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

by Johanna Edwards

  “Starbucks?” Mr. Mercer repeated. “The coffee store?”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “Buzz?” He shook his head slowly. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Their advertising is surprisingly limited compared with most companies their size. Yet, they’ve build a massive global brand. And you know why that is? Two words: word of mouth. Well, actually, that’s three words,” I fumbled. “But what I meant to say was public relations. Starbucks has an excellent public relations team that makes sure their name and product is out there. And that, Mr. Mercer, is what we would like to do for you.”

  His face was the picture of confusion, so I added, “When people want a strong cup of coffee, the first place they think of is Starbucks. By the time Hood and Geddlefinger Public Relations is finished, Mercer and Sons will the Starbucks of the funeral home industry!”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you?” Richard asked, pacing back and forth across the conference room. He’d started in on me the second Gray Mercer left.

  “Richard,” I protested. “I did the best I could. How in the hell do you drum up good PR for a funeral home? Nobody has good connotations when it comes to funerals. It’s a losing battle.”

  “KAT!” he bellowed. “Will you stop babbling for one second and think about what you’ve done? You went into a client meeting and completely fouled up the pitch with bizarre, off-the-wall analogies. The Starbucks of funeral homes? What the hell were you thinking?” He began massaging his forehead with his hand. “It’s obvious you were grossly unprepared. Do you have anything at all to say for yourself?”

  I grimaced. I had nothing to say for myself. And the worst part was, he was right.

  There was only one card left to play. “Richard, I have a confession to make. I wasn’t in Denver this weekend,” I said, drawing in a deep breath.

  “I was in Los Angeles auditioning for a new reality show. And while it is by no means certain that I will be cast, my chances are pretty good.”

  He stood there, his mouth agape. I waited for a few seconds to see if he would actually pull it together and say anything. When he didn’t, I pressed on. “Before you fire me for lying to you, hear me out. If I get cast on this program, it may very well be the biggest thing to ever happen to Hood and Geddlefinger. It will be the ultimate product placement—me. By the time I’m through talking up your company, everyone this side of the Mississippi will want H and G representing them.”

  Richard’s mouth closed, and then he smiled.

  ***

  It had been five long, torturous days since the mystery package arrived. The minute I got home I made a mad dash to my landlord’s apartment. He grudgingly retrieved the FedEx box—the same large one Donna had described seeing Saturday—and advised me to have the post office hold my mail next time I was planning to be gone for so long. His attitude didn’t dampen my spirits. I was on cloud nine: not only had I managed to save my job, I’d even convinced Richard to give me a full four months of leave—unpaid, of course—if I made the cast.

  And now I had my present. That was all that mattered. I didn’t want to open it in public, so I ran the length of the apartment complex in about two seconds flat. Despite its large size, the box was light as a feather. How clever of Nick to disguise a small box with a big one!

  The instant I stepped into my apartment I ripped the box open.

  Nick had sent me a dress. Not an engagement ring. A beautiful, stunning, red Gucci dress. Size four. It was designed to fit a supermodel. Aside from being nearly see-through, the dress had a scoop-neck front that almost showed your belly button and the back was practically nonexistent. No matter how much weight I lost I’d never be able to wear it. It was cut to reveal a perfect body—there was no room for flaws.

  It looked like the kind of outfit a celebrity would don for the Academy Awards.

  I stared at that dumb Gucci dress for so long I was afraid I might go blind, my eyesight scarred by a sea of vibrant red. I felt like I’d been sucker punched. Nick had also included the latest issue of Status, complete with the much-maligned Johnny Depp cover story, which had squeezed his section. Numbly, I flipped through it until I found Nick’s articles.

  He didn’t have much, but there was a short piece entitled “Gucci: The Favourite Comes Home Again.”

  The phone was ringing. I looked at the Caller ID. It was Donna. I let the machine get it. She’d only say “I told you so.”

  I wandered into the kitchen and twisted the cap off a bottle of whiskey. I got out my Snoopy shot glass—the only one I own—and filled it to the brim. Then I tilted my head back and downed it in one gulp.

  I felt like a bad Tennessee cliché. I had never much cared for hard liquor; the bottle had been a Christmas gift from Donna. Tonight, it was precisely what the doctor ordered. I needed all the (Southern) comfort I could get. I had settled down on the couch with my bottle of whiskey and shot glass when Nick called.

  And called. He let it ring until voicemail picked up, then he hung up and tried again. Couldn’t he take a hint? Besides, it was after midnight in England. What was he still doing up? It was a remarkable case of bad timing, but he seemed determined to get through to me. On the fifth try, I finally succumbed.

  “Hello,” I mumbled. “Kat!” he cried, sounding elated. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been ringing your place since Monday with no answer. I’ve been worried sick about you!”

  “Sorry. I stayed out in . . . Denver,” I said, catching myself right before I slipped, “for a few extra days.”

  “You could have sent me an e-mail or phoned to let me know. I’ve been going out of my mind!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said flatly. I couldn’t muster up much energy. The whole thing was too depressing for words.

  “Have you opened the surprise?” he asked excitedly.

  I briefly debated telling him it had gotten lost in the mail or that my landlord had “misplaced it” but decided that was too cruel.

  “I haven’t opened it, no,” I lied.

  “What are you waiting for? Go on, open it!”

  “Well, okay, if you insist . . .”

  “I do,” he said firmly. I fumbled around on the ground for the box. Loudly, I ripped it in half and jostled it around. “Oh!” I feigned excitement. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Don’t you like it?” he demanded.

  “Of course, Nick! I don’t just like it. I love it. I love it so much I’m speechless.”

  “Oh, Kat, I’m so pleased,” Nick said. I could almost feel him beaming at me through the phone. “Did you get the magazine, too?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So, have you tried it on yet?”

  “The magazine?”

  “No, the dress! Kat, what’s going on with you tonight?”

  “Jet lag,” I said.

  “From Denver? It’s not that far, is it?”

  “Uh, my weekend was tiring, sorry.”

  “So, about the dress . . . I bet you’ll look stunning in it. Positively stunning. What do you think of the color?”

  “Red? I love red.”

  “It’s not red. It’s watermelon pink. Red,” he scoffed, “is for the working class.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, and I didn’t want to ask. Considering both of us had jobs (even though Nick’s family is so rich he has no need for one), weren’t we a part of the working class?

  “I wasn’t sure on the sizing. Your clothes are cut differently in America than in Britain.” Without meaning to, he had given me the perfect opening. Right then and there I could have told him the truth—or at least some watered-down version of it. I could have said “the dress is gorgeous, but I think it’s a few sizes too small” or “I’ve put on some weight lately so it doesn’t currently fit. But by the time you meet me it will!” Not exactly honest, but not an outright lie. And there’d have been nothing shameful in admitting that. The dress was tiny, and the cut would be unflattering on 95 percent of the populati
on. Even Donna—who actually wears a size four—would have had trouble squeezing into it.

  Instead, I said: “It’ll fit like a glove.”

  I dug my own grave.

  “Ahhh,” Nick moaned. “Like a glove. My God, that’s so erotic. I’ve been picturing you in that dress for days now, imagining how your gorgeous little body would fill out every curve. I’d give anything to see you in it.”

  I imagined myself struggling into the dumb dress—which was just about the right size to fit one of my arms—and snapping a picture. He’d be in for a real shock then.

  “Talking to you is such a turn-on,” he whispered.

  I knew where this was headed.

  “I’m getting so excited imagining your soft little body filling out every inch of the material. . . .”

  He had no idea how close he was to the truth.

  “I’d give anything to kiss you right now,” he said softly. “I’d run my mouth over your body, taste every inch of your skin.” I was becoming aroused despite myself. I loved it when he talked to me this way. On some level, phone sex with Nick was more satisfying than any real sex I’d ever had.

  “Go on,” I urged. “What would you do if you were here?”

  “I’d do everything,” he promised. “I’d spend hours pleasing you, Kat. I’d kiss you so passionately and gently. I’d run my hands over your entire body, run my tongue along your neck.”

  I could hear his breathing spike and I knew what he was doing.

  “That would feel so amazing.” I breathed. I had never been so free with anyone before, so open about my body and my desires. I hadn’t even considered myself a sexual person until I met Nick. I let my body give in to the sensations. I slid my hand down my stomach, moving it underneath my pants.

  “I’m going to make love to you so softly and passionately,” Nick whispered. “I’m a gentle lover. . . .”

  Chapter Ten

  I was sitting on my couch, feasting on reduced-fat Oreos and watching a B-rate chick flick when the phone rang. Caller ID said “out of area.” Nervously I picked up the receiver.

  “Hi Kat, Zaidee here,” she said. My heart started pounding.

  “Hello,” I squeaked. I jumped up, frantically muting the volume on the TV.

  “You doin’ well these days, Kat?” Zaidee asked, sounding tired. “How’s life treating you in the Bluff City?”

  “I’m fine and it’s fine,” I said, wondering where she’d learned Memphis’s nickname.

  “How about you?”

  “I’m worn-out. Thanks for asking, doll.”

  Zaidee was not her usual breezy self. She was cautious, reserved almost. This terrified me. I took it as a bad sign. In some ways it is easier to cope when you lose a race by a landslide, than when you come in second place. We sat in silence for what felt like a few minutes, but was probably closer to ten seconds. I was aware of everything—the static of the cordless phone, the buzz of traffic outside my window, Zaidee’s breathing. It all seemed to move in slow motion. I debated asking her right out if I’d made it, but I wanted to savor the last few seconds of hopefulness before she crushed my dream.

  “Kat,” Zaidee began, “are you sitting down?”

  “No, I’m standing.”

  “Well, I think you’d better sit.”

  “I’m too keyed up to sit,” I told her, my heart thumping in my throat. “I’ll make you a compromise. I’ll lean.” True to my word, I propped my body against the living room wall. “Okay, I’m leaning against the wall. Hit me with it.”

  “You’re in.”

  She spoke so fast, it almost sounded like she’d said “urine.”

  “OH MY GOD!” I screamed. “SHIT!” I spent the next minute alternating between spewing profanities and praising God. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I finally managed. “Things like this never happen to me! It’s an absolute dream come true. Thank you so much, Zaidee!”

  “No, thank you, Kat,” she said. “You’re going to make a wonderful addition to our show. So are you excited about coming on?”

  I nodded yes for a few seconds before realizing she couldn’t see me. “Yes, I can’t wait!” I shouted. I hadn’t meant to yell in her ear, but my heart was racing ninety miles an hour.

  “Your life will never be the same after this,” Zaidee promised. “Consider yourself warned.” She let out a small laugh.

  I stood there with my mouth gaping open. Then the dizziness started. It washed over my body like a tidal wave and I’m surprised I didn’t keel over. It was a full minute before I realized Zaidee was still talking to me.

  “Kat? You there?” Zaidee was asking.

  I mumbled, “Hey,” in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Thank God for that,” she said, and then broke up laughing. “I was starting to think you’d collapsed. I was two steps away from dialing nine-one-one.”

  “No . . . I’m fine, I’m just . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Shocked?” Zaidee finished. “It happens. You’ll be fine by the time you get on the plane. Speaking of which, I’ve got some pertinent information to go over with you. Gigi’s in the process of making travel arrangements as we speak. Someone from the crew will meet you at the airport. I don’t have the exact flight times yet, but it’ll be sometime Sunday morning.”

  “Sunday!” I gasped. “You don’t mean this Sunday, do you?”

  “The one and only.”

  “That’s two days from now! I can’t possibly be ready by then. I haven’t even told anyone I’m leaving town. I’ll have to come up with some kind of an excuse!”

  “It’s got to be this Sunday, Kat. We’ve got a tight production schedule to stick to. Tell everyone you’re going out of town to attend a cousin’s wedding. I don’t care what you say, just so long as you make absolutely no mention of the show. You’re contractually bound to that, don’t forget.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” I promised her, thinking about Richard. And Donna. “But won’t they find out when they see me on TV?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We’re doing a huge media blitz the last week in May. We’re projecting that we’ll be able to get wide coverage on you guys.” She sounded pleased. “But until that point it absolutely must be kept under wraps.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell everyone I’m going to England,” I said finally. “I’ve got a close friend right outside London.”

  “Well there you go, then.”

  And while we were on the subject, I couldn’t help but ask, “Zaidee, um, this might sound weird but is there any chance that From Fat to Fabulous is going to air in the UK?”

  “It would be nice,” she said. “I’ve got to tell you, though; the chances are slim-to-none. Reality show concepts are easy to sell overseas but the actual episodes are not. The ending has been spoiled by the time it airs, and the cultural clashes are frequently too big an obstacle. So, to answer your question, the world may one day see a British version of From Fat to Fabulous but no, my darling, it probably won’t be starring you.”

  It was just the answer I wanted to hear.

  “I’m counting on you, Donna. Work your magic.”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” she told me, folding a few Lane Bryant shirts and tucking them into my suitcase. “But I can’t make any promises this will work.”

  “Just send these e-mails out twice a week, then skim through Nick’s replies and add anything you think might be necessary. If he’s complaining about Status tell him you’re sorry to hear things aren’t going well at work. That kind of stuff. So they don’t seem pre-written,” I said, handing her the disk.

  “Kat, this is crazy.” She shook her head. “For your sake I hope he falls for it.”

  “Me too. It’s the only chance I’ve got.” I had spent the past day preparing thirty brief e-mails to Nick. Most of them contained short messages. I’m sorry I can’t be with you, I love you so much. And stuff like My dad is doing much better. The doctors think he might be getting out of the hospital any day n
ow. Thinking of you lots. Love, Kat. It was pathetic and half-assed, but it was the only thing I could come up with on such short notice.

  I called him the night I talked to Zaidee, waking him up to say good-bye. “I have to go away to Denver for a few weeks, maybe more. My father’s not well,” I had lied, praying I wouldn’t burn in hell for all my dishonesty. “I promise to e-mail you as often as possible. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I hope you’ll still be here for me when I get back to Memphis.”

  Nick’s response had been one of complete sympathy. “I’m so sorry to hear about this, Kat,” he’d said. “Of course I’ll still be there for you,” he assured me. “I love you, Kat. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  He’d even requested my parents’ address so that he could send flowers. I could only imagine my mother’s bewilderment when she received condolence flowers wishing my dad a swift recovery. It would be sure to freak her out, but with a little luck I could probably convince her they were from some nutcase who liked me from the show. It was better than telling her the truth.

  “And Donna, please don’t forget to call my mom on the thirty-first when the announcement of the contestants goes out over the wire,” I reminded her. “Not that Mom follows entertainment news, but I don’t want her to hear it from someone else.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  We continued packing for a while, being careful to make sure I wasn’t bringing along any “contraband.”

  In the packet Zaidee sent was a list with items that weren’t allowed on the set. It included cell phones, iPads, audio and video recorders, music players of any type, cameras, handheld computers, electronic organizers, and all other wireless devices.

  I engulfed Donna in a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Seriously, you are the best friend a person could ever ask for.”

  “I try,” she said, then grew serious. “I honestly can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow for four months.” She hugged me back tightly. “I’m going to miss you so much, Kat. I don’t know what I’m going to do while you’re gone,” she said, releasing me.