MultiDate

by Kirsty McManus

  I smile wryly. “Okay…”

  “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. What I mean is that with you and I, everything is always so easy. We have the same taste in food, and music and TV…but we also have fun talking about the different stuff in our lives.”

  My whole body starts buzzing. “I know.”

  “And you are the most goddamn beautiful woman I have ever seen. Plus, you’re smart and funny and I…”

  He seems to struggle to say whatever it is he wants to say next. I stand up and slide into his side of the booth. Before he has a chance to question what I’m doing, I lean in and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate and pulls me in closer. His lips are warm and soft. I’ve been dreaming about those lips forever. I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to be this close, and now that I am, feeling his hands on me, I know this is what I always wanted. Not the flashiness and unreality of Patrick.

  I gently pull back. Finn looks at me searchingly. “What?”

  “Why did you ask me if Tofino was a good place to propose?”

  His eyes widen. “What?”

  “You said the beach where I took the photo would be a good place to propose.”

  His face suddenly lights up in recognition. “Ah. I meant because you were working on a dating show, and it looked like a nice place if any of the contestants were thinking of popping the question.”

  “Oh.” I suddenly feel very silly.

  He shakes his head. “You thought I was going to ask Emma to marry me in Tofino?”

  “Yep.”

  “Obviously, we were still together then, but I was far from feeling like I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  “Okay.”

  “But with you, I feel like even one day without being able to see you would be too painful.”

  My heart almost bursts with happiness.

  He looks at me seriously. “Is this the part where you freak out and run away?”

  “No. This is the part where I tell you I love you.”

  Finn reacts by pulling me in for another kiss. The emotion in that moment is so intense, I feel like I might pass out. “I love you too,” he whispers.

  When we come up for air, I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh happily. “Jules definitely knew what he was doing.”

  “I don’t want to admit it, but he did. Speak of the devil…”

  I look up and Jules is gazing down on us like a proud parent. “Yay! This is exactly what I hoped I’d return to.” He sees the two half-finished margaritas. “Although, that is slightly disappointing. One of you is going to have to buy another one for me.”

  I laugh. “I will. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Damn right,” he confirms. “Especially if you’re going to take on another fancy producing job. By the way, you should negotiate more money.”

  Finn looks at me, surprised. “You’re going back to producing?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I might be looking at a new home show at TBA Studios.”

  “That sounds great!”

  I wink at him. “You were worried I was going to be working for Patrick again, weren’t you?”

  “No,” he says innocently.

  “Don’t worry,” Jules assures him. “You are a million times better than Patrick James. I told Lauren that ages ago.”

  “Thanks for speaking on my behalf,” I chide Jules. “But you’re right. How could I pass up this?” I run my hands through Finn’s hair and plant another kiss on his cheek.

  “Aw—you two definitely know how to make a guy feel wanted.” Finn squeezes my side affectionately.

  “I guess there’s only one important thing left to figure out,” Jules says cheekily.

  “What?” Finn and I say at the same time.

  “Which one of you is moving bedrooms?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I say turning to Finn playfully. “One of the conditions of living in your house was to stay out of your bedroom.”

  “I think we might have to re-think that rule,” he laughs.

  “I do have the new bed,” I reason.

  “But I have the bigger room,” Finn points out.

  “How about we move my bed into your room?” I suggest.

  “I can live with that,” Finn says.

  Jules sits with his chin cupped in his hands. “I love this so much.”

  “I do too,” I say to Jules. “I do too.”

  Have you read Lightweight yet?

  When Isla Greenwood discovers a nude photo of herself online, she immediately knows her ex-boyfriend is to blame. Worried that her family and work colleagues will discover its existence, she withdraws from everyone and turns to food to suppress her emotions.

  Twenty-five kilos later, Isla has hit rock bottom and realises she needs the help of her fitness model cousin, Grace, to help get her back on track. But when Grace is injured, Isla finds she lacks the skills and motivation to continue her fitness regime on her own.

  Fortunately, another saviour arrives in the form of Wes, a cute local personal trainer who convinces Isla to check out his gym.

  Before long, Isla is rocking her new lifestyle and on the road to getting her old self back. But nothing worthwhile ever comes easy, and she soon finds herself battling a whole new set of challenges, including a rival at a competing gym, an increasingly stressful job, and her deepening feelings for an unpredictable Wes.

  Will Isla ever resolve the chaos in her life and come out the other end healthy, happy and sane?

  She sure hopes so.

  Read on for a sneak peek!

  PROLOGUE

  No, no, please God, no.

  It’s like a bad dream. A complete and utter nightmare.

  I can’t take my eyes off it. That photo. Out there. Forever. On the internet.

  Why isn’t there a delete button where you can just click on it and make it quietly disappear? Surely there should be some sort of emergency directive for situations like this.

  WHY ISN’T THERE A WAY TO GET RID OF THIS ABOMINATION?

  I highlight the photo as if it were part of a Word document and repeatedly stab the delete key on my keyboard. Of course I know how the internet works, but a tiny part of me hopes that this time the universe might help me out. Just this once.

  Let me start by saying that I had never, EVER consented to having a nude photo taken before I met Guy. Hell, I’d never even taken one myself. I was always paranoid that some hacker would find it in the cloud if I took it with my phone, or use some fancy un-deleting software if I snapped it on my camera.

  So to let Guy take that shot was a huge deal. Something I only agreed to because I thought he loved me, and because I assumed he would one day become my husband. And, what I feel is a reasonable expectation, husbands don’t usually go around posting naked photos of their wives online (unless you’re Kanye West, and then you make pretty good money uploading questionable images of your spouse to the internet).

  I think I always knew on some deep, deep level our relationship was doomed, but it wasn’t until after Guy took the photo that I started to question our future. It’s a staggering admission to make to yourself that you might have married someone you knew was wrong for you, and that you would have just gone down the path of least resistance because it was the easiest choice.

  Anyway. I came to my senses, and our break-up was surprisingly amicable. At least, that’s what I thought. But then, SIX WHOLE MONTHS later, here I am clicking on a Google alert for my name (yes, I have a Google alert set up on my name) and I’m suddenly staring at a photo of myself lying buck naked on Guy’s bed. Face in full view. The pose leaving NOTHING to the imagination.

  After a bit of investigating, I discover that the image is stored on a website notorious for hosting revenge porn, located in a country that doesn’t seem to care if people post unethical or illegal content.

  And of course I know Guy is responsible. Because apart from actually taking the photo, he is insecure about his masculinity and can’t bear to not have the up
per hand. I sort of expected something like this from him, but not so long after our split. It’s impossible to tell when the image was first uploaded, but from what I understand, Google alerts are sent out fairly promptly after a post.

  I bury my face in my hands and try not to hyperventilate.

  My life is over. I’m going to be a laughing stock. No one will ever take me seriously again. I won’t be able to become properly famous, because someone will find that photo and it will haunt me forever.

  I contemplate moving to a country with highly restrictive internet access, but then realise it means I’ll probably end up somewhere like North Korea—and while I’ll no longer be able to see the photo, everyone else will still have access to it.

  A mixture of rage, humiliation and despair washes over me. How do you get through something like this?

  Well, I guess if you’re me, a good old fashioned food binge always helps suppress those uncomfortable feelings.

  I need ice cream, stat.

  ONE

  Almost 25kg later . . .

  I look down at the empty bowl in front of me and wonder why I’m still hungry. I have just finished a huge serving of creamy ravioli, but my body still wants dessert. I don’t know why, but I never feel like I’ve finished a meal until I’ve had something sweet at the end. I’ve discussed this with numerous people, and most agree it is a real phenomenon. One friend even theorised we have a secret second stomach, purely for treats.

  I glance at my watch and discover I only have five minutes until my lunch break is over, so I’m going to have to skip the yummy Italian sweets on the restaurant’s menu and visit the 7-Eleven on the way back to my office instead.

  I enter the convenience store and look for something to quell my seemingly endless appetite for sugar. I think I want chocolate, but none of the bars are calling to me today. A package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups might do it, but I’m not sure they will be enough on their own.

  Maybe a Krispy Kreme donut to go with it? Yes! My brain tells me I have the winning combo.

  I take them both up to the counter and place them in front of the cashier.

  “We have a two-for-one special on the chocolate,” he informs me.

  Oh. Well, it would be silly not to take free food. I can always save the second package for tomorrow. And it just makes sense from a financial point of view.

  You know you’ll eat it before the day is over, the sane part of my mind whispers.

  Shh, the slightly less sane part replies.

  I quickly grab another Reese’s, and the cashier puts everything into a small plastic bag. I swipe my debit card on their machine and make my way back to the office with my goodies.

  It’s going to be messy if I try to eat the donut at my desk, so I reason I should probably eat it now, where all the crumbs can fall onto the footpath. And it will help with the sugar cravings, which have intensified since my gaze first landed on the Krispy Kreme sign at the 7-Eleven. I’m like Pavlov’s dog—show me that red and green logo, and my brain takes on the personality of the Terminator until it achieves its objective.

  Do you want to know something crazy? Krispy Kremes give me a stomach ache, and I don’t even care. Their marketing is that good.

  I cram the donut into my mouth right then and there. Mmm. Sweet and doughy.

  But it’s not enough. The sugar monster wants more.

  I quickly chow down on the Reese’s cups in the first package, refusing to think about the number of calories I’m consuming.

  Okay. There. I think that’s done it. The cravings have finally subsided. And I only feel mildly nauseated.

  I congratulate myself for not going completely overboard and eating the second package straight away, just because it’s in my possession. (Yes, I know how I sound. Please don’t judge me.) I enter the lobby of my building and let the cool air-conditioned interior dry the thin layer of November sweat from my skin.

  I ride up in the elevator and take a moment to adjust the waistband of my pants so it doesn’t look like I have multiple rolls of fat on my stomach. But I only succeed in pushing one slightly bigger fat roll further up my body.

  I sigh. How did it come to this? I used to be awesome. I never really paid attention to what I ate, but I wasn’t overweight. I didn’t let anything get me down for longer than an hour. I was known as the girl who was always happy. But after finding that photo online, something snapped. I think because Guy left it so long to exact his revenge, I was caught completely off-guard and it affected me much more than it should have.

  Everything had been going so well too in the six months between our split and ‘the incident’. Work was good . . . I was rediscovering myself as an individual after a year of dating Guy . . . and then boom! That photo changed everything. I think I kind of gave up on the human race after that. People can’t be trusted. Food is now the only thing I can rely on to bring me pleasure.

  Except for when it adds to the padding on my excessively large backside.

  At least no one at work has said anything. I mean, they might be teasing me behind my back, but they haven’t said anything to my face. That’s got to count for something. Especially since I work for Pop Ice, which is an online magazine that makes its money from pointing out the many and varied flaws of celebrities.

  I get back to my desk and plonk down on my swivel chair, stuffing the remaining Reese’s package in my drawer. The only person in the immediate vicinity is Jon, my cubicle mate. He’s one of my only friends these days. Our desks are set up so that we face away from each other, but that doesn’t stop us from spending most of our time the other way around. Right now though, he’s busy typing on his keyboard.

  “Portia is looking for you,” he says, only half looking up.

  “Do you know why?”

  “I think it might be to do with an article.”

  “Really?” I ask excitedly. As an editorial assistant, I haven’t yet been given the opportunity to write articles on my own. I’ve been waiting for this moment for almost four years.

  “I’m pretty sure. Go see her and find out.”

  Portia’s office is at the other end of the floor. While the rest of the staff only have partitions to divide their desks, she has proper walls and a door.

  I knock softly and wait for her to summon me.

  “Enter,” she calls impatiently.

  Our editor-in-chief is a woman of few words. She is kind of like the boss in The Devil Wears Prada, except quirkier. And she’s not as demanding as Miranda Priestly, but that’s only because she’s addicted to eBay auctions and focuses a large chunk of her attention on winning bids, rather than yelling at us.

  She glances at me, her dark eyes even more manic than usual. This probably means she has several high-stakes auctions going today.

  “Ah, Isla, good, you’re here. It saves me having to find you later. Helen is away at the moment . . . I can’t remember why . . . surgery of some sort, I think—and she’s left a huge hole for the next couple of entertainment columns. Can you cover for her?”

  I try not to squeal in elation. “Uh, sure.”

  “Good. Your first article is about celebrities who have recently piled on the pounds. I want a minimum of ten women with the usual commentary. Be as bitchy as you like, taking the stance that we don’t approve of the way they’ve let themselves go.”

  I stare at her uncertainly for a second, wondering if she’s trying to tell me something. But I’m probably flattering myself. The woman wouldn’t notice if I came to work in a garbage bag.

  “Okay. Great. When do you want it by?”

  “Yesterday. Now scoot. I’m bidding on a Louis Vuitton handbag, and the auction is about to end.”

  I bow my head Japanese style, and back out of the room.

  Yes! My first article! Plus the possibility of at least one more!

  It’s kind of a shame about the content, but I can’t really afford to be picky on my first assignment. And she did say I can be as bitchy as I like. Which means if I’
m only a tiny, tiny bit mean, I’m still following her brief.

  I beam at Jon as I return to my computer.

  “I take it things went well?” he asks dryly.

  “Yes! I have an article!”

  “Congratulations, love. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  I get on Instagram and start trawling through all the celebrity accounts I can think of. I fantasise about which department I might be promoted to if I ever make it permanently into an editorial role. After four years, I am so ready. It’s just unlucky no one has left since I started, otherwise I would apply for their department in a heartbeat.

  Maybe they’ll expand so I can work alongside someone? Jon would be ideal to team up with, but he only does the news and it’s not our most popular column. I mean, he still has to write from an interesting tabloid perspective, because readers don’t want to be bothered with things like people dying in the Middle East, unless they happen to be famous movie stars who got caught in the cross-fire while doing humanitarian work. But I can’t see Portia choosing news as the first department to expand. It would most likely be fashion or entertainment. Which means I need to prove myself with this current opportunity.

  Half an hour later, and a quarter of the way through my article, Portia appears at my desk. She doesn’t make eye contact, and instead stares out the window while drumming her red, claw-like gel nails on top of the partition.

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Uh, almost,” I fib. “But I’ll definitely get it to you by this afternoon.”

  “Good. One of the other editors will probably need to re-write it before it goes online, so the sooner the better.”

  I try not to let her comment sting, because I know I’m an untested commodity, so I just nod to show I understand. Besides, even the other editors need to get someone else to sign off on their work before they post online.

  “And as soon as you’ve finished that one, I want you to get started on the next story,” Portia adds. “This time one on stars who are too skinny.”