Free I Think I'll Just Curl Up and Die by Rosie Rushton

decided it was best not to comment.

Chapter Twenty-Eight
Meetings and Mayhem
    By mid-morning on Sunday, Jemma had enough of watching her mother and brothers making a show of themselves in the leisure pool at the Waterline Golf Country Club.
    â€˜Why won’t you come in, petal?’ called Mrs Farrant from the shallow end, to Jemma’s intense embarrassment.
    â€˜I’m not swimming,’ said Jemma.
    Her mother climbed out of the pool and trotted over, water dripping off the frills of her ancient swimsuit.
    â€˜But it’s lovely,’ she began.
    â€˜Mum, I said, I am not swimming,’ repeated Jemma.
    â€˜Oh, sorry, petal,’ said her mother, tapping her nose knowingly. ‘Not in front of the little ones. I see. Time of the month, is it?’
    â€˜Yes, that’s it,’ lied Jemma.
    In fact, Jemma had made a vow to lose two whole stone by Christmas and she was not about to parade about in a swimsuit until she looked slim and sylph-like, like Sumitha. Today she had dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt and the baggiest sweater she could find – anything to hide her disgustingly bouncy boobs. She felt gross and boring and knew she looked like a globule of solidified fat. But watching her mother and brothers having such a goodtime made her feel even more fed up, and picking up her book,
Weight Loss Without Worry
, which she had found in the newsagents when she went to collect the Sunday papers, she wandered off outside.
    The club house was set in rolling parkland, once the grounds of an old manor house. Mr Farrant, who was already out on the course, had joined partly because he liked the sound of what the advertisers called,
‘this superb par 72 course, set among lakes and tumbling streams, affording an ever-changing challenge to the most discerning of golfers,’
but more particularly because when Professor Sir William Kentigan-Fry, leading light of the Pike Research Centre for Hearing Disorders had spoken at the Leehampton General Hospital he had mentioned that he was passionate about golf and a member at the Waterline. Andrew Farrant’s great ambition was to move into research and if playing a few rounds with the great Sir K-F would help his cause, then he was not about to pass up the opportunity.
    Jemma wandered past the paved veranda, where clusters of chattering women were seated at wooden tables, all looking very suave and slim. She ambled along a path behind the club house till she came to a clump of trees overlooking a small lake.
    She settled down to read, pulling off her sweater to use as a pillow and shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
    She had just got to page six
(FADE AWAY THE FLAB WITH FIBRE AND FIGS – a dieter’s best friend is fibre, so eat: bran, baked beans, wholemeal pasta and figs)
whensomething flew through the branches of the tree and hit her on the shoulder.
    â€˜Ouch!’ she shrieked, grabbing her right shoulder with her left hand and screwing her eyes up in agony.
    â€˜Have I hurt you?’ a voice said from behind a tree.
    Jemma looked up to see a green blur. Her eyes travelled up a pair of green cord trousers to a cream and green sweater, a worried face and a mop of exceedingly untidy sandy coloured hair.
    â€˜I really am awfully sorry,’ said the face. Jemma rubbed a hand hastily across her eyes and refocused. A stockily built boy with glasses and a sunburned nose was gazing at her. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone around here – I was just having a practice swipe, you see. Bit boring waiting for the old man to finish his round.’
    He squatted down beside Jemma and surveyed her shoulder anxiously.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ said Jemma. ‘I think I’ll live. I’m probably not supposed to be over here anyway. I was bored too.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, well – er … ’ His gaze left her bruised shoulder and travelled down her T-shirt, lingering halfway.
    Jemma grabbed her