I'm really enjoying the first person narrative so far, wbu? Andy's character is a lot of fun to write like this. 

TW: Eating disorder/food/weight

That night, I followed 'Paintingbyambrose' on Instagram, impressed by his follower count of 150 thousand. Not that I was surprised at all by his popularity. He had hundreds of people commenting under his posts, equally as amazed by his artwork as I was. I wondered how the hell it was that I hadn't come across his page already. 

On his story, which had been updated minutes ago, was a picture of him in the mirror captioned with the words, 'Meeting future subjects in town >>>.'  I smiled at the screen and then quickly realised how fucking stupid it was to smile at a phone. I shook my head and put it down. 

Dinner had been a bust for more than one reason. The main being the fact my mother had texted me mid-evening: 'Just seen your new Leven's ad. Very striking but you're looking rather thin!' 

Leven's is a department store I had modelled for a few months ago, ready for their summer campaigns, dressed in simple black clothing and dark, heavy makeup. They cater to those who like alternative fashion, and since I'm covered in ink and apparently 'have the face for black eyeshadow', they pounced on me to be this summer's face of the store. 

Here's the thing. When those photos were shot, they were very particular about the aesthetics or vibes or whatever the fuck words they used. They told me they wanted cheekbones and that mine would be 'ideal with a few pounds lost.' A few pounds turned into ten. 

Of course they were right. My cheekbones looked incredible in those photos, both because of the weight loss and the way they lit the studio and contoured by face. It's one of my favourite shoots to date. I think I look fucking good. 

The problem with it was that like all these other photographers, they had a time limit. It took me eight days to drop the ten pounds. Do you know how hard it is to do that? I can't lie and say I wasn't proud of that achievement. Not that I should view it as an achievement when I did so at the expense of my energy levels. Coffee gets me through a lot. 

My mother worries. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes just because she's my mother. 

She worries so much that she managed to get me into recovery two years ago. Not to dredge up the past, but something unfortunate happened (I collapsed when she was in the room) and long story short, she forced me into getting the diagnosis of anorexia after a number of painfully long doctor visits and phone calls. She made me talk to therapists and send her pictures of every meal every day, and told me that if I wanted to look good in photos, I had to eat enough. Yes. My mother basically called me ugly.  

I don't think she ever understood that eating did not make the issue go away. 

She watched me gain weight and she said after a year that I was looking 'a lot healthier,' and she stopped hassling me for photos of food and I stopped going to therapy, and then I got a job modelling for an underwear brand, and I lost everything mother had forced me to gain. For the job, you understand. I lost it for the job. 

That's the problem. How am I supposed to commit to recovery if everything about it makes me less desirable to those who would hire me. A singer would hardly spend months intentionally destroying their vocal cords just because their mother wanted them to. Why should I ruin my appearance and employability for her? 

So anyway, that's why dinner was a bust. Because she told me I was 'looking rather thin', and naturally, having gained a slight amount of weight since that shoot, I thought, well, I have to get back to that body. If it looked thin. I need to look thin for the shoot on Thursday. 

I'll eat more after Thursday. It's not that big of a deal. I'll tell my mother it was makeup that made me look 'rather thin', if she's that bothered by it. I'll gain a bit of weight before I see her. No reason to sabotage my upcoming shoot. I'm not an idiot.  

I ate half a box of grapes. I drank three cups of coffee. With milk. Like, fuck you, mother, I'm drinking milk so there's no need to get so insane about it.

I scrolled Ambrose's Instagram until a message popped up on the top of my screen from an unknown number: 'Hey, hopefully this is Andy? It's Ambrose, from the coffee shop.' 

I replied that yes, it was Andy. 

Ambrose: Okay, so, I tend to photograph people in multiple places at different times of day. So would be ideal to spend a whole day doing so, if that works for you? 

Andy: Yes, absolutely. 

Ambrose: Great. When are you available? 

Andy: Booked up this week but can do Sunday if that works? Otherwise Wednesday after. I've got morning shoots every other day. 

Ambrose: Sunday is perfect. Shall we meet at the coffee shop? Say around 10? 

Andy: Sure. That sounds good. 

Ambrose: Amazing, I look forward to it. See you then. 

My mother called me then, because I had read her message and not replied. She does that a lot. 

I should keep a tally of how many times I don't reply to my mother. 

"Hi," I answered. I took a gulp of coffee. I thought about saying, I'm drinking milky coffee right now so stop fucking worrying. 

She said, "Andy, dear, how are you?" 

"I'm great. I was asked to be the subject for a painter." 

"Through your agency?" 

"No, no. He approached me in a coffee shop today. I probably have to approve it with my agency, but-" 

"And what did you have for dinner?" 

Fucking hell, she could be more subtle about it. "Mother, please. Stop panicking about it." 

"Well?" 

"I made risotto." 

"Good." 

"Yes. Is that all?" 

"You know there's no reason to be so hostile with me, darling." 

"The only time you ever want to talk to me is when you decide I'm incapable of looking after myself. How am I supposed to respond to that?" 

"I don't think you're incapable." 

"Good, so stop asking me what food I'm eating. You watched me eat for a year, is that not enough proof for you?" 

"The Leven's ad-" 

I cut her off with a sigh. "Was six months ago and all makeup and lighting." 

"Really?" 

"Yes." No. 

"You would tell me, wouldn't you?" 

"Tell you what?" 

Now, she sighed. What is it with my family and sighing? "If you're doing it again." 

"Yes." No. 

"Okay," she said. I don't know whether she believed me or not. "Well, you sound good. Keep me updated with the paintings." 

"I will." Finally, the truth. 

I should keep a tally of how many times I lie to my parents.