TW: Eating disorder/weight/depression

Quickly, over the next week, Ambrose became the person I went to for support. It wasn't intentional; I didn't have a 'crisis plan' or such where I wrote down, 'Ambrose!' 

But his decision to have lunch and dinner with me every day along with the fact that he doesn't ever talk about food or weight gain in a negative way made me almost unable not to seek support in him. 

When everything in my job is centred on how thin I am and whether I need to be thinner or not (I always do), having somebody who doesn't even mention his own weight was a huge relief. 

It's like the word diet isn't even in his vocabulary.

He texted me sometimes, if I was late to meet him, or if, like today, I didn't turn up at all: 

Ambrose: Hey, not seen you for lunch or dinner, you okay? 

Andy: I don't know. 

Ambrose: What's going on? 

Andy: Nothing in particular, I just can't. 

Ambrose: Can't what? Eat? 

Andy: That and everything else. 

Ambrose: Want to come over? I'm watching Catharine Tate Show? 

Andy: No, it's fine. I'll be fine. 

Ambrose: Did you eat today? 

Andy: Minimal amounts. 

Andy: Fruit. 

Ambrose: Come over, love. 

Andy: Really, it's fine. I don't want to impose. 

Ambrose: I promise you're not imposing. I wouldn't offer if I didn't enjoy your company. 

Andy: Everything's fucked. 

Ambrose: Come over, we can talk.

Andy: Are you sure??? 

Ambrose: Yes!!!

Andy: Okay. Thanks. 

Ambrose: Let yourself in, door's unlocked. Will eat with you x 

So that was that. I don't know quite how he managed to convince me in such a short conversation to eat a meal that I'd spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening stressing about. But somehow he had, and I was walking through town to his house at ten p.m, my body began arguing against the physical activity almost entirely. 

So much so that by the time I was closing his door behind me, I couldn't make myself stand any longer and had to lower myself to the ground just beyond the shoe rack and close my eyes. 

"Hey, hon," I heard, and then, "You okay? Need a hand up?" 

I looked at him tiredly and said nothing. It was such a vulnerable position to put myself into, being near him when I was physically weak and would not have been unable to protect myself from him should he have decided to use my state as a way to attack me in some way. Not that I believed he would do something like that. But there was the anxiety in the back of my mind that it could happen, that if professional photographers had gotten away with groping and touching me, he could, too. 

"I'm heating up some pasta and sauce, is that alright?"

"Okay," I mumbled. 

Crouching before me, Ambrose said, "You wanna stay tonight? And we can do breakfast together in the morning?" 

Thinking about breakfast among the stress of dinner made me want to cry, so I blinked repeatedly and shrugged. Everything suddenly used so much effort. 

When I didn't respond, he sat down against the wall beside me quietly. Neither of us spoke, until he said, "You know you can come round any time? If you need company. I'm basically always in." 

"Okay," I muttered. "Thanks."  

By my arms, Ambrose pulled me onto my feet, kept hold of my left hand as he led me into the living room/kitchen area. He showed me to the sofa I sat on every time I was in his house. "I'm worried about you," he told me earnestly. "Seeing you so exhausted all the time...it must be so horrible for you to cope with." 

"I deal," I mumbled, but the truth was, I wasn't dealing. I was barely finding it in myself to get up out of bed and dress for shoots, never mind descend stairs or cross town. 

"You deal," he echoed. "As in..?" 

"As in I'm probably having a nervous breakdown." 

"Do you think you are?" 

"Probably." 

The microwave pinged. He said, "That's the pasta. I'll eat with you." 

"You already ate," I guessed. I thought, how can he eat dinner twice? That's insane. 

"Yeah, but I can still eat again." 

I started to cry.

"Oh, hon," Ambrose murmured. "It's okay. Here, let me hug you." 

I did, gladly leaned into him as he sat beside me. "Fuck," I stuttered. "I'm sorry. Shit. I just...I'm so fucking envious of that. Of being able to - to do that." 

"You will be able to, it just takes time." 

"No. I..." 

"It's okay. We'll talk later, or tomorrow, okay? You don't need to be having this conversation right now." He had begun to stroke my hair.

I yawned against him and all too soon, he was standing again and heading for the microwave, and when he returned, it was with two bowls of steaming tomato pasta on a tray, as well as a glass of water which he handed to me. I sipped it and looked at the bowl he had balanced on a cushion on my lap, mumbled, "Thanks." 

"No worries." 

Before I started eating, I waited for Ambrose to sit back down next to me and stab a tube of pasta with his fork.

I thought about my mother only serving me 'healthy' foods as I lifted my fork to my mouth.

I felt sick with hunger and finished the bowl too quickly, got that intense sadness I always get after finishing my food; if I'd not have been so terrified of seeming greedy or out of control, I'd have asked for another serving. I felt like I could have eaten everything and still not have been full.