Plus, if she was lucky, there’d be intelligent conversation during which she would not be required to talk dirty about vegetables – or think any further about Jessica and her awful ad campaign.
2
Rachel arrived back at the flat to find Anna in the kitchen making lentil bolognese. There was some sort of garlic flatbread on the worktop, glistening with olive oil and sprinkled with fresh flat-leaf parsley. As the rich aroma of comfort food filled her nostrils, Rachel wondered if she’d ever loved her best friend more than she did right now.
She dumped her handbag and laptop by the back door that led to their little garden, draped her damp coat over a nearby radiator and slumped into one of the four chairs that sat around the battered old dining table. Anna put down her wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her jeans.
‘You’ve seen them, then?’ she said.
Rachel groaned in immediate understanding.
So much for banishing all thoughts of the bus ads – but feigning ignorance was useless with Anna, who knew her better than anyone.
‘How did you know?’
‘Your message. And then something about the way you sat down. Maybe it was the half-angry, half-despondent sigh.’
‘I amnotdespondent!’ Rachel insisted. ‘Mortified on her behalf, more like. I mean,Angeljuice… A slimming drink for women who’ve been trained by society to hate themselves. It’s beyond cynical. It’s disgusting.’
‘Er – didn’t you try it a couple of years ago?’ Anna said, her eyebrows hovering near her platinum-blonde hairline.
‘Oh, fine, YES. For, like, two days or something. And that’s how Iknowit’s disgusting! Not to mention ineffective.’
Anna turned down the gas beneath the shallow, round Le Creuset pan in which she was simmering finely diced vegetables, healthy pulses and herbs. She put the large teal lid on it to keep the mixture warm, then flipped the switch on the kettle.
‘Putting aside your totally valid feminist stance … are you okay?’
Anna let the question sit for a few moments, making two massive mugs of PG Tips and loading biscuits onto a plate. In lieu of wine, and in light of their virtuous dinner, caffeine and sugar seemed appropriate. Silent, Rachel picked at the remnants of her fortnight-old gel manicure.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ she said finally, as Anna sat down opposite her. ‘Of course I am. There’s no reason why Ishouldn’tbe. And tonight wasn’t my first time seeing the posters, anyway … That was a few days ago.’
‘What?! Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’
Rachel opened her mouth to attempt an explanation, but nothing came out.
‘Incidentally,’ Anna went on into the void, ‘not being able to find an excuse for feeling a bit shit doesn’t mean the feeling is invalid – or that it doesn’t exist. I haven’t forgotten this is the woman you used to call Boyfriend Stealer Barbie. You once said there was nobody in the world who made you feel so inadequate – not even your mother.’
Rachel blanched at this, then said, ‘Wow. That must have been before Mum perfected her “You won’t be fertile forever!” routine.’
Anna laughed, but pursued her point. ‘Honestly, I think I’d feel weird about it if I were you. What I don’t understand is how she’s suddenly started appearing in adverts. How is Jessica Williams a model? I thought she just sat around “influencing” all day, taking photos of her lunch, telling the world where she got her T-shirt from, filming herself applying lipstick … That sort of bobbins.’
Anna, who taught English at an 11–18 academy in Haringey, loathed social media in all its forms. She considered it a plague that was rotting the brains of the young, whereas Rachel – a casual user of the most popular platforms – had to stay abreast of digital trends for work.
‘Dear, naive Anna,’ Rachel replied, her mouth full of tea-soaked chocolate Hobnob. ‘Let me explain. Influencers – the big ones, anyway – use their online profiles to get to a place where they can have careersoffline. They build themselves up via the internet, but they don’t want to be contained by it forever. This marketing campaign is part of a bid for real-world fame.’
Privately, and with the professional zone of her brain engaged, Rachel could see that Jessica was a good choice of ambassador for Angeljuice – a brand styling itself as concerned with ‘wellness’ but clearly more devoted to promoting the super-slim, sexy silhouette its products promised.
With almost a million YouTube subscribers and more than 750,000 Instagram followers, Jessica fit their bill perfectly: she was gorgeous, glossy and able to reach hundreds of thousands of women who wanted to look, dress and live like her.
In addition to the bus ads, Rachel knew Jessica’s image was also adorning Tube posters and advertorial magazine spreads – one of which she’d discovered while idly flicking through this week’sGrazia. She’d long known that Jessica had managed to make a career out of being beautiful, but until recently she’d managed to avoid her. Only in weak moments – occasionally, after one too many gin and tonics – had Rachel scrolled through Jessica’s latest posts and indulged herself in feeling chubby and unglamorous.
While Jessica was thin, smooth and apparently ageless, Rachel was unfashionably curvy – complete with cellulitey thighs, a burgeoning collection of fine lines and (depending on the time of the month) a dot-to-dot of spots along her jawline. She was fully aware that regular confrontations with Jessica might test her commitment to feeling fine about herself, but she had no intention of admitting this out loud.
‘So you think we’ll be seeing more of her, then?’ Anna asked. ‘More posters, more modelling?’
‘I expect so, unless this campaign bombs – which I’m sure it won’t.’
‘It’s so strange. I mean, I guess you thought you’d never see her again.’
