This is one of those things that my sister says – but doesn’t really mean – so that everyone in the room will shower her with compliments. As expected, everyone tells her how pretty she is and how slim she’s looking.
‘You used to be quite fat, didn’t you, Mia,’ Belle’s best friend (and my former bully) Nancy announces to the whole room. ‘If Belle wanted to feel more confident about her shape I’m sure you could offer invaluable advice… unless you do it the Hollywood way and stick your fingers down your throat.’
Everyone laughs at Nancy’s charming little joke about eating disorders, because we all know eating disorders are hilarious.
‘Well, my sister does look great,’ Belle starts, ‘and I just seem to be gaining weight all the time.’
My sister sounds glum and embarrassed that the over-dinner conversation is all about her weight.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I say to try and make her feel better. ‘I work in a place where people wrongly think that skinny and success go hand in hand, so it’s easy to do what everyone else is doing. If I worked in a bakery like you, I’d probably gain weight.’
‘So you think I just eat cakes all day?’ my sister asks me angrily.
‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ I insist – because I didn’t. ‘All I meant was that if I had your job, and I was surrounded by sweet stuff all day, I would probably eat more than I do in my office where all they lay out is fruit.’
‘You think I eat too much and that’s why I’m fat,’ my sister concludes, pushing her plate away.
Once again, everyone’s eyes are on me. I can tell as they all watch me shovel a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth that they all agree with Belle.
‘Don’t be foolish, Belle,’ my grandma chimes. ‘You don’t want to be as thin as Mia, it’s not healthy to be like she is.’
‘You’re perfect just the way you are,’ my mum insists. It’s funny, because when I was chubby not once did she tell me I was perfect as I was. Even now that I am aiming for perfection, she still thinks there’s something wrong with me. ‘You’re so happy with your life that silly things like a few pounds here or there don’t have any bearing on your happiness.’
‘It must be hard for you, Mia, to see your little sister getting married while you’re still single,’ Nancy says in a faux sympathetic voice.
‘And writing all those romantic stories, but having no love in your life,’ my auntie says, continuing Nancy’s sentiment.
I shrug my shoulders.
‘No, because Mia isn’t romantic,’ my sister says, and I’m not sure if it is in my defence or if she’s joining in with the Mia-bashing. ‘She thinks love is silly.’
‘Surely she can’t think that,’ a girl about the same age as my sister chimes in. ‘She wrote Nate From Next Door – which I love – and you can’t write like that if you don’t believe it.’
Everyone looks at me for an explanation as to how I can have little interest in love but write about it so convincingly.
‘Does George Lucas believe that Ewoks are real?’ I ask the room. ‘Does Bram Stoker believe in vampires? Does even one person who works for Disney in any capacity believe that an old bloke can float his house to South America using nothing but a shit-load of balloons?’
I hear a few sniggers from the kids’ table at my use of the S word, but the grown-ups are all staring at me like I’m some kind of monster.
‘Well, that’s depressing,’ Nancy laughs.
‘My favourite love story is a lie,’ Belle’s friend says solemnly.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I can’t help but snap. ‘It’s fiction and fiction is made up. That’s just the way it is.’
Everyone continues to eat in silence and I feel bad for ruining the atmosphere, but it wasn’t my fault. Belle is getting married and she’s happy, and that’s great. Why can’t people just be happy for her and stop obsessing over what her happiness means for me, her older sister who is still on the shelf. Don’t they think I am happy with my life? I am ecstatic when I am back in LA, it’s just being around this lot that makes me miserable.
‘Good morning,’ I sing brightly as I enter the kitchen.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is all decked out in white. The chrome appliances are the closest thing this room has to offer in terms of colour, it’s so white and clean it’s giving off the creepy vibes of a hospital operating theatre. I watch as my sister chops up a plate of sausages before dousing it in ketchup and handing it to Josh – on second thoughts, it’s more like a morgue than an operating theatre.
In contrast to all the horizontal lines created by the drawers, frameless cabinets and work surfaces, the vertical blinds cast shadows all around the room. Long, thick, dark shadows, creating prison cell type bars everywhere. These bars may be an optical illusion caused by nothing other than an obstruction of light, but they feel real. I feel like I’m in a prison.
‘Morning, Mia,’ my sister says as she fries bacon. ‘We were just talking about how you can’t get married, even if you want to.’
Forget what I just said. It’s not like an operating theatre, it’s not like a morgue and it’s not like a prison – I’m right in the heart of the psych ward.
I glance around at the other people in the kitchen. Josh, my only ally in the room, left as soon as he got his breakfast, so that just leaves me with my sister, my gran, my mum and my auntie. Despite the warm weather outside it is positively frosty in here.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ I ask, because that made no sense to me at all.
‘I’ve been reading up on wedding superstitions, you know, just so I have all bases covered,’ my sister explains.
‘That makes perfect sense,’ I say sarcastically.
‘Mia,’ my gran interrupts, ‘superstition is such a large part of getting married.’
‘And being married, am I right, Auntie June?’ I say as I give her a nudge and wiggle my eyebrows. I thought she might be able to see the funny side of what happened yesterday by now, but the angry frown on her face confirms otherwise. ‘So, what does that have to do with me?’ I ask my sister.
‘Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride,’ my mum warns me – the same mum who bullied me into being my sister’s bridesmaid even though she knew I had already been a bridesmaid twice when I was younger.
I stare at her blankly.
‘Basically,’ my sister begins, ‘the whole idea of being a bridesmaid is so you can distract the evil spirits that try to ruin the wedding.’
‘Like vodka?’ I laugh, causing my gran to click her tongue at me. ‘Like a stunt double then?’ I ask, semi-seriously.
‘Yes,’ my sister says excitedly, clearly delighted that I get it. ‘So the bridesmaid deals with the evil spirits that will be trying to stop the wedding from going ahead, but in doing so the bridesmaid catches a lot of bad luck – like being single and alone forever.’
‘Mia is doing a good job of that so far,’ my mum snorts.
‘Oh, see before I just thought it was a silly tradition but now… I think you ladies are completely nuts.’
‘Mia,’ my sister squeaks, ‘don’t speak to Mum, Gran and auntie June like that.’
‘And you.’ I point at my sister. ‘You’re the queen of crazy if you