Her clothes started to hang on her. Which was OK, she hated her clothes. Then came the glorious day when she went and bought something. It was in a size she’d never even attempted before so she hadn’t dared try it on for fear it would be so tight on her she’d look like an overstuffed sausage.

She came back home with the minidress in a bright red bag. It was a multi-striped (vertical, not horizontal, she wasn’t that full of herself yet) simply cut mini with no sleeves and a zipper on the front.

It was a size fourteen.

Nervously she took it out of the bag, stroked a hand over the velvety material. Before, she’d squeezed into an eighteen, really squeezed. She unzipped it, slipped it over her head, refastened the long zipper, ruffled up her hair then dared to look in the mirror.

A stranger was looking back at her. A stranger with a good figure, wearing a mini dress, with a fuzz of soft head-hugging mouse-coloured hair making a frame around her features.

Nula turned back and forth, examining her reflection. She’d had hardly any tits before and now she had none. But she was thin. She looked at her face. Her eyes were well-shaped and hazel coloured. Her mouth was fine. But her nose was a monster. It reminded her of Schnozzle Durante. It was the Perkins family nose, they all had it. But as for the rest of it . . .

She looked OK. Her legs were nice. Long and shapely. Her arms were fine. She had cheekbones now, that was new. She stared again at her face and she frowned. She felt tears prick her eyes but she blinked, gulped, forced them back. She wouldn’t cry.

Now, she had to save up some more.

She had to save up a lot.

11

Nula went into the bank where she had a small savings account, and they laughed her right out of the place – turned her down flat because, the manager said pompously, he ‘didn’t want to encourage her to overstretch herself, financially’.

Nula went home in a low mood that day. She stood inside the larder and eyed up the chocolate cake Mum had made for Sunday tea. God, she wanted it. But she stepped back out of the larder, closed the door.

‘You all right, our Nula?’ asked Mum, coming into the kitchen and making her give a guilty start.

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

Her mum patted her on the shoulder. ‘Can I get you anything, lovey?’

‘No. Thanks.’ Again Nula had to blink back tears. Her mother loved her and meant only the best for her, so it hurt Nula to have to go against her, to refuse the cupboard-love Mum so frequently offered.

There had to be a way to get what she needed. Next day at work she spoke to Sylvia, her old mate with the radar-scanner ears, the poor cow.