I was her BFF, and I had no idea she’d kill herself. I can’t believe I’m at her funeral, right now, surrounded by all this awful black. It never looks good in Spring, does it, black?
I was only talking to her the day before she died, or maybe the day before that. I was saying to her, “How fat do you think you have to get before you’d want to kill yourself? You’re fat, but, you know, not that fat. What’s fat enough, though?” I asked her. “I think I’d kill myself if I ever got to a size 12! You’re so brave being an 18 and still being happy. An 18’s almost normal, isn’t it?” That’s what I said.
I tried with her, I really did. I remember saying to her, “Of course, you’re short, which doesn’t help, but some men like that, don’t they? I don’t trust them, though, men who think short women are attractive. Those little legs don’t look good no-matter how high your Manolos or your Louboutin’s. Little fat feet never fit into good shoes, anyway, but then you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
Because she would.
I said, “I suppose Jimmy Choo’s are OK, or those Marc Jacob’s, they seem to come up very wide.
“Your legs aren’t that bad, though,” I said to her. “That’s because you’ve got all your weight in your body. I think I’d kill myself if I didn’t have a waist. That’s what makes your bum look good, after all, going in at the middle. I suppose you could have a rib or two removed... Do they still do that?” I made suggestions, but she never listened.
I don’t know if she ever weighed or measured herself. The last time I saw her, I said, “You want a 3/4 ratio. That’s what they say. I’m perfect. 24inch waist, 32inch hips. Not much difference between your hips and waist, though.” I guess they measured about the same, but I don’t think she even knew.
“You’ve got big boobs though,” I said. “They’re not really in fashion at the moment. Everyone who lives outside Essex is having their implants removed. Implants look good, though. If you’ve got to have big boobs, implants are much better than the real thing. Five more years and yours’ll be around your knees,” I told her. “I won’t ever have that problem. I’m neat. Some people say I look a bit like Natalie Portman. Did you see her in Black Swan?”
I took a real interest in her. Who wants to sit in front of the telly? I’d rather go clubbing, but I always talked about films and that with her.
I couldn’t have been kinder really. I bigged her up the last time we had lunch. I said, “Of course you’ve got something in common with Natalie Portman, haven’t you? I suppose a mole can be cute, in the right place. You know, if you’re Cindy Crawford or Natalie Portman... I suppose then you could get away with it. I wonder if they could stop the hairs growing out of yours. Do you pluck them?” I asked her, but she didn’t take any interest in herself. “It’s a pity it’s right there, though, isn’t it?” I said. “I think I’d die if my face was marked. I’d have to get rid of it. I guess they might be sexy on men, but you’re a girl. I don’t know how you stand it.”
People can be so unkind, can’t they?
“The Boyff would dump me for sure. If I get a spot, I have to hide away,” I said, but at least I’ve got a boyff. I told her, “I’d die if I had skin trouble. You’d know a good dermatologist, though, wouldn’t you?”
That was another thing. She could always talk to me about man trouble. It’s just a shame I didn’t know a bloke that might’ve taken pity on her. The last one wasn’t much good, but when he shot through, I even asked her, “Are you over your old boyff yet? It must be tough out there, competing with so many gorgeous girls. Everyone else does the Dukan diet and has a peel,” I said. “Maybe you should do that. You could go to one of those fat camps, or put yourself up for “Ten Years Younger”. Not that you’re old... Not that old.”
She was three years older than me, though.
“I’m dreading getting to 30!” I told her. “I don’t think I’d want to have a party, either, why celebrate getting old. It was nice having lunch, though, just us, on your thirtieth. That waiter couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Two more years. I’ve got two good years to get the Boyff down the aisle, and then I can let it all go.” I said. We were that close, we were almost like sisters.
“You’re very brave, letting it all go before you’ve got the husband,” I said. “You’re happy, though, aren’t you? Some people are happy being ordinary. Not me. You won’t see me slacking.”
Anyway, I bought this dress especially for her funeral, today. I would’ve bought the other one, but the grey was a bit too beige for my complexion, and I managed to get in the size six in this one. I hope we don’t have to sit down for the reception, though. It’s a bit tight for sitting down in, and my legs look much better in it when I’m standing. That’s the tan, it looks much more sophisticated with the French Navy. She wouldn’t have expected me to wear black. Friends don’t judge each other, do they?
Poor thing. She was my BFF and I didn’t see it coming. Silly girl, though, she could have talked to me. She knew what a good listener I am.
Do you think there’ll be crudites at the reception? I daren’t eat carbs, I’m saving them for tomorrow for dinner with the Boyff.