The Next Big Thing (A novel about Internet love, plus size heroines, and reality TV)

by Johanna Edwards

I’d take Johnny Depp over Gucci any day, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “A load of cack,” I repeated, smiling. I love Britspeak.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, go on, guess. It’s not that difficult.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “It means a load of shit. You say it when something is out of order.”

  “Like an elevator? Or a lift, as you Brits would call it.” I loved messing with him about his adorable accent. Usually he liked it, but tonight he sounded irritated.

  “Come on, Kat, are we going to do this all night? ’Cause I can think of many other things I’d rather talk about . . .” His voice grew soft. I looked at my watch. Five minutes had passed already. . . . Oh well, I reasoned, I could spare five more.

  “I’ve been thinking about you lots today,” Nick said shyly. “I imagine the things we’ll do together . . . sipping red wine by the fireplace, long conversations over coffee. I’ve never met someone I can talk to like this before.”

  I smiled. “I know. Me too.” It was the truth. Despite the great distance between us, I was closer to Nick than almost anyone. He didn’t hoard his emotions the way most men did. He was so honest, genuine. And he was passionate about everything—from movies to politics to art to culture. I felt I could learn so much from him.

  “It’s such torture being without you, Kat. These past few days I’ve done nothing but think of you. I kept hoping you’d fly over and surprise me. That’s a hint, by the way.”

  Fat chance of that happening, I thought.

  “I’d love to, Nick, but you know I can’t afford it.”

  “I just imagined you walking in through the front door of my flat,” he went on, seemingly ignoring my previous comment, “how beautiful you’d look . . .” I blushed.

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I’m being serious,” he said. “I want to see you. I need to see you. If you can’t come here perhaps I could fly out to Memphis. I’m off deadline right now and I could stand to get away. Say yes, Kat, and I’ll be on the first plane out.”

  I sat dumbfounded, staring at the phone. Why the sudden urgency to meet? “What’s the rush?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even. I was praying my voice didn’t give away how frightened I was.

  Nick sighed. “I’ve been feeling really down lately. It’s hard wanting someone and having them over four thousand miles away. It does your head in.”

  I was silent for a minute, then Nick added, “I’ve got a better idea, Kat. Let me buy you a ticket to London. Can you get a week off work? Or how about coming over for a long weekend? Think about how it would feel. Wrapping ourselves in each other’s arms. Spending the night together. Making love for the first time . . .”

  It sounded great. But I knew there was no way he’d want to make love to all 227 pounds of me.

  “I wish I could, Nick,” I said. “Believe me, I really do. But it’s just not possible right now. Soon I promise.”

  Silence.

  “Nick?”

  “I need to go, Kat. I’ve got stuff to do, things to think about.”

  I had never heard him sound so abrupt. I felt a stabbing pain right in the center of my chest.

  “You’re not thinking of breaking up with me, are you?” I whispered. The clock was nearing 4:45 P.M. but suddenly the audition didn’t seem so important.

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just need some space.” His tone softened, and I felt my whole body expand in a sigh. “Like I said, I’m just stressed. Think about the date you want to meet. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “I love you.”

  He paused for an agonizing minute and then said, “I love you, too.”

  We hung up, I took a deep breath, and then went straight to work on my video.

  I needed my new and improved thinner life NOW. I threw off my work clothes, changing into the purple button-down shirt and black pants from Lane Bryant. I set the camera up on my bureau and started recording. Since I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to say, I’d have to wing it.

  Be yourself, it had said on the From Fat to Fabulous website. A noble piece of advice, but I wasn’t stupid. Nobody gets on a reality TV show by acting natural. I botched the first two takes; I had the camera set too low and wound up filming my boobs. Annoyed, I stuck a phone book under the camera’s base and tried again. I waited until the tape finished rewinding and then hit Record. Smoothing out my shirt I walked over and began talking.

  “Hi!” I shouted, smiling brightly. “I’m Kat Larson, and I’m gonna be the new It Girl of reality TV!” I would take an upbeat approach. It was doubtful the producers wanted some boring girl who sat on a couch all day staring at her hands. I rambled on about the trials and tribulations of plus-sized clothing, the pain of growing up a size eighteen in a size-two world, and the endless search for a guy who wasn’t scared off by the stigma of dating a “fat chick.”

  Since I didn’t have access to any editing equipment, I needed to film straight through in one take with no flubs, no stumbling over words, no losing my train of thought. And I couldn’t run over my allotted time. A good closer is just as important as a good opener, and I had to make sure to leave myself enough space to finish properly. I didn’t want to just trail off. So I rewound the tape, and started over again. I timed myself, and discovered that my exit—a showy cartwheel out of the room—took around ten seconds to complete, from start to finish. That left me a minute and fifty seconds to get everything in. Which isn’t very long.

  Finding something to keep time presented a problem. I placed my alarm clock on the floor in front of me. I couldn’t set it to go off in two-minute intervals, for obvious reasons, but I figured I could keep one eye trained on it. Unfortunately, when I watched the playback of my next run-through I could plainly see my eyes kept drifting down. I looked like I was struggling to stay awake. Definitely not a good sign. I didn’t want them to think I had narcolepsy. I realized I could set the alarm on my cell phone to vibrate, so I did, and then I stuck it in the back pocket of my pants. It was the best I could do. The thing was it would come crashing to the floor as soon as I launched into my cartwheel.

  I fiddled around for a few minutes but couldn’t secure it, and it was already creeping up on 5:30, so I decided not to worry about it. If my phone got broken, at least it would be for a good cause. After several more botched attempts I finally nailed a take.

  I sounded smart, funny, and interesting. I didn’t screw up any of my words, and I never lost my train of thought. Unfortunately, I lost my balance midway through the cartwheel and landed in a heap on the floor, ruining the whole thing.

  “Who am I kidding?” I mumbled out loud, feeling my mood crash as hard as my cartwheel. “I am turning into a big fat joke of a person.”

  A feeling of defeat was sinking in. There was no way in hell I’d get on TV, no matter how good my audition video was. It didn’t matter what the USA Today article said—the producers were sure to cast only beautiful people. They’d do a show about some “fat” chicks who weighed in the neighborhood of 150 pounds and hid their beauty behind bad hairdos, ridiculously thick glasses, and muumuus.

  The first episode would show lots of shots of these pseudo fat girls crying their eyes out, sitting around a table and stuffing their faces with lasagna and cheesecake. By the end of the series, they’d all drop forty pounds and start dressing better. The finale would feature them falling in love with a group of Brad Pitt clones, while claiming they “always take the stairs now, and that makes all the difference.”

  It would be the worst, most stereotypical show on television. I should have known it all along. No one wants to make a show about a semi-confident girl who weighs more than 200 pounds. I let out a deep sigh. Then couldn’t help giving it one last try. I positioned the camera and hit Record.

  “Hi, I’m Kat Larson,” I began, “and I know firsthand what it’s like to be young and fat in America. . . .”

  Chapter Four

  “So what are you going to
do about the Nick situation?” Donna asked when we met for dinner the following week.

  We were sitting in a booth at a Tex Mex place called On the Border, downing drinks (lots and lots of drinks) and waiting for our food to arrive.

  “The Nick situation?” I repeated.

  “Yeah.” She took a sip of her margarita. “Don’t you think it’s getting a little…weird at this point?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged uncomfortably. Truth be told, I didn’t really feel like talking about Nick. I hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a week, and I wasn’t feeling too great about things.

  “Although, if we’re being honest here,” Donna said, fixing me with a look, “at what point has this not been weird?”

  I really didn’t need this now. “What’s up with the interrogation? I thought we were just having dinner?”

  “We are.” She gestured around the restaurant. “But, and I mean no offense, Kat, none at all….”

  I braced myself. Whenever someone prefaces what they’re about to say with the words “no offense” it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s going to be offensive.

  “Don’t you kind of, I don’t know, question parts of Nick’s story?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well,” she began, “based on everything you’ve told me, this guy sounds absolutely perfect, almost too good to be true. And, again, no offense, but I’m just saying – if he’s such a catch, then why is he spending all his time engaging in an online relationship with a girl who’s half a world away?”

  “Because only losers do that, right?” I said hotly.

  “Kat, that’s not what I meant.”

  “No, I get it. Believe me, I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do.” Donna sighed. “I’m just saying, why would this wealthy, attractive, highly successful man not be dating someone – ”

  “ – in his own league?” I interrupted.

  “No,” Donna said, shaking her head firmly. “That not what I was going to say. What I was going to say is why would this wealthy, attractive, highly successful man not be dating someone in his own country?”

  I didn’t buy it. “Just admit it. You think Nick’s too good for me.”

  “I don’t think that at all.”

  “Then why are you saying all this?” I shoved a chip into my mouth.

  Donna began folding and refolding her paper napkin, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Well, I guess it’s not just the distance that bothers me, it’s his whole attitude.”

  I scooped some salsa onto another chip and chewed angrily. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t eat any carbs tonight but, as usual, my resolve was crumbling. At least I’d stuck to the sugar free margarita, I rationalized, wishing for the millionth time that I had the metabolism and genetics of a supermodel.

  “Nick’s so mysterious,” Donna continued, and I smiled. This was true. Nick was mysterious. It was one of the things I liked about him. But catching my expression caused Donna to frown. “See, Kat, you act like that’s a good thing; it’s not. You just have to ask yourself, what’s he hiding?”

  “What makes you think he’s hiding something?” I asked, even though, deep down, the thought had crossed my mind. A lot. I usually just tried to refocus my thoughts on something more positive. Like his sexy voice. Or his amazing writing. Or my impending weight loss.

  “What makes me think he’s hiding something?” Donna repeated. “Oh, I don’t know…maybe the fact that he hasn’t tried to friend you on Facebook, that he only calls at odd hours, that he hasn’t sent you more than one photo.”

  “Doesn’t have an account, time difference, doesn’t have them,” I said, ticking off the answers to all of her questions.

  “Really, Kat?” Donna was incredulous. “He only has one photo of himself? In this day and age? I mean, if we were living in the 1800s, I might believe that, but get real.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sure he has more one,” I admitted. “But I am not about to ask him for more. I’m not opening that door,” I said, “for obvious reasons.”

  “Oh, Kat.” Her tone softened. “I really wish you didn’t feel that way. I just think this would all be so much better if you two were honest – ”

  I waved her off. “I am being honest. I’ve been honest about every single aspect of my life. Except one. But by the time I meet Nick that, too, will be true. By the time I meet him I’ll be the girl in the picture I sent him, I’ll be the girl I described.” I’ll be the girl he always wanted. His dream girl. Perfect in every way.

  “Yeah, and what if he’s not the guy he’s described? What if he hasn’t been honest in ‘every single way’?” Donna challenged me. Before I had a chance to answer, she continued. “For example, what’s up with these little disappearing acts he keeps pulling?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Yeah, busy with what?”

  “Work, his family – ”

  “Or what if it’s something else entirely?” Donna interrupted me. “What if the reason he sometimes doesn’t call when he says he will is because he’s married?”

  I laughed. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Because men never cheat on their wives….”

  “No, men cheat on their wives all the time,” I said. “But if that was the case, if he was just some asshole looking to cheat on his wife, then wouldn’t he just go down to the bar and pick up some drunk girl? Or visit adultfriendfinder.com? I’m sure they have that in England. If he’s just a cheater looking to get laid, why waste all this time talking to me?”

  Donna picked up a chip and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and then said, “That’s a fair point.”

  I thought she was going to concede, but then she added, “Okay, so he’s probably not married, but that doesn’t mean there’s still not something fishy going on.”

  I knew, at the bare minimum, that Nick was at least who he said he was. A simple Google search could tell me that. But the lack of a social media presence – especially for someone so high profile – was baffling. Searching for “Nick Appleby” pulled up dozens and dozens of articles he’d written for Status but, beyond that I could find little else. As much as I hated to admit it, Donna was kind of right. It didn’t really make sense.

  Even still, I was certain it wasn’t any of the things she’d suggested. He had a short bio on the Status website, and it didn’t mention anything about a wife or kids. And, given how regularly he was cranking out articles, there was no way he was in prison. At worst, he was probably a little less perfect than he’d presented himself online. But then, weren’t we all? Yes, I rationalized, that was likely it. It had to be. Why else wouldn’t he have sent a better picture? In real life, Nick was probably a little shorter, his hair a little thinner, his teeth a little less sparkly than what I’d been led to believe. Maybe he even had a tiny gut of his own. That thought made me chuckle. I would love him either way; this much I knew. Maybe I was being a fool, but I didn’t think I had a right to judge Nick when I was hiding a big secret of my own….

  Donna eyed me thoughtfully. “I mean, what if Nick’s in prison and you’re getting his one phone call a day?”

  I burst out laughing. “Now you’re being ridiculous!”

  She cracked up. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help myself. You have the most incredible laugh. It’s like music.” It was the worst pickup line I had heard in a long time. The guy delivering it was decked out in an expensive suit, yet his hair was tied in a frizzy ponytail. I got the feeling he was an artist who hadn’t yet come to terms with his corporate self. He wasn’t Donna’s type, but she seemed taken nonetheless, and flashed him a big grin.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “You’re sweet.”

  “I’m Jon,” he said, extending his hand. “What’s your name?”

  He hadn’t so much as given me a second look. Donna introduced herself and invited Jon to sit down. He grabbed a free chair
from a neighboring table and pulled it to the edge of our booth. “I won’t keep you long, I promise. I’ll let you get back to your friend.”

  Your friend! I was indignant. He couldn’t bother to ask my name?

  “Like I said, I simply had to meet the woman with such a hypnotic laugh.” He smiled cockily, leaning over the table until his face was only a few inches away from Donna’s. “I was walking toward the door when I passed by your table. Your laughter literally stopped me in my tracks.”

  I rolled my eyes so violently I thought they might get wedged into the back of my head. Donna is blessed with stunning features—an elegant face, shiny auburn hair, flawless skin—but there is nothing about her laugh that stands out. It isn’t cute or lilting. It isn’t even loud or annoying. It’s just there. Who did Jon think he was fooling? Pretty girls hear how pretty they are all the time; the best way to score points is to try a different angle.

  “Well, I’m flattered I made such an impact,” Donna said.

  They kept on for a few minutes, flirting and exchanging small talk. I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on my drink. I was in a terrible mood to begin with; despite his promise to call, Nick had been avoiding me since our semi-fight nearly a week ago. Now my girls’ night out was shaping into a first date for Donna. I felt like a bad joke, the proverbial third wheel. I tried to look on the bright side. Despite his corny pickup line, Jon wasn’t turning out to be so bad. He was an architect and had attended the same college as Donna, graduating three years before she did. His passion was volunteering for Habitat for Humanity (or so he claimed) and he drove a Mercedes, which he casually worked into the conversation. It never ceases to amaze me how guys drop cars the way most people drop names.

  “I’d love to take you out sometime.”

  “Sounds fun.” Donna smiled. I downed my sugar free margarita and ordered another.

  “Maybe after you finish up here we could go out dancing,” Jon was saying. “I know a great little salsa club. They make the best margaritas in town.”

  Finish up here? He made it sound like I was some chore, like vacuuming the house. I yawned loudly, reminding them of my presence.