TW: Eating disorder, weight, depression

Ambrose's art studio was at the back of his house. A conservatory extension overlooking his enclosed garden. It was only two days after he had been taking the photographs for his artwork, but he had already sketched out rough ideas onto six canvases, each one roughly half my height, and had messaged asking if I'd like to see them.

It was mid-afternoon. I'd had a shoot that morning which unfortunately had ended with me crying into my hands in the bathroom for no particular reason other than that I was sick of how quickly everything had escalated. 

It had definitely not been this bad before. The extremity of my hunger had gone beyond uncomfortable and was bordering on pain. I wondered what the hell my mother would have said. Probably some shit about needing food to survive, which may have been very true, but unfortunately, I happened not to care all that much.  

Most mornings, standing from my bed, I ended up on the ground. Each time, telling myself I'd have something substantial for breakfast. Each time, not having breakfast. Thinking, how could I risk gaining weight for the sake of not feeling dizzy for a while? 

Then thinking, how could I ruin myself for the sake of losing six more pounds? 

I had worried upon greeting Ambrose that he might have picked up on my low mood, but if he did, he didn't mention it, and while he showed me to the conservatory, he asked, "Do you want tea or coffee?" 

"Oh, coffee would be great," I said. "Thanks." 

Leaving me to admire the many canvases leaning against the walls, he went to make the drinks. Even after scrolling his Instagram, I was still amazed by the beauty of his art. Seeing it in real life rather than through a small screen was a different experience completely.  

Leaning towards a piece hanging on the wall, I touched my finger to the ridges of paint. Acrylic layered on acrylic so that it had the illusion of being three dimensional. It was one of the smaller paintings in the room. Barely A4 sized. 

Unlike the others I had seen, it wasn't a portrait, didn't seem to be anything in particular. Heavy greys and delicate lilacs. 

"Tried my hand at abstract," came his voice from the doorway, and I turned to see him holding two mugs and looking at me, a gentle smile washing across his face. "I rather like it." 

"It's gorgeous," I said immediately, stepping towards him and taking the coffee. "Thanks." His smile was making me want to cry. Everything was making me want to cry. I looked again at the painting. 

Ambrose came to stand beside me. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?" 

For a few moments, we were both quiet. I found myself glancing down at my wrists and hands holding the mug. Even when nobody around me was commenting on my body, I still couldn't keep myself from doing it internally. I brought the coffee to my lips and sipped it. 

"The sketches are just here," Ambrose said eventually, gesturing towards the six canvases against the back wall. "I don't get too detailed with sketches, prefer to add the details with the paint later." 

"Oh, shit," I breathed. I wanted to compliment them but got stuck on how much my cheekbones jutted. Without intending to, I lifted a hand to my face, dragged my fingers over my cheekbone as though to check it was still as sharp as he had drawn it.

Hell, gothic magazines will love me. 

"Wow, I'm - I don't know what to say. I've never been drawn before." I laughed because otherwise I would have cried.

Looking at myself sketched like that was odd. I'm so used to seeing myself in highly edited photographs that I don't think I know what I look like beneath it all, what someone would see were they to wake up beside me in bed.

Whoever he had drawn, I almost didn't want to believe it was me.

 "I don't think anything needs changing at all." 

"Oh, thank you. I'm glad you like them so far." He moved to sit on the deep windowsill, holding his drink in his lap. "Been at a shoot this morning?" He asked. 

"Yeah. Never ends." I swallowed. I thought, who am I to complain about my job? 

He hummed like he understood. Maybe he did. He had told me about working at a law firm until the stress drove him to leave the other day. Though I could hardly compare my job to a law firm.

"Please, sit, if you like," Ambrose offered, moving down to the end of the window so there was room. 

I worried if I sat down, I'd not be able to stand again without another dizzy spell, but sat anyway; I was so exhausted. "Nice little studio you've made for yourself." 

He smiled again. "Thank you. Yeah, I'm pretty happy with it. Much better than renting out studio space somewhere else." 

"Oh, definitely." I looked across at the grey-lilac painting again. "You live here alone, or..?" 

"Yeah. My ex used to stay quite a bit, before he ended things with me. But that was a while ago. He wasn't too keen on using this as a studio, wanted it as a second living room. But I was like, no, it's my house." 

"Damn right." 

"If he wants two living rooms, he can buy his own house." 

"So that's why he left you?" 

"A bunch of reasons. You know when small things pile up until they seem massive? That was what the problems in our relationship were like by the end. Fucking massive." 

"I know exactly what you mean," I said. "A culmination of multiple small things. I know that feeling well." I thought, Jesus, don't start telling him about your issues. No one needs that.

He sipped his drink and hummed again. "So...since we're on the topic of exes-" 

With a chuckle, I broke him off. "My ex broke up with me over a year ago because he wanted a man, not a slut, apparently. So that was nice." 

"He said that to you?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"Charming." 

"For the best." 

"Slut's a harsh word." 

"Yeah, it's not really what you want to hear from your boyfriend. I mean...some people might. But not me." 

"I just think it's derogatory," explained Ambrose. "It implies that being promiscuous or highly sexual or anything like that is negative. But that's not true. I think it's just a low-blow of an insult." After speaking, he glanced at me, then took another gulp from his mug and added, "If anyone ever called me a slut, I'd slice their eyes with a pallet knife." 

"Jesus Christ." 

"I just think... let people do what they want with their bodies. So long as it's not hurting anyone, who gives a fuck, you know? It's not that deep. I mean, okay, I have a very strong view on shit like this because when I was younger, I was really into lifting weights and all that, but then I got so sucked into people who didn't know squat about my body or anything trying to police me on what to do. It fucking sucks, not feeling like you can just be. I guess that's why I feel so weird about the modelling industry. But I know it's different for different people and there are probably plenty of models and weight lifters who genuinely enjoy it. I don't know." He shook his head as though everything he had just said wasn't important, and I wanted to open my mouth and not stop talking until he knew everything about what the industry had done to me and my relationships. 

But I didn't. Couldn't. I had know this man, what, two weeks? I was hardly about to admit to having a raging eating disorder, as much as I wanted to. There would have been something liberating about admitting it to someone I barely knew.

And I hadn't spoken to anyone who had such strong opinions on the industry as he did. I suppose when you surround yourself with people who are also working in similar jobs, it's difficult to break out of the idea that everything is done with the best intentions.

Are they really the best intentions if they lead you to intentionally destroying your body? 

I had never felt such an intense need to cry as I did then.