Jemima J. [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONEGod, I wish I were thin.I wish I were thin, gorgeous, and could get any man I want. You probably think I'm crazy, I mean here I am, sitting at work on my own with a massive double-decker club sandwich in front of me, but I'm allowed to dream aren't I?Halfan hour to go of my lunchbreak. Half an hour in which to drool over the latest edition of my favourite magaziné. Don't get me wrong, I don't read the features, why would I? Thousands of words about how to keep your man, how to spice up your sex life, how to spot if he's being unfaithful are, quite frankly, irrelevant to me. FII be completely honest with you here, I've never had a proper boyfriend, and the cover lines on the magazines are not the reason I buy them.If you must know, I buy them, all of them, for the pictures. I sit and I study each glossy photograph for minutes at a time, drinking in the models' long, lithe limbs, their tiny waists, their glowing golden skin. I have a routine: I start with their faces, eyeing each sculpted cheekbone, heart-shaped chin, and I move slowly down their bodies, careful not to miss a muscle.I have a few favourites. In the top drawer of my chest of drawers in my bedroom at home is a stack of cut-out pictures of my top super models, preferred poses. Linda's