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

by Johanna Edwards

  Even as I said the words, I knew I didn’t fully mean them. There were things I loved—my friends, my family, my sense of humor—but my weight always seemed to dampen them. “

  How badly do you want to lose weight?” one of the men questioned. I thought it was kind of like asking, “How badly do you want to win the lottery?”

  I decided to take a blunt approach. “I’d do anything on this earth to have a flat stomach.” I wasn’t lying. Given the choice between a flat stomach and, well pretty much anything else, I’d pick a flat stomach. Forget a first-class trip around the world, or a Porsche, or even a million bucks. None of them could compare.

  “Other than meeting the physical requirements, why do you feel you’d make a good candidate for From Fat to Fabulous?” Zaidee asked. “What qualities will you bring to the show?”

  I told her I was fun-loving, energetic, and ready for anything. “Good or bad, there’ll never be a dull moment if I’m around!” I shouted. I hoped my voice oozed enthusiasm and self-confidence. They stared at me like I’d blown a fuse.

  “What celebrity are you most like and why?” I swallowed hard. “As much as I’d love to say Reese Witherspoon or someone else really gorgeous, I’ve gotta go with Roseanne Barr.” You could have heard a pin drop.

  “Roseanne?” Zaidee repeated. “That’s not exactly a flattering comparison. Care to tell us why?”

  No, not really, I thought. “Back in high school, kids used to make fun of me by saying I was her long-lost daughter.” I cringed, sinking down into my chair. It wasn’t one of my fondest memories.

  “Were they referring to your physical appearance or your personality—or both?” Zaidee prodded.

  “Physical appearance, definitely. On the inside I’m nothing like her at all. Of course, Roseanne and I look nothing alike, except for the fact that we’re both big. But you know how people are. Fat is fat. They don’t see much beyond that.”

  “Could you elaborate on what you mean?” Gigi asked, jotting something down in her notebook.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. This wasn’t rocket science. I didn’t see why I had to spell out every little thing for them. “When most of the world looks at an overweight girl like me they don’t see that I’m funny, or a loyal friend, or a good listener.” I paused, feeling my throat clench up. “To them, I’m just a fat girl. Plain and simple. Everything about my identity is wrapped up in being overweight.”

  Suddenly, I felt very shaky.

  “It’s like I’m stuck in this horrible shell of a body and try as I might, I can’t get out from under it.”

  Tears spilled over from my eyes and began their descent down my cheeks. In all honesty, I hadn’t meant to cry. It wasn’t a ploy for sympathy or even an attempt to make myself seem more “real.” It just happened.

  Zaidee snapped her fingers and one of the crew members came running over with a box of tissues. I wondered if that was his job, to sit there all day armed with Kleenex in case some contestant broke down. I had hoped the tears would be temporary, but I felt myself reaching the point of no return. The stress I’d been feeling over the last few days, combined with my lack of sleep, caused the tears to come bubbling out of me with frightening speed. No matter what I did, I was powerless to stop them. Laying my head down in my hands, I let loose.

  Suddenly, I was eighteen years old again, attending my first and last session with a weight-loss counselor. I’d been told then, point-blank, that I was a bad candidate for their diet program.

  “You’re too closed-minded,” the counselor had said with more than a hint of irritation.

  “You use your weight to put distance between you and other people. As long as being overweight serves you, you won’t slim down.”

  I had wept then, too, and just like now, the counselor had plied me with Kleenex.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” I blubbered, losing my train of thought. “Sorry, I’m just upset.” I hiccupped, pulling a wad of tissues from the box and wiping them across my face. If I hadn’t done so already, I’d truly blown my chances now. There was no way Zaidee and company would want me after this pitiful display. I was like a walking ad for Prozac.

  “Don’t apologize, Kat,” Zaidee told me. She bit her lower lip and eyed me sympathetically. “You’re not the first person to break down, and you won’t be the last. These interviews have their tough moments.” Zaidee turned and shared a few whispered remarks with her fellow interviewers.

  Here it comes. She’s getting ready to let me down easy, I thought. Tell me thanks, but no thanks.

  “I think we’re pretty much finished for today,” Zaidee said finally. She fixed me with a big smile. “We’ll see you back here tomorrow morning at 10 A.M.”

  The following day, Sarah caught up with me outside the hospitality suite. I had just finished sailing through my midmorning interview—there were no tears this time around—when she came rushing up to me.

  “You want to grab some lunch and then go to the Getty?” she asked, falling into step beside me. “There’s a shuttle leaving every fifteen minutes or so that takes you right up to it. Or, if art’s not your thing, we could check out the Beverly Center. I hear they’ve got some great shops out there—Dolce and Gabbana, DKNY, Armani. Not that I can afford any of that stuff, much less fit into it. But it’s always fun to look.”

  I stared at her. “We can’t leave.”

  “Yeah, I know they’re about to serve lunch but, truthfully, I’d rather go out and eat somewhere. Even though that means spending my own money. It’s our last day in Los Angeles. I’d like to see something of the city other than the inside of this hotel. You know I’ve been here three times, and all I’ve seen are hotels and airports?”

  I opened my mouth to interject, but she kept going. “Maybe we could try Spago or Wolfgang Puck? We could get a cab over. I know it’s expensive, but I think it’d be worth it.”

  “There’s not enough time,” I finally managed to cut in. “Zaidee wants me back in the hospitality suite at one-thirty.”

  “Why would she want you back here? They’ve given us the afternoon off to go sight-seeing and relax . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Hey, I’m sure it’s not what you think—” I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “No, it’s exactly what I think. I’ve been through this before, remember?” Her lower lip was quivering. I wondered where the Kleenex guy was when you really needed him.

  “You can’t read anything into it,” I said, knowing full well that if the situation were reversed I’d be reading all kinds of stuff into it.

  “Maybe they’ve already made up their mind to pick you?”

  “That’s not how it works,” Sarah said. I opened my mouth to protest but she cut me off.

  “Well, I’ve gotta be going if I’m going to make the shuttle.” Her shoulders slumped as she headed off toward the elevator.

  I had just returned to my room and was preparing to pack my bag—the red-eye flight left at 1:40 A.M., but I had to be checked out of my room by midafternoon—when Gigi called me.

  “Is this Kat?” she demanded as soon as I’d picked up.

  “Yes.” Who else would be answering my phone?

  “Kat, how would you feel about taking the red-eye out on Tuesday instead of tonight?”

  “Tuesday!” I exclaimed. She had thrown me for a total loop. “I have to be at work at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “The decision’s yours, but I’d strongly advise you to stay the extra two days. There’s a lot riding on this weekend. I’m giving it to you loud and clear—whether you stay or not will have a big impact on whether you’re cast or not. Follow?”

  With a comment like that, how could I refuse? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. “Change my ticket. I’ll stay.”

  Gigi hung up without saying good-bye. I unzipped my suitcase and began unpacking the items I’d put in it only moments ago.

  Since I hadn’t planned on being in Los Angeles for
this amount of time, I didn’t have nearly enough clothes. Socks and underwear—two things that I refused to re-wear without washing—were at a premium. I was just about to call downstairs and see if the hotel had a laundry service when I remembered.

  Richard Geddlefinger! The big presentation with Mercer and Sons Funeral Home was on Wednesday. Even on down days, Richard frowned upon employees calling in sick. There was no way he’d let me skip work—right before the presentation, to boot—unless I had a doctor’s note to back it up. On the other hand, if the circumstances were extenuating . . .

  There’s a saying I’ve heard Donna repeat many times over the years. “If you’re going to lie, make it an outrageous lie.” According to her logic, the bigger the whopper, the better.

  “No one will believe you’d have the nerve to make up such a ridiculous thing.”

  Crossing my fingers for good luck, I dialed Richard’s office line. After four rings, voice mail answered. I’d been counting on that. The Caller ID at Hood & Geddlefinger only shows the number while it’s ringing, it doesn’t store them once you’ve hung up.

  “Richard,” I began. “I’ve got to fly out to Denver right away to be with my parents. There’s been a freak occurrence….”

  Chapter Nine

  “We’ve gotta see how you respond in front of the cameras,” Zaidee stated. “We have to know if you’re able to relax and be yourself, or if you freeze up.”

  The last two days of the casting weekend started at seven in the morning and ended somewhere around midnight.

  Among other things, I had a three-hour psychological exam with an eating disorders specialist, then was given a list of “errands” to run. These ranged from browsing in a grocery store for an hour, to walking through the gardens of the Getty Center Museum, to eating at the McDonald’s on Hollywood Boulevard. I was chauffeured from location to location in a minivan, trailed by a cameraman and an audio technician. It was a bizarre experience.

  Even more indescribable was the reaction I got from total strangers. No matter where I went, I instantly became the center of attention. A group of Japanese tourists pointed and waved as I strolled through the stunning gardens of the Getty (Zaidee hadn’t gotten clearance to film inside the museum, so I didn’t see any of the artwork). They followed me around, snapping pictures and filming me with their phones.

  Twice, I got asked for my autograph. The first time, a young boy tentatively approached while I was eating at McDonald’s.

  The second incident took place at the grocery store. A group of giggling teenage girls tailed me for a few minutes before finally cornering me in the dairy aisle. “Um, excuse me, but could I have your autograph?” With trembling fingers, one of them thrust a Chinese take-out menu into my hands, pointing to a small spot in the corner where there was a patch of white space.

  “Sure,” I said, fishing into my purse and retrieving a pen. I scribbled Best wishes, Katrina Larson across the bottom of the menu, and then passed it back to her.

  “Thank you!” she gushed. “Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  They all stared at me blankly. “Kind of,” said the girl who’d given me the menu.

  “We’ve seen you in a bunch of stuff, but we can’t remember your name,” chimed in another one.

  “You know,” I said, deciding to come clean, “I’m actually not anybody important. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” They broke into nervous laughter.

  “Oh, whatever,” the menu girl said, rolling her eyes heavenward. She cocked her head to the side, nodding toward the cameraman. “You’re famous.”

  ***

  On Wednesday I dragged my exhausted body into work. I left directly from the airport and got there as quickly as humanly possible—I didn’t even stop by my apartment to pick up Nick’s surprise—yet I was almost forty-five minutes late.

  I half expected to find Richard waiting for me at my cubicle, but he wasn’t. In fact, all was surprisingly calm in the workroom. This should have tipped me off, but it didn’t. I sat down at my desk and started checking my e-mails.

  “Don’t forget Kat, you’ve got a presentation meeting today,” Cindy sang out, walking by my desk.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” I snapped. “Sorry, from the way you’re dressed I wasn’t sure.”

  I looked down at my clothes. I was wearing the same light gray T-shirt and pair of black pants I’d worn on the plane. There was a dark spot near the bottom of the shirt where I’d spilled diet Coke during a bumpy portion of the flight. I’d tried my best to scrub it out with hand soap and water, but the stain had set.

  I took a deep breath. “How nice of you to remind me, Cindy.”

  “Anytime.”

  I looked up to see Donna sauntering in casually. She was midway to her cubicle when she spied Cindy. “How’s life as a brownnoser treating you, Cynthia?”

  “No complaints,” she remarked, glaring daggers at the two of us. “Though, if I’m not mistaken, Kat is going to have a lot to complain about.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “You’ll find out,” Cindy said, flashing me a wicked smile.

  Just then, Richard popped his head out of his office.

  “Kat! When did you get here?” he called.

  “I walked in the door five minutes ago.”

  “Well, you’d better get in the conference room. Our meeting with Mercer and Sons Funeral Home starts in less than five minutes.”

  “What!” I exclaimed. “I thought we weren’t seeing them until this afternoon?”

  “It’s been rescheduled.” I looked frantically at Donna.

  “I didn’t know,” she mouthed.

  “Mr. G., I’d be more than happy to sub for Kat if she’s not up to it,” Cindy volunteered, not missing a beat. “She’s been out of town for several days. She needs time to get back into the swing of things.”

  “I think Kat’s more than capable of telling me what she needs,” Richard said.

  I blinked in surprise. I had never heard him defend me before.

  “Kat, are you ready for today’s presentation?”

  “I’m ready,” I told him, even though I wasn’t. I felt nervous all over. “Let me grab a cup of coffee and I’ll meet you in there.”

  “The thing you have to understand about public relations is that we’re not a brick and mortar field,” Richard said, flipping through PowerPoint screens. “People often get us confused with advertising, but there’s a notable difference. In advertising, you see the fruits of your labor in tangible finished product: a television commercial, a radio ad, a poster. With public relations, we specialize in spreading word of mouth. We’re like the proverbial man who isn’t there. You can’t see us, but you feel our presence.”

  “Mr. Gobbleberger,” Gray Mercer began. His voice was crackly and his skin looked like old leather. He seemed ancient. I couldn’t help wondering if he wouldn’t need his own services in the very near future. “I don’t understand what you’re telling me. Please give me something I can relate to. Some kind of an example.”

  “Geddlefinger,” Richard corrected. He smiled good-naturedly. “In my next life I’m coming back as a Smith.”

  “There’s no such thing as a ‘next life.’ You either go to Heaven or you go below, but you don’t come back to earth. The Bible makes that clear,” Mr. Mercer said. “What are you, some kind of Buddha worshipper?”

  Uh-oh, I thought. The meeting had only started and already we were off to a bumpy start.

  “Oh, no, I’m a Christian. Chalk it up to a poorly timed joke,” Richard backpedaled.

  “There’s never a good time to joke about the Lord,” Mr. Mercer said, scowling.

  “You are absolutely right, sir.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, it was fun watching Richard squirm. “At Hood and Geddlefinger we work very hard to ensure that all of our clients receive ample coverage in the press, and that the coverage is of a positive nature,” Richard conti
nued. “We accomplish this by crafting carefully worded press releases and spending countless hours devising marketing strategies and working on various social media campaigns to expand your online presence. My associate Kat Larson is going to give you some examples of how public relations can help raise a company’s profile. Kat?” He gestured toward me.

  “An example?” I repeated in surprise. I hadn’t expected him to throw the ball to me so early in the game.

  “That’s what we pay you for, kiddo.”

  Gray Mercer turned to face me.

  “Okay, well, public relations firms do a lot of things for a lot of different companies,” I began, stalling for time. My mind had gone completely blank. Not that I’d had time to prepare a speech in the first place, but I’d had a few things I planned to say. Now I was at a total loss.

  “We make a product or company known in a roundabout way, through word of mouth and product placements. For example, when you’re watching a show like Grey’s Anatomy and you see someone wearing a Gap T-shirt, well, that’s public relations.”

  “I don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy,” said Mr. Mercer, shaking his head.

  “Oh, it’s not just Grey’s Anatomy,” I explained. “It’s lots of shows. We—well not we as in H and G Public Relations specifically—but other firms get mentions of products in movies and on television, too. Viewers don’t realize they’ve seen a product plug, but they have.”

  “Are we talking about subliminal advertising?” Mr. Mercer asked, alarmed. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me and I firmly believe that to be illegal.”

  “No, nothing like that,” I assured him. “I’m talking about product placement.”

  “Kat,” Richard said sternly, “give this good gentleman an example of something relevant, please.”

  An idea occurred to me. It was so simple, so brilliant, and it was staring me right in the face. I pointed around the table at the paper coffee cups, and burst out, “Starbucks! That’s a perfect example.”