Dazzled by Jane Harvey-Berrick

of eggs and toasted some bread for an egg sandwich. For her. Not me. Obviously.
    “Do you want ketchup with it?”
    “No, thanks. Just as it comes. Aren’t you having one? I thought you’d be starving after all that gym rubbish.”
    My temper exploded. “I know this is all a big fucking joke to you but I’m the one who’s… who’s got to go out there and put myself on the line. Everyone’s telling me I’m too fat, too ugly, too stupid, too badly dressed – and… and there’s all this pressure… and now my best friend is just pissing her pants laughing at me!”
    I was staring at her, panting, my hands clenched into fists. I couldn’t look at her shocked expression, so I shoved the plate at her and stormed off into my bedroom, slamming the door. I felt as if I’d reverted to being 12 years old and arguing with my mum about playing my music too loud. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the fury pulse through me.
    I ignored her tentative knock, but she opened the door anyway. How very Clare.
    “I’m sorry, Miles. I was just trying to… be funny. You know, make light of things. I’m sorry if I made it sound like I don’t care. I do. You know I do.”

    Clare

    I wound my arms around his waist and rested my head on his back. I’d never seen Miles so tense – it wasn’t like him to lose his temper. And he’d never shouted at me before. Never.
    He was holding himself tightly, as if he was afraid he’d explode again. I could feel the tension radiating out through his rigid muscles. Shit! He was really losing it!
    “I’m sorry, okay?” Please tell me you’re not mad. Please!
    He turned around and kissed my forehead.
    “I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just…”
    He let out a long breath and rubbed my arms gently.
    “It’s okay,” I said, quietly. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Below us, a car horn honked. Miles threw an irritated look over his shoulder.
    “Oh, crap! My driving lesson – I’d forgotten. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Do you still want to go to this media training thing later?” he asked, looking harassed.
    “Yeah, should be a laugh.”
    He flashed me a grateful smile, and then he was off. I could hear him running, taking the stairs three at a time. He sketched a wave and I watched through the window as he had a short conversation with the instructor. A tall, glamorous looking blonde woman.
    Bloody hell: wasn’t there anyone out here who didn’t look like a film star? And then suddenly a light went on in my head – I got what Miles had been trying to tell me: everyone out here was judged on their looks. HD TVs were the new high court and the jury was still out. Every wrinkle, every spot, freckle and mole, highlighted for everyone to see. Yeah, I sort of got how Miles must be feeling. Sort of. But he was right – I had no clue how it must feel to stand in front of a film camera, every blemish recorded for posterity.
    I really wanted to rewind this morning, press the delete button and start again. I’d go right back to the moment that Miles came out of the shower with just a small towel wrapped around his waist. I mean, wow! I’d seen Miles without his shirt on before – wandering around the flat, playing football in the park, the summer we went to the beach at Brighton – but I’d never seen him look so well muscled. Did I mention wow? The Nazi Soviet personal trainer must really know her stuff. Bitch.
    But after the ogling, I really hadn’t meant to wind him up. I just wanted to make light of it all. Well, that backfired – big time. Worse still, he thought I was being insensitive. As if he wasn’t at the forefront of my mind almost every waking minute, to the point where I disgusted myself.
    I spent the next hour wandering around the apartment, unpacking my case and dressing with more care than usual. I put on my best jeans, the ones I usually saved for dates – which meant they’d only been worn once – plus a new t-shirt that was slightly more