Paper Chains by Nicola Moriarty Page B

awfully fast from meeting to marrying. His new wife, Carol, had three children already, one older than Hannah, one younger than her, and then there was Amy. Amy was the exact same age as Hannah – down to the month even. And for years Hannah had felt certain that Amy had replaced her in her dad’s eyes. She was beautiful – in that typical blonde hair and blue eyes kind of way – and funny and talented. Hannah would spend hours at a time imagining a world where she and Amy swapped places. She fantasised about what it would be like to have a big sister who would lend her funky clothes and jewellery, who would give her advice about boys and maybe even buy her alcohol for parties. And of course, a younger brother who would look up to her and adore her. She imagined that the three of them would share secrets, would be best friends, and one day, when they were all in their twenties, they would go backpacking around Europe together! She would move into their gorgeous two-storey house by Coogee Beach, with its hardwood floors and fresh white paint and she would become the clever, talented one. She would learn to surf and be tanned golden brown and she would have both a mum and a dad. And Amy could move in with Anne, into the cold, unfeeling apartment in Neutral Bay with its grey tiles and its snobby furniture. The fantasy would always fill her with simultaneous feelings of guilt and longing.
    Hannah was often told off in school for daydreaming too much.
    The pizza box was empty and they’d worked their way through a block of white raspberry Dove chocolate now as well.
    ‘So why all the running?’ India asked casually, pressing her thumb against the last crumbs of chocolate left on the silver foil packaging by their feet. She had a new purple stud in her nose and it sparkled when it caught the light. Hannah still found herself in awe of how India could constantly reinvent herself with each simple change to her appearance. Hannah would never be brave enough to just go out one day and get her nose pierced. ‘I mean, we’ve established that you’re not really training for the New York marathon, right? Is it because you eat too much of this?’ India asked, indicating the chocolate wrappers.
    Hannah felt slightly alarmed for a moment and then she relented. Give a little, Hannah, tell the truth for once. ‘Sort of I guess . . . yes. Thing is, I don’t really eat properly. Most days I starve myself, then I wake in the middle of the night famished and I gorge on chocolate. Next day I punish myself by running. It’s not about looking good,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s not a body image thing, more of a self-mutilation, I guess you could say.’
    India peered at her. ‘Oh, okay, it’s just self-mutilation, yeah that’s much better,’ she said sarcastically. ‘So is that the big secret? You have an eating disorder?’
    ‘Umm, no.’
    ‘But you hate yourself. Why?’
    Hannah paused, trying to figure out how best to respond. Finally she shook her head. There was no way she could tell India the truth, no matter how much she wanted to open up to her. ‘I don’t want you to hate me too,’ she said quietly.
    India shrugged. ‘Whatever. I think I know what it is anyway. I’ve been thinking and it all adds up.’
    Hannah froze. ‘You do?’
    ‘Yep. Let’s see, you’ve a mark on your ring finger, you’re clearly running away from something and you’re torturing yourself for having done something awful.’
    Hannah waited, holding her breath.
    ‘You left someone at the altar, right?’
    Hannah almost began to laugh, as she imagined herself as a runaway bride, fleeing to the airport with her lace veil flying behind her, but then the laughter twisted in her throat. ‘I wish it was that simple,’ she said, her voice bitter.
    India looked disappointed. ‘Dammit, I thought I was on to you. Never mind, I’ll keep swinging and eventually I’ll come up with a hit.’
    Hannah picked up the empty wine bottle, keen to