She phoned her sister-in-law, Zoe, that evening and blurted out the news.
‘The photo’s the afternoon after next – all of us in bikinis or sports clothes, revealing sports clothes. The before photos.’
Zoe almost growled down the phone. Ginger had explained that the chances of nailing her boss on any sort of harassment/bullying/discrimination charges would be impossible.
‘And don’t tell me to try. I want this job.’
‘There are laws against this sort of thing, Ginger,’ said Zoe, who worked in an ordinary office and couldn’t quite imagine the subtlety of machismo and discrimination in some work arenas.
‘Yes and they don’t really work in my industry.’
‘I don’t believe that, Ginger. You have to stand up for yourself—’ began Zoe.
‘I will,’ said Ginger calmly. Why did nobody think she couldn’t stand up for herself? Probably because Liza had stomped on her for so long, nobody believed she had any backbone left.
‘I’m going to do this,’ she added. Despite the sheer fear in her belly. ‘Your sister, Zoe, still works in styling, right? Do you think she could help ...? Do something to fix me up in nice workout clothes or anything?’
‘Yes!’ shrieked Zoe. ‘Brilliant idea. I’ll phone her and she’ll ring you in fifteen, promise. But why are you doing it, hon?’
Ginger laughed. ‘I thought it was a good idea, time for me to lose a few pounds,’ she said. This, suddenly, was a challenge that would push her to the limit.
Liza had said she whined about not losing weight. What if Liza was right? And what if she was OK really in her own skin but had never been brave enough to step outside in that skin? This was the time to test it all out.
Carla might think she’d handed Ginger a hand grenade but Ginger would lob it right back at her.
Lulu, gorgeous like Zoe but a total fashion-head who made her living styling weird shoots in forests where ethereal girls wore papier mâché antlers on their heads or tame foxes in their arms and drifted around in couture, was on the phone in ten minutes.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a situation, Ginger.’
In those ten minutes, Ginger had completely changed her mind. She’d stared at herself in the mirror and had then misery-downed half a glass of wine and eaten half a packet of chocolate biscuits. She now no longer saw any way out but to give in her notice. She, size eighteen on a good day, eighteen-with-a-safety-pin on a bad one, could not pose in workout gear or swimwear in the magazine and ever hold up her head again. The humiliation would be too great. Who cared about actual working out. The photographs would be agony. The thought of people seeing it in the newspaper ...
‘Lulu, I’m size eighteen. I have never even owned a bikini. I must have been nuts to think you could help—’
‘Stop right there, honey chile,’ said Lulu, who apparently came over all Louisiana when she was in styling mode. ‘If this was hopeless, we’d get an employment lawyer onto it. I know a really cute one.’ She sighed. ‘Didn’t last. He was very strait-laced.’
She got back on topic. ‘But as it’s not hopeless, we have a canvas, but it needs work. Hair, make-up, a sculpting tan and gym clothes that make you look hot. I really need to see the brief your boss has given you so I know what we’re aiming for.’
‘No brief unless the photographer has it. The aim is ritual humiliation. Plus, I really hoped you’d mention some fat-sucking machine that will make me half the size,’ said Ginger.
‘The only machine we need is the one to suck your body anxiety out of your brain,’ Lulu replied. ‘Plus-sized models are the hottest thing ever now. But even the skinny models get as anxious as you. Womankind has been told that no matter what shape they are, it’s thewrong shape. That’s why beautiful seventeen-year-olds are in anorexia units thinking they’re ugly. Until we take over the world, we have to get clever. Here’s the plan.’
They met at lunchtime the next day. Lulu, whom Ginger had met at Mick and Zoe’s wedding, was as tall as Ginger, raven-haired and dressed in something very cutting edge in shades of grey. She was also greyhound-thin.
Lulu brought Ginger into a small lingerie shop where she greeted the owner with a big hug.
‘Ginger, this is Eugenia, and she can tell you your bra size from fifty paces.’
‘Forty E,’ said Eugenia, raising an eyebrow.
‘Forty-two double E,’ said Ginger, feeling embarrassed.
‘Honey, you’re wearing the wrong size,’ Eugenia said.
‘Did the stuff arrive?’ Lulu asked
‘Two boxes. I called in the best from all over the place.’
Lulu rubbed her hands together. ‘Let’s get you into the cubicle. This is going to be fun.’
