Amuse bouche... Wedding diet
‘But you asked her to lose weight,” Jamie said. “You said that you didn’t want any of your bridesmaids looking fat.”
“Yeah, but obviously I didn’t say that to my own sister. All I said to her was that the dress would look better in a 10. And she was a big 12 at the time. But now the 10 is swimming on her, and she’s going to look better than me. I only have two weeks to hit my target.”
With a year of wedding planning down and only a fortnight to go, Jamie knew better than to interject that Ellen had lost enough weight already. He barely recognised her, and not just physically.
He wasn’t gone on this new Ellen, counting down days and kilos, hating her sister-bridesmaid for being slim. Ellen had been off the carbs for a month. Hardcore carb-denial; not just switching to wholegrains. After every wedding-dress fitting, she proclaimed happily that they’d had to take it in again. She wasn’t as happy when her sister started boasting the same after the bridesmaid fittings.
Ellen was very slim, Jamie had to give her that. She was too ‘hangry’ for him to give her anything else, though. Even a kiss was out of the question now, as her push for wedding perfection played badly with her borderline starvation.
Jamie had resisted being co-opted onto a diet himself. He pointed out that he’d been quarter-Paleo since long before any wedding, and Ellen had backed off, while informing him that she knew about his sneaky “Irish chocolate” habit. She said “Irish chocolate” like it was dirty.
Luckily, Ellen had left the wedding-meal decisions to Jamie. She said it was too upsetting trying to choose between surf-and-turf and roast lamb. “I love roast lamb,” Ellen had wept. Jamie went with the lamb. And dauphinoise potatoes, even though the new ones with mint were more summery. On the big day, he really needed Ellen to eat and to remind him why he wanted to marry her in the first place. This lead-up fortnight needed to pass quickly. Jamie wasn’t sure how much more spiteful-starving Ellen he could take.
“I caught Mum planking yesterday,” spat Ellen, as disgusted as if she’d caught her mother cleaning up after the dogs with her bare hands. “Planking! I bet my sister taught her.”
“She’s looking well on it,” said Jamie, and she shot him a look. “Ellen, please, stop.”
“I will,” said Ellen, tears rising. “Come back to me after my first honeymoon pasta binge. Thank you for booking Rome. But don’t forget to pack the Irish chocolate.” He wouldn’t. He needed the real Ellen back. And soon.