‘I must try harder, I write, pressing the biro into my biology book, not to eat. It is this which is at the root of my problems, I have decided. Not Mum and Dad, or Nana or Kelly or Maxine and Paisley, but this: my puffy face, my swelling breasts, my belly. If I was beautiful, I could have everything I wanted.’
‘I can feel my skin tightening, like cling film pulling taut around the soft contours of my body.’
and if that’s supposed to imply that Carmen is now happy and content with her size and shape then blow me down, it doesn’t come across that way. I just hate novels like this that deal with these terrifically massive issues that people genuinely suffer from and don’t really give much hope for recovery – it just seems to imply that you’ll always be a sufferer, and there’s no way for you to reclaim your healthy relationship with food once you’ve been through something like this.