Mrs Rosemary Oliver
Striking woman, early 30s. Mediterranean complexion, fragile face. Short tousled black hair. Blue, tousled, furry jacket. Legs as thin as wrists and elbows thicker than her hands huddle in the seat as if cold, or crowded by the huge man next to her. Her thinness makes her look tall: her feet reach the floor only on tiptoe. She smiles.
A professional key-cutter and full time anorexic. Works at Stanley's Key Bar on the Cut. Her workmates are all male, and bully her, they think, for her own good. She has just had her day of vengeance.
What she is doing or thinking
So she hates eating. That's her business. They keep dumping food on her desk -- oh Jesus! -- greasy hamburgers, or lumpy health food Spinach and Vegetarian Cheese Pasties, or pink cheap cakes.
So. Yesterday she bought some HobNob biscuits, which look like a kind of pressed sawdust floor tile. Then she melted chocolate Ex-Lax on the little one-ring cooker. See how domestic I am? Pour liberally over biscuits and let cool and harden in fridge for half hour . It was like being on one of those nightmarish cooking programmes.
And when her workmates were tucking into their laxative biscuits with afternoon tea, she took out her brand new crusher and sprayed them with fresh garlic. "Isn't it delicious?" she cooed.
She's been thinking of new recipes all night. Salt instead of sugar icing. Steak and kidney pies lurking under a smothering of Bird's custard. Used coffee-ground pasties.
The Anorexic's Cookbook . See how it feels?
Car 6 map