An Apple a Day Read Online Free PDF

under a navy cashmere sweater, and a pair of blue jeans. Good leather shoes, I noticed.
    Our first exchange was the usual flurry of introductions and apologies: Are you . . . You must be . . . I hope I didn’t keep you waiting . . . and then an awkward moment, standing at the bar while he bought me a glass of wine. Then we sat down at a table in the corner; the lights were low and there was classical music playing quietly. Tom was halfway down a bottle of Peroni, I saw, so he must have been here a while, or maybe he was just nervous.
    After a few sips of our drinks we both began to relax and warm up. The first topic of conversation was, of course, this blind date—we both confessed to having deep misgivings about it in advance, and it turned out we had both wanted to cancel. This broke the ice, and from that point on there were no silences. At one point, waiting at the bar to buy another round of drinks, I remember smiling to myself and thinking, So, that’s Tom. It could be worse. It was hardly a coup de foudre ; I didn’t want to rip his clothes off or elope with him, but I was enjoying the evening. I’d abandoned my plan to climb out through the window of the ladies’ restroom.
    That first date ended in the not-so-romantic surroundings of the Hammersmith tube station. The fluorescent strip lighting was an unwelcome contrast to the mellow atmosphere of the Lyric Bar and the mood was somewhat broken. People jostled past us by the entrance to the Piccadilly line and we were awkward again as we said goodbye. Tom scrabbled to find a business card and couldn’t, so I gave him one of mine. I sat on the last train home, wondering what I thought of him, whether I wanted to see him again. I was unsure.
    My mum, my best friend, my sisters texted and called: So, how did it go? What’s this Tom guy like? Do you think he’s the one? I didn’t know what to answer. We talked a lot , I remember telling them. Turns out we haven’t stopped talking since.
    * * *
    I don’t know when I fell in love with Tom; maybe it happened gradually, over those first few months. We spent more and more time together, and traveled a lot, and slowly our lives began to merge. We made plans that stretched further into the future, in that tentative way of early relationships. We discussed ideas and read each other’s writing, we shared books and music, we met each other’s families. Both quite cerebral people, we began to open up. But I never intended to share my “problems,” especially not when it came to food. If I’m honest, I still massively resent the intrusion into my personal issues. Except of course it’s not just my problem.
    This is something it has taken me a long time to accept—this eating disorder isn’t just about me. As a fiercely private person, Ifelt (and still feel) that I shouldn’t have to account for anorexia, that it’s my choice to eat or not eat. I’m the one who’s hungry all the time—why is that anyone else’s business? My father’s motto for life, “Never apologize, never explain,” has always been a personal mantra of mine, but this time it won’t wash. I can’t keep pretending everything’s normal when it’s not. My hang-ups about food affect things outside of me, especially my relationships.
    * * *
    Left to my own devices, I would never have discussed anorexia with him. It sort of surfaced naturally a few months after we’d met. Tom is a travel journalist for a national newspaper and we were on a trip, as usual. (That first year together, we spent forty-seven out of fifty-two weekends away from London.) This time we were in Copenhagen to review an exclusive new eco-hotel and spa.
    A luxury hotel and spa treatments and a beautiful city to explore? It should have been perfect. But somehow it was one of those weekends that started out wrong and got worse. Maybe it was exhaustion, or lack of food, or my