change,’ he told her blandly, pulling out a chair.
He was laughing at her and she resented it, but she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by protesting. So when she’d sat down she seized on the comment he’d made. ‘What do you mean, you thought I’d have been able to recognise anorexia?’
‘You deal with it all the time, surely?’ he said.
She replied bluntly, ‘Tragically, anorexic young women who don’t get help die. They don’t have the stamina to be models.’
‘I know they die,’ he said, his face a mask of granite, cold and inflexible in the warm, flickering light of the torches. ‘How many do you think you’ve sent down that road?’
His grim question hurt more than a blow to the face.
Before she could defend herself he continued, ‘Your industry promotes an image of physical perfection that’s completely unattainable for most women. From there it’s only a short step to eating disorders.’
‘No one knows what causes eating disorders,’ she said, uncomfortable because she had worried about this. ‘You make it sound as though it’s a new thing, but women have always died of eating disorders—they used to call it green sickness or a decline before they understood it. Some psychologists believe it’s psychological, to do with personality types, while others think it’s caused by lack of control and power. If you men would give up your arrogant assumption of authority over us and appreciate us for what we are—not as trophies to impress your friends and associates—then perhaps we could learn to appreciate ourselves in all our varied and manifold shapes and sizes and looks.’
‘That’s a cop-out,’ he said relentlessly.
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