Yesterday, I found an old photograph of him at Oxford: full lips, cheeks flushed, curls I loved so much. Past tense. He looked innocent and self-assured all at once. His face was so different that, had instinct not told me otherwise, I might not have recognised him. I remember him telling me he was a handful back then, as much of a handful as any young man launched into the world from the most privileged of starting points could be.
Another day, a man at a dinner party spent the evening fawning over me.
‘You must have had a very, very good education. Cheltenham Ladies?’
Instead of attending Cheltenham Ladies, I was spending my days in one of the poorest corners of Eastern Europe, seeing dead bodies on a daily whilst taking care for an ill parent.
I let him keep his assumptions. There was no reason to spoil his evening. I’m pleasant, you know.
My agent wraps the tape measure around my hips and nods.
‘You still need to lose half an inch.’
If only she knew that three years ago I was morbidly obese.
I smoke, I watch politics like a blood sport, and swear at politicians regardless of their colours. I see the underclass and the upper class with the same unsentimental gaze. People are suspicious of me. Nothing about me seems to add up. My stories contradict one another, my very self is a contradiction. I have the eyes of a cat and the cheeks of a child.
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