Sarai Walker - Dietland

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Dietland: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The diet revolution is here. And it’s armed.
Plum Kettle does her best not to be noticed, because when you’re fat, to be noticed is to be judged. Or mocked. Or worse. With her job answering fan mail for a popular teen girls’ magazine, she is biding her time until her weight-loss surgery. Only then can her true life as a thin person finally begin.
Then, when a mysterious woman starts following her, Plum finds herself falling down a rabbit hole and into an underground community of women who live life on their own terms. There Plum agrees to a series of challenges that force her to deal with her past, her doubts, and the real costs of becoming “beautiful.” At the same time, a dangerous guerrilla group called “Jennifer” begins to terrorize a world that mistreats women, and as Plum grapples with her personal struggles, she becomes entangled in a sinister plot. The consequences are explosive.
Dietland is a bold, original, and funny debut novel that takes on the beauty industry, gender inequality, and our weight loss obsession—from the inside out, and with fists flying.

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“She’s a good girl,” Soledad’s mother repeated many times through her tears, and then she added: “My Jenny wouldn’t do anything wrong.”

Soledad’s three sisters rose from their chairs in unison, demanding the interview be terminated, but it was too late. The agents had heard what their mother said.

After her connections to Leeta Albridge and captain Missy Tompkins were uncovered, federal agents interviewed Soledad’s other friends and her associates from the army. In the Inwood section of Manhattan, FBI agents searched the apartment of specialist Agnes Szydlowski and her husband. As medics in Afghanistan, Agnes and Soledad had saved each other’s lives. Agnes drank coffee and smoked cigarettes at her kitchen table as the agents dusted every surface in her home for fingerprints. “I love Soledad like a sister,” Agnes said, “but you’re wasting your time. She’s never been in my apartment.”

Investigators later discovered that Agnes and her husband owned a motorcycle, the same make and model as the one witnesses in Times Square described on the night Stella Cross and her husband were murdered.

“That motorcycle was stolen months ago,” Agnes said. She said nothing else until she had a lawyer.

Across the Atlantic, authorities in Scotland began to investigate British Army captain Gwendolen Campbell at the request of the FBI. During Gwendolen’s first deployment to Afghanistan, the Taliban shot down a helicopter she was riding in, leaving her blinded in one eye and missing several fingers. Despite her injuries and the deaths of her fellow soldiers, she survived the attack thanks to American medics on the ground—Soledad and Agnes. Rarely did a day pass without Gwendolen thinking of the two women who had saved her life. When she heard the news that Soledad’s daughter had died, Gwendolen felt wounded, as if it had happened to her own family. She traveled from her home in Glasgow to California to attend the funeral. After she returned home, her family and friends reported that she fell out of touch, which wasn’t in keeping with her normal character. No one had been able to find her.

Investigators searched every residence associated with Captain Gwendolen Campbell in England and Scotland. They received a tip about a Highlands farmhouse not far from the village where the Empire Media CEO’s nephew had been found wandering one morning weeks earlier, released by his kidnappers. There was no direct evidence that Gwendolen had been in the farmhouse, and the nephew could not identify her, but there was a knife in the kitchen with traces of blood and blond hairs on it, which were later proven to be a DNA match for the CEO’s twin brother. On the bathroom mirror was a message written with red lipstick: For Jennifer, with no regrets.

Gwendolen’s passport had recently been logged at the airport in Buenos Aires. Since then there had been no sign of her.

Soledad Ayala (Aliases: Jennifer Ayala, Jenny Ayala) was placed on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, the only woman there, with a promise of a $100,000 reward for information leading to her capture.

In an interview with The Nola and Nedra Show, Cheryl Crane-Murphy said, “Before we send a lynch mob after this woman, might I remind everyone that Soledad Ayala earned the Silver Star for bravery in Afghanistan? She was not able to collect her award at the White House for obvious reasons, but she still deserves our respect.”

“Might one call her an American hero?” asked Nedra Feldstein-Delaney.

“One might,” said Nola Larson King.

• • •

ON FRIDAY, I WAS AWAKENED by the music: “. . . your mama’s in the trunk of Daddy’s car / no baby, she’s not gonna wake up / you see, Mama could never keep that big mouth shut . . .”

I placed the stacks of cash in white envelopes and stuffed them into a paper bag that Julia could take with her should I decide to give her the money. As I was folding up the bag, my phone rang.

“Change of plans,” Julia said, nearly breathless. “Come to the Beauty Closet right away.”

“Why can’t you come here?” I preferred Julia on my turf. Besides, I wasn’t allowed back in the Austen Tower.

“I’ll explain when you get here. Ask for me at the desk. We have all new security staff, so they won’t recognize you. Use a fake name. Hurry.”

I rushed to shower and dress. While lacing up my boots, I heard the doorbell ring. “Bomb threat!” Marlowe shouted from downstairs. I was ready to go. I’d folded the paper bag into a firm rectangular parcel, which I now stuffed under the waistband of my oatmeal skirt, where it stayed pressed against my belly. I put on a loose jacket and draped a scarf around my neck to hide the extra bulk.

“Bomb threat!” Sana yelled, leaving three rapid knocks on my door. A bomb was the least of my worries. I was more concerned about being mugged.

I followed the women out the front door, careful to avoid eye contact with the policewoman who was shepherding us out. If something went wrong, it was possible I wouldn’t be returning to Calliope House. I looked at it over my shoulder on my way to Sixth Avenue, its plain brown exterior belying the beating red heart inside.

The other women took their places on the benches, but I hailed a taxi. “Just where do you think you’re going, Sugar Plum?” Sana said. “Bomb threats are a group activity.”

“She’s abandoning us,” Verena said.

“You’re going to miss out on ice cream,” Marlowe added.

I slipped into the back seat of a waiting taxi. “I’m not abandoning you,” I said before closing the door. “I have errands to do and then I’ll come home. I promise.” Driving away, I watched them through the back window: Verena and Rubí, Marlowe and Huck, Sana—the usual gang, my friends. For them it was an ordinary day.

In Times Square, crowds on the sidewalks stood still, gazing up at Soledad’s face on the jumbo screen, as if toward some celestial event. It was too soon to know whether Jennifer—Soledad’s all-American girl who had morphed into something else—was an out-of-control blaze leaving only destruction or a controlled burn intended to purify. I patted my stomach as I weaved through the people, feeling the money under my clothes, as well as my thumping pulse. I entered the Austen Tower and went through the metal detector. I gave the guard a name, not my real name, and waited for Julia. When she arrived, I saw that her façade was already crumbling. A bit of flab hung over the waistband of her pants; her straightened hair was beginning to frizz and coil; her makeup had faded, leaving nothing but a faint outline of her features, her face that of an old china doll that had been bleached in the sun.

She didn’t speak until we were in the elevator. “Can you believe they offered to throw me a goodbye party this afternoon?” Julia snorted.

On the outside of the door to the Beauty Closet was a sign that read INVENTORY IN PROGRESS. ENTRY FORBIDDEN! Once we were inside, Julia locked the door and disarmed the keypad. The Beauty Closet matched Julia in its disarray. Hundreds of tubes of lipstick and mascara had crashed to the floor, as well as bottles of a perfume called Hussy, which had shattered, leaving liquid and glass everywhere. There was a stench, the sweat of a thousand hussies, which made it painful to breathe.

“How much money did you bring?”

“Twenty thousand,” I said, gazing at the door, longing to open it and flee.

“What did you tell Verena?” Julia was stuffing files from her desk into her bag.

“I didn’t tell Verena anything. This is my money.”

Julia opened her mouth as if to speak, then reconsidered. Her lips, in Muted Rose, turned into a half-smile, and she nodded. “I’m sorry I’ve lied to you, but I didn’t want to involve you unless it was absolutely necessary. When she came to me, I had to help her. You understand, don’t you?”

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