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The Silhouette


The Silhouette

It is a dangerous word, Candice thought. Menacing.  

“What we’re trying to do here,” Hamish explained at the first dress rehearsal, “… is to create a silhouette …”

Silhouette. It immediately conjures up an image of all my lumps.  Candice looks at the other girls in the dressing room and thinks how much prettier, how much thinner, their silhouettes appear. Disappointment and shame wash over her.

She eyed her silhouette in the mirror. Most people have only two boobs, and I’ve got six, she thought, remembering how she looked in the ghastly strapless, pink dress she had squeezed into at Stacey’s behest.  Blobs of fat spilling out under the arms of the dress and at the back – back fat cleavage!

And now, it was happening again.  Squeezing into the push up bra and harness, she poked her finger into the sponginess under her arms. Poke. Disappointment. Poke. Shame. 

Oh, how she wanted a drink right now.  A lovely glass of sweet bubbly Moscato.  Some pate and crackers too. She could feel the velvety softness, crunch and fizz on her tongue.  There was an array of food and drink back stage, which Candice dismissed out of hand.  Nice to nibble, but no time to purge! 

It would be hours before the after party, where there would be plenty of rich food and champagne, and opulent private rest rooms where she could immediately push her fingers down her throat.

Yes, girl, think about your silhouette, Candice told herself, staring at her image in the mirror. An image is just an image. Its not real. Its what you imagine, her therapist, Bettina, was always saying.

Now, climbing into the Louboutins, her silhouette changed.  The five-inch heels forced her pelvis to thrust forward and her buttocks to rise. She stamped her feet, inspecting her backside as she did so for any sign of jiggling. There it was, she sighed, turning her accusing finger to her butt cheeks. Poke. Jiggle. Poke. Fat.

Francois had done wonders with her hair, which, unlike her ass, bounced in all the right places. Robert was spritzing glitter over her, now that the fake tan he had spritzed over her had dried.  Oh. Not too much glitter under the arms, she thought. Don’t need to call attention to boobs three and four. 

She turned to one side, examining her tummy for any sign of protrusion.  No, still flat, she thought with relief. There was that pregnancy scare. But Doctor Lake assured her the reason she was missing her period was because she was starving herself.  He said it wasn’t healthy; Candice was secretly pleased.  No period, no bloating.

Bettina had something else. She wondered what Candice thought about young girls who idolized her silhouette. Did she think she had a role to play in a wider culture promoting unrealistic body images?  Is it healthy for young girls to starve themselves to look like you? Is it healthy for you to starve yourself?  Is that what beauty means to you, Candice?

Candice had given Bettina her signature blank expression, the one that would earn her $20,000 tonight. 

Nico was attaching the wings to the harness now – they’d hide her back-fat cleavage! She stepped out on to the catwalk, flood lights projecting her silhouette on the curtains … the silhouette of an angel.


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