still feeling queasy, I murmured, rubbing my stomach. Dunno if I can manage anything.

The Great British Baker eyed me beadily at that. She thinks any human who doesn't eat once every four hours is in danger of... death or something. Which is why, I often mutter to myself, I'm hampered by this role model who stands in front of me, arms folded and delivering lectures about the importance of breakfast.

Thanks for the skinny genes, ma. Not.

I jumped on the scales this morning and watched the numbers flicker up and then down. Another three pounds off. When I lifted up my tee shirt, I said 'hello' to my belly, pleased that today it doesn't make me grimace. When it tries to talk back—Savvy, I'm starving—I don't bother listening. This is a one-way conversation only.

And yes of course I'm well enough to leave the house because I have a date, and a proper one this time.

The prep takes me hours. Bits of my body that never see the light of day might be seen. The mirror isn't kind. I scrolled through Instagram this morning and saw 999 (felt like) girls I should look like. Everyone on there has straight white teeth, brown skin, straight, glossy hair and the kind of body that makes me weep with jealousy—the big boobs, thin legs and tiny waist combo.

Every bit of clothing I own went on and then off again until I found something that I thought scored five out of ten instead of one. Culottes, pleated, green rayon and because they finish above my ankles as they are slim unlike the rest of me. My black denim jacket over the top of a white cotton camisole—the tiny holes through which you can see a lacy bra.

Make-up, naturally, and a lot of it seeing as I have a grey-white face to cover. And I remember Silver Ang's tip—lip gloss, ladies, not lipstick. You don't want the poor guy terrified he's going to end up with a face full of gloopy red waxy stuff. Lips need to be soft, pink and inviting.

Jonathan sent me a message to say we should meet at Harrow on the Hill Tube Station. I'm ten minutes early and bouncing from foot to foot when he arrives, a huge smile on his face.

"Thank you! I'm sorry you had to traipse all the way across London. Can I buy you a coffee or what about a pizza?"

I nod, and then shake my head, yes to one and a definite no to the other. Who wants to eat? The place he takes me to is small but crowded. Coffees ordered, he sits opposite me and takes both my hands. Bliss is holding hands in public, I decide. Nicer than anything.

What do I say? What do I do?

"I'm taking so many risks," he says. I bluster sorries but he shushes me.

"I can't help it, Savvy," the eyes search my face. "I don't make a habit of seducing school girls, but I noticed you right from the start. You stood out."

Would it be vain of me to demand details? I want to. What was it that made me special, and what did you see that others don't? Mum throws that line, "God, teenagers! Always think they are the only ones in the world to suffer!" at me all the time. Has he looked past my messy, broken surface, the layers of fat, ordinariness and hurt, and worked me out?

The foamy coffee leaves a white line above his top lip, and I long to lean over and wipe it off. If this was a French film, I could do that, letting my fingers linger there, and then his tongue would flick out and...