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I duly started going every week, despite the fact the changing rooms were infested with cockroaches. Aged 11, it was a sister saying, ‘Do you know how many calories are in toast and marmalade?’Īged 19, which is when I moved to London, Pamela Dillman, a beautiful American student at Rada, looked me up and down and said, ‘You should do pilates. When you’re young, with zero self-esteem, a single sentence can derail you. She has brought hairpieces, as I imagine she found out I’ve lost so much of my hair. ‘No, it’s not! It’s a £6,000 transplant.’ Honestly. ‘You have a good neck,’ she says, and in the next breath, ‘Is that an eyebrow tattoo?’ The make-up artist arrives for the shoot.
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No one told me I was beautiful or talented or even a nice person. So I continued to punish it when I should have relished being young. I was prescribed steroids, which distorted my body. I was so shocked I looked so thin that I booked to see my GP. A stick figure in pink tights, pink ballet slippers, black leotard. Unfortunately, my rule of never looking in the mirror was broken one day when I caught a glimpse by accident. I hated myself so profoundly, I even told my teacher a different name: Libby. It gave me the illusion I was better than I am. When I used to come here, three, four times a week for most of the 80s (pilates on the top floor, body conditioning on the ground, leg warmers on both legs and arms), I had a rule never to look up at my own reflection. That strange, evocative smell of old sweat. There is plinky-plonky music from the class next door. I’m here for a shoot for work, but as I’m early (I once read that legendary Daily Mail columnist Lynda Lee-Potter always turned up an hour before an interview), I have time to reminisce. It’s Friday morning, and I’m in Studio 12 at Pineapple Dance Studios, Covent Garden. 'I’ve never allowed a man to see me naked.