Читать книгу Size Zero: My Life as a Disappearing Model - Victoire Dauxerre - Страница 7

I didn’t want to think about it any more. I was feeling fine, or at any rate better. Normal life had resumed: I was studying again, I’d moved into a new place, I’d found a boyfriend, a job and a future of sorts, and my figure was now more or less acceptable. I was increasingly thinking about getting into acting seriously, because in the end it was the only thing that genuinely interested me.

And then Mum called. ‘Loutch, I’ve written an email to that MP who’s trying to get a law passed on anorexia.’ She wanted me to read it to see if I was OK with what she’d said and if I wanted her to include my contact details. I read it, and of course I was OK with it. And yes, I wanted her to include my contact details.

She sent it off, and then the journalists started calling with questions. So I told them my story, and everything started all over again.

The eating. Eating to fill myself up, to fill this void. Hating it, but doing it all the same. Seeing my body transform itself, even though I emptied it just as soon as I’d filled it. Not recognising it, and hating it. Not recognising myself, and hating me. Feeling so awful, so ugly and so empty. So like nothing at all.

And that’s when I decided to relive, one final time, those eight months of my life spent suspended in a vacuum. To write it all down. To write about that constant spinning sensation in my head, that savage and brutal fear that used to devour my body and, to the extent that I still had one, my soul.

About the loneliness I felt when surrounded by all those cynics, the bastards, the lost and the miserable. About the unspeakably disgusting, skeletal ugliness in the midst of all that beauty. And about death itself, adorned in bright lights, make-up, fur, silk, rhinestone, lace, satin, soft leather and 7-inch heels.

The death that was very nearly my own fate.