Claudia's Big Break (17 page)

‘Don't look at me like that.'

‘Rather than make circling motions in your taramasalata, why don't you just eat it?' I said.

‘Yeah, the pink swirls are making me sick,' said Tara.

Sophie stood up. ‘Would you two get off my back, and could you watch Levi for a sec?' With that, she stalked to the bathroom.

The first time I noticed Sophie's obsession with food was years ago at school when I used to stay at her house on weekends. In the morning she'd drink two cups of coffee, followed by four cups of water, which she'd slowly sip over the course of an hour. And instead of the normal toast and Vegemite I'd wolf down, she'd absorb a tiny Petit Miam yogurt very slowly, only licking the teaspoon. As for lunch, she'd have a couple of tablespoons of grated carrot. But then for dinner, she'd pig out on meat, potatoes with gravy, and eat buckets of chocolate-chip ice cream for dessert.

‘Do you do this every day?' I asked her and she shrugged noncommittally, refusing to acknowledge what I was talking about.

In the space of six weeks, Sophie's weight plummeted from a healthy size ten to a skeletal size six. One afternoon when I accidentally found laxatives in her bag, I confronted her. But instead of screaming and telling me I had it all wrong as I'd desperately hoped, she collapsed. I was so terrified I could barely manage to dial triple zero.

Sophie was rushed to hospital.

Later, she confided that the only control she had over her life was the power to starve or to go to the other extreme and gorge herself before vomiting. ‘My parents control every other aspect.'

Because of his time in the war, Sophie's father was wary of outsiders. Her parents were notoriously private people who kept Sophie, an only child, on a short leash. I was surprised I was allowed to visit as often as I did. Regarding Sophie's illness, her parents became even more strict and controlling.

A few weeks after her hospitalisation, not long after Sophie broke up with her first ‘real' boyfriend, Craig, I found her sitting inside her bedroom cupboard stuffing her cheeks with Snickers bars.

‘Sophie!' I screamed, yanking the chocolate from her hands. I also grabbed at the discarded wrappers.

‘Just get out of my house and leave me alone,' she shouted as she scrambled on the floor, reaching under her bed for other chocolate she'd stashed.

‘Stop it! Stop doing this to yourself.'

‘What? I'm hungry. Stop being so judgemental. You're not so perfect yourself,' Sophie said, tears streaming down her face.

‘I never said I was —' I tried as Sophie rushed past me to the bathroom.

‘You're a bitch,' she said and she slammed the door.

I couldn't handle it. It was scary. I imagined having to phone for an ambulance again.

‘Sophie,' I called out to her, but she wouldn't come out of the bathroom. ‘I don't think I can be your friend at the moment.'

‘Good,' was her muffled reply.

I went home to my safe little world and assumed the spat would blow over if I gave her some space. It didn't. Sophie didn't talk to me for six months. She wiped me as though I didn't exist. When I tried getting Tara involved, all she'd said was, ‘Give her time.' So Tara and I had a huge blow-up too. (Come to think of it, Year 11 was extraordinarily intense.)

Tara said it wasn't our problem, and that she had enough hassles, what with having to attend Mass every other day with her parents, failing economics and only just averaging in English.

What I didn't realise until a few weeks into our feud was that, without me, Tara and Sophie barely spoke to each other. They did initially, as I recall, but after about a month they stopped hanging out together.

‘Why would I?' Tara said when I quizzed her about Sophie, whom I'd assumed she was keeping tabs on. ‘She's okay, but if we're not gossiping about you, we have little in common. We're a threesome or nothing at all.'

At the start of Year 12, I managed to get our friendship back on track by doing a hell of a lot of grovelling. That, and by presenting Sophie with a one metre by one metre ‘sorry' card featuring the floating handsome heads of Jason Bateman, Rob Lowe and Robert Downey Jr, all pleading my case as to why we should be friends again. It worked! We also came to the understanding that Sophie's weight loss had been temporary, due to her intense relationship and break-up with Craig. The three of us resumed best friend status and ever since Sophie had maintained her perfect size eight, never fluctuating (apart for the pregnancy and early baby weeks).

Even though Sophie's eating disorder wasn't ongoing, I occasionally thought back to that time and how harrowing it was. Right now, I was worried about Sophie being so anxious that she might fall back into bad habits.

Well, I wouldn't let that happen. And I'd start by insisting she share a baklava with me — it was my birthday, after all.

It was late in the day when we wobbled back to Marcella's.

In between changing clothes and reapplying lipstick for our night on the town, we downed several glasses of water on the terrace. (Okay, we also drank Marcella's ouzo as well.) I felt on top of the world.

Happy with my red and cream slinky wraparound dress, I added the final touch — gorgeous pea-green sandals. Gorgeous but uncomfortable. Totally unwearable. I loved them.

‘What do you think?' I said, doing a twirl for the girls.

‘Too high, you'll fall over in a heap,' said Tara, who was wearing brown Birkenstocks.

‘An evening shoe, in this instance an evening sandal,' said Sophie, who was wearing moderate four centimetre heels, ‘has to be high, very high, especially given it's your birthday. Besides, flats are for librarians. No offence, Tars.'

We left Marcella and Levi curled up on the lounge watching
Shrek 4
and off we toddled.

‘Be having fun,' Marcella called out as we disappeared up the stairs.

As we walked along the cobbled alleyway leading into Fira, Tara said, ‘Are you
really
sure you want to wear those shoes tonight, Claud?'

‘Too bloody right I do,' I said, hobbling towards the setting sun.

13

S
oon after, we arrived at the magnificent Sunset Bar in Fira where we sat on stools overlooking the caldera. The list of exotically named drinks was beyond anything I'd ever experienced. There were mysterious concoctions with ingredients such as tamarillo, lychee, pomegranate and persimmon. Martinis infused with basil, lemongrass and rosemary. The choice was overwhelming. We kicked off the evening with a Rude Cosmo.

‘It's her birthday,' shouted Tara when the waiter delivered us our next round — poached pear and cinnamon daiquiris with a rhubarb schnapps chaser. Within minutes he was back with complimentary Oriental Mules.

‘This could get ugly,' said Sophie.

Nodding in agreement, we all sipped our drinks.

‘Come on then,' said Tara. ‘As is your privilege, you get five minutes to reminisce about birthdays gone by.'

‘I thought you'd never ask.' The deal was the girls shouted out random birthdays and I had to sum them up in less than ten words.

Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘Sixth.'

Too easy. ‘Fairy party, pink Barbie, Arthur Fonzarelli.'

Mum and Dad threw me a fairy party and surprised me with a Labrador puppy. Being television addicts, we called him Mr Fonzarelli, affectionately known as The Fonz, and sometimes Arthur! when he dug up the garden or defecated on the driveway.

‘Eighteenth,' said Tara.

‘Bomber,' idiot boyfriend of the time, ‘crash tackling the chicken coop.'

‘At least he wasn't nude,' said Sophie. ‘The injuries could have been a lot worse.'

‘Twenty-first,' shouted Sophie.

‘RIP Arthur,' I said and we all clinked glasses.

Mr Fonzarelli died the night before my twenty-first and we buried him the next day. Mum wanted to put it off until the after my birthday but, it being unseasonably warm, Dad worried that old Fonzie would start to smell. Unfortunately, the hole Dad dug for him near the orange trees wasn't quite deep enough and Dad had to keep lifting him out of his grave to dig out more soil. In the end, he bent Fonzie's legs to fit. My birthday was a write-off. The family was in tears all day, even Dad, once he'd recovered from the shovelling.

‘Twenty-fifth,' said Sophie.

‘Gamine crop. Drunken boat cruise. Never again.' I shuddered at the memory.

‘Thirtieth,' said the waiter, who'd delivered Santorini Slings and a round of dips.

‘Dud. Bed. Flu. Louise Brooks black bob.'

He tried again. ‘Thirty-forth?'

‘Better. Blonde. Sex on the beach.'

Tara shook her head in disgust. ‘Blonde! What were you thinking?'

My five minutes of reminiscing went on for a good hour and a half. By the time we left the Sunset Bar and had stumbled into Santorini Swings, the karaoke machine was in full flight.

‘Karaoke!' I shrieked as we crammed into the smoky, dimly lit club. ‘This is the place to be!' I'd consumed enough alcohol to consider myself an expert on relationships and was not afraid to give advice, wanted or otherwise.

‘See that couple over there,' I said to Sophie when Tara disappeared to the bathroom. ‘I bet you anything they've only just met tonight and are minutes away from going back to his place to shag like rabbits all night.' Sophie was in awe of my ability to read body language.

‘And those two over there,' I continued, ‘are totally bored with each other. Look at them. This holiday's a last-ditch effort to save their doomed relationship.'

‘They don't look happy, do they?' agreed Soph.

‘Who? What?' asked Tara, arriving back with three mineral waters and a huge bowl of chips.

‘I was just telling Soph that the couple over there are doomed because they're not in love.'

‘You're an idiot,' Tara sighed. ‘They're brother and sister.'

‘How can you tell?' said Sophie.

‘They look exactly alike for one thing,' said Tara. ‘For another, they moved into one of Marcella's apartments this afternoon. I met them briefly.' Tara turned to the side. ‘Jack!'

By this stage, I was pretty much convinced I was the most attractive woman ever put on Planet Earth . . . sexy, irresistible and wearing the best pea-green sandals in town. I was happy enough that Jack was there but my mind was on other things, like dancing and singing.

Next thing I knew, it was eight o'clock in the morning and I was lying in my bed. It was quiet, serene almost, except for the thumping noise inside my head. I felt underneath the covers. I still had my bra and knickers on. Sleeping in my bra? I felt again. Yes.

If only I could open my eyes. One would do. It was my lids. Or rather the lashes on top of my lids. They were too heavy . . . my new mascara, that was the problem. I couldn't have forced open my lids with a crowbar. I was blind. I'd never see my family, the ocean or those gorgeous maroon suede boots again. And what about my cute little sweater with the flowery embroidery that everyone hated but I loved?

I felt a flicker of a lid and eased myself onto the floor beside the bed, moving very slowly for fear of throwing up. Then my foot landed in something squishy and wet. After a struggle that seemed to last days, I finally opened one eye properly. A packet of mushy peas! I thought about the peas for a few moments while making an awkward attempt to scour the area. Surely if I'd done something perverse with frozen peas, I'd have remembered.

After staggering to the dressing table, I shrieked in horror at my reflection. I was hideous. I'd been so glamorous last night and now I looked like the hunchback's ugly sister. Smeared lipstick, mascara running down my face.

I touched the dark bruise on my right cheek. A hazy memory of snatching a microphone out of an American frat boy's hands, the force of which driving said mic into my cheek, came to mind.

I glanced over at the corner of my bedroom. Flung against the wall were my completely impractical, impossibly high, unwearable pea-green sandals, not looking quite so gorgeous now.

‘“I love the night life,”' Tara sang as she danced over to me when I staggered out onto the terrace. I jumped two metres into the air, which was quite a feat considering how fragile I felt.

‘Don't do that,' I said, clutching at a chair and easing myself down into it. ‘And for God's sake, stop singing.'

‘What's the matter? You're the karaoke queen. Sorry, the karaoke birthday dancing queen.'

I hated Tara . . . hated her smug, clean, unblemished face, her wide Cheshire grin and her loud booming voice. I wanted to wring her annoying little neck. And I would have, had I the energy and balance to stand.

‘You gave an outstanding performance,' she continued.

‘Morning.' It was Sophie. ‘Here, drink this.' She handed me a vile concoction.

‘What is it?' I spat the words out after inhaling the stench.