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How To Lose Weight And Alienate People
Ollie Quain
Is there such a thing as the perfect body?Vivian Ward thinks she is in total control of her life. Actually…she’s thirty five, an out-of-work actress who puts more effort into partying than getting good parts, is estranged from her family and emotionally unavailable to her boyfriend.Truth is, the only thing she’s in control of is what’s on her plate…But then she meets movie star Maximilian Fry, who's just as screwed up, and journeys into a world of celebrity even more damaging than the one she was already living in. Will image triumph, or will she realise that some of her answers lie within?A hilarious and thought-provoking novel about self-esteem and the cult of skinny…and what happens when you’re funny about food but the joke starts to wear thin
OLLIE QUAIN lives in London. She has worked for Ministry of Sound, The O2, a load of fashion mags and also done a bit of telly. She is a fan of techno, Jason Orange from Take That, Citalopram, white leather and black liquorice. She hopes for global harmony, but wishes one of her exes wasn’t so annoyingly fit. She loves her cat, Eddie—even when he sneezes in her face—and hates writing about herself in the third person. How to Lose Weight and Alienate People is her first novel … the second is on its way. Follow her on Twitter @olliequain (http://www.twitter.com/olliequain).
How to
Lose Weight
and Alienate
People
Ollie Quain
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Mummy Q.
She is the best.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ulink_78e327bf-5292-5862-9f0b-0efe2bc1b235)
My biggest thank you goes to Ben Mason, fabulously dynamic boss of Fox Mason Literary Agency, who has made it possible for me to be a) an actual writer and b) able to shout, ‘Well, my agent says …’ loudly (and a lot) in public places. In addition, a waggy tail of gratitude to Silvio, his equally nimble canine cohort.
Next up, I am hugely appreciative to publishing wonder woman Donna Hillyer and her crack team at Harlequin. (That’s ‘crack’ in the expertly insightful and brilliantly motivated sense, not the junkie one. Obvs.) The peeps at Cherish PR have been absolutely splendid too.
Then there’s my brother, David. He’s ace and my life has been made infinitely better by having him (and occasionally his cheque book/PIN number) in it for all these years.
As well, shout-outs must go to my oldest buddies, who I will obviously disregard entirely as soon as I am summoned to Los Angeles for discussion of movie and/or TV serialisation rights of my novel. They are: Sean ‘Barbara Jean’ Varley and The Drag Queen Massive (Faris, Otto, Mazza’n’Rosie); my USofA family, Scott, Val, Noah, Alex and Jack Sapot; Suzette ‘The Schnitzelator’ Allcorn; my gurrrrrrrrrrls, Hugh McPhillips’n’John Tippens; Anoushka ‘Wheely’ Healy; Felix Bowers-Brown (fancy an international mini-break?!); the West London legend that is Misty Gale; Sandra ‘Crofty’ Carter; and The Carlisle-Griffiths unit, Fi, David and Ruby … and of course, at numero uno, Martyn Fitzgerald—my worst friend in the best possible way.
I’d also like to give maje props to Ben Raworth, Rob Fitzpatrick, Annabel Brog and Grub Smith (although the latter will be appalled at the expression ‘maje props’), who all inspired me to do a book, like, totes way back, innit.
On a more superficial note, my Dior Homme grey beanie hat is doffed to the peeps I rely upon to keep me clinging on to 2007. They are: Pete and Nathan at boxcleversports.com (big upz da lunchtime krew!); Dr John Quinn at Quinn Clinics—’cos who actually needs to frown?; my DC10 Ibiza amigos; the gang at Aveda Notting Hill; and supersnapper Darren Orbell.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u0f8b681e-e5bf-5a00-b5fa-18e2af828f51)
About the Author (#u881e098c-d079-5b4f-9a99-7773f9e26dbc)
Title Page (#uc3de6beb-6235-5956-8173-6d30d72bea40)
Dedication (#u75215c0a-22d5-5750-9d61-9751bf1af5b9)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#u782e302c-6008-5503-9536-3d9fcd1939da)
PART ONE (#u51ae3dde-e928-5218-a56d-91db02278a32)
CHAPTER ONE (#u01c94fa2-af0b-5e09-8e3f-afe9651dff6d)
CHAPTER TWO (#u20ffa3a0-f9e0-5c44-9e62-e16113b3891a)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua9794406-67de-5219-8bea-cf4acef5561f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8ec17e51-ffa7-5e38-be4b-de48d055d081)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u5aa949e7-59ca-51bc-a5ae-499f27b062f4)
CHAPTER SIX (#ub3db8499-9f5c-5916-bb20-c4a0265f095c)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uf1fb1ea5-e982-5e0e-819b-1426ff97e5c5)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u1a792282-555e-5137-81b3-7413bb193f55)
CHAPTER NINE (#u2fc191f0-fc76-5a5a-8244-e19a73aaf760)
CHAPTER TEN (#u98099336-c005-53b4-bd59-b12f3b81bdad)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#u833d7a04-eb2b-5508-b26c-93eb42ad65cf)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#u78e6af3f-31f4-506e-a16c-29987b5fa3fc)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY (#litres_trial_promo)
PART FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#ulink_67c3f116-4c5e-5094-b17d-65d18be7171a)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_18d94182-a04e-574f-8e0d-9ebfd04f7394)
I am aware that learning my lines on the loo is not the classiest way to prepare for an audition, but it works for me. The gentle trickle of a cistern filling up, the hypnotic whirring of an AC unit in the background; it helps me concentrate. I often imagine what other actresses get up to in the toilet. I picture them:
a.) Sticking Post-it notes on the shoots in W magazine they would like their stylist to draw inspiration from.
b.) Tweeting a supposedly self-deprecating, goofy ‘selfie’ in which they actually look fabulous.
c.) Plotting how to raise awareness of their worthiness and humanity by raising awareness of worthy humanitarian causes.
d.) Using their visit as me-me-me-time to consider their brand extension. Maybe – right now – somewhere in the Hamptons in a WASP-y ‘new minimalist’-style bathroom, Gwyneth Paltrow is coming up with a low-GI (but highly condescending) spelt-based agave-nectar-infused muffin recipe for her latest cookbook.
I doubt I will ever get to confirm d.), though, as Gwynnie and I don’t mix in the same circles. Unlike her, I am not a super-successful thespian with my fingers in other financially rewarding (gluten-free) pies. I am a hostess at a private members’ club in central London called Burn’s. I act when given the opportunity but I am certainly not at risk of suffering from ‘exhaustion’ due to a relentless schedule of back-to-back projects. My own fault – I have some focusing issues – but honestly, I am not desperate to become a huge star. Besides, I don’t do ‘selfies’ and I reckon I’d struggle with the worthy humanitarian angle.
I leave the loo and head for a meeting with Roger, my boss. It still feels weird calling him this because over a decade ago we started out as waiting staff together. We always used to request the same shifts so we had the same hours off to party and go on the pull. We went for the same type of guy, too: those with directional haircuts and an enticing after-the-club-shuts attraction at their apartment, like an ice box full of premium vodka or tandem-functioning disco lights and surround sound. But then Roger met Pete and our late nights out together? They petered out.
‘Hi, Rog,’ I say, loitering outside his open office door.
He looks up from his desk. ‘Come in, Vivian. I saw you in that advert for the Sofa World Spring Clear Out! last night. To be fair, you made that cream leather recliner look very tempting indeed. The way you flopped down on to it in your sensible office separates without spilling a drop from your glass of vin rouge – I was absolutely convinced you’d been grafting at work all day … not a look of yours I’m particularly familiar with.’
We both laugh as I enter the room. Like the rest of Burn’s it is painted in an understated off-white Farrow & Ball paint and the furniture is a mixture of ultra-contemporary pieces and perfectly worn classics. Ten years ago, when the club first opened, this schizophrenic new-meets-old look was reasonably fresh. Now you can’t move in London’s hospitality industry without tripping over an angular chrome footstool and landing on a tattered leather sofa.
‘Anything exciting?’ he asks, pointing in the direction of the manuscript I am holding.
‘Surf Shack. The audition is tomorrow. It’s a new kids’ show for a late-afternoon slot, so even if I get the role and deliver a performance with Tilda Swinton-esque intensity, it’ll probably only be seen by some homework-dodging ten-year-old in between mouthfuls of reconstituted poultry “nibblets” and ketchup.’ I pass Roger the script and sit down on the Eames office chair in front of his antique desk.
He flips open the first page and reads out loud. ‘“CHARACTER: DEBBIE. Debbie is a neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother. She takes echinacea, spinning classes and life very seriously. In the scene below (taken from Episode 1) Debbie is nagging her daughter to do her homework instead of hanging out at the local water sports club, the eponymous Surf Shack.’” Roger gasps sarcastically. ‘Ooh, nail-biting stuff. I’m already envisioning an end-of-series drowning or a story line involving a stranded dolphin. It’s got Emmy Award written all over it.’
I yawn and rub my eyes. ‘Did you actually want to see me about something to do with Burn’s, Rog? Or did you just want to remind me how insignificant my contribution is to global entertainment?’
‘Both really.’ He grins at me. ‘This morning, Fiona on the board told me she still hasn’t found a suitable candidate to take over my role as Head of Staff when I get made General Manager in six weeks. You’re easily the most experienced person on the floor, so I’m pretty sure if you made yourself available she’d give you the position. Shall I lie and tell her how industrious you are?’
I take a good two seconds to consider the offer. I covered for Roger once before – when he had his wisdom teeth removed – and found myself having to do some work. ‘Thanks, Rog, but nah.’
‘But nah? Is that it?’ He gives a deflating lilo of a sigh. ‘Think about this seriously, Vivian, it’s obvious you need some motivation. If you had some extra duties it would inspire you to take more of an interest in how Burn’s operates. You’d be organising all the private functions, doing the rosters, liaising with the committee over membership, structuring and monitoring the deliveries …’
I zone out temporarily at this point as I notice a glass jar of truffles on Roger’s desk. Each chocolate is individually wrapped in yellow metallic paper. I think of Keira Knightley wrapped in gold lamé at the second Pirates of the Caribbean première. A classic noughties’ moment. Bitchy bloggers accused her of appearing ‘emaciated’. I think the intention was more …
‘You’d be silly not to consider it,’ Roger is saying. ‘You would even have this office all to yourself …’
… ethereal.
‘And you would finally be part of the management. It’s your chance to stop winging it, Vivian.’
I re-engage. ‘Newsflash, Rog … most of the staff at Burn’s are “winging it”. None of us grew up with a burning ambition to provide mouthy media executives with Long Island ice teas and fresh towels. It’s just a means to an end until we get into our chosen career.’ This is true. Amongst the ‘floor’ team are various hopeful thespians, writers, fashionistas and musicians. When clearing up at night, you can guarantee someone will break Fame!-like into an impromptu song-and-dance routine using their mop as a microphone.
‘Look …’ Roger sighs again. ‘I really do not mean this in a patronising way …’
‘Which means it will sound exactly that.’
He laughs. ‘Okay, fair enough … it might do. The thing is, you’re not in your twenties any more. There comes a time in life when you have to accept the reality of your situation and simply make the best of it. I’d say you are unequivocally at that point, Vivian, given you are thirty-five years old.’
