Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “Sorry I’m late.” And I’m sorry you’re a horrible friend. And I’m sorry you’re a complete pompous ass.

  “It’s okay,” Olivia said as she massaged the back of Adam’s neck.

  “So what’s the plan, Stan?” I say.

  “Would you mind if we just went home? Adam has had a really long day. We can go out tomorrow. I already have it all planned out,” Olivia said.

  “Sure. Sure. Sleep sounds good.” Lie.

  I never asked myself why I stuck around that weekend. The only thing I worried about was what I’d done to turn Olivia against me. Why didn’t she like me anymore? Why didn’t Adam like me? Why wasn’t this working? I think the reason behind Olivia’s attraction to Adam—besides his being the ultimate male—was that everyone except her annoyed him. She could feel like she was in on the joke, and no longer the butt.

  When we finally got back to Olivia and Adam’s apartment, Olivia had already set up Adam’s camping mattress for me to sleep on.

  “Liv, this is that show I was telling you about.” Adam was sitting on the camping mattress (aka my bed), watching the only television in the house. The one in the living room. The one you had to sit on my bed to watch. It was now past midnight, and I was becoming exhausted.

  “Oh, yeah. I remember you talking about this. Wow, is it on right now?” Olivia said.

  “Yeah, they must be replaying it.” Adam pulled his keys and wallet out of his back pocket and set them down on the camping mattress next to him.

  His wallet and keys sat next to him. I realized that Olivia couldn’t sit down as she watched the show, either. There wasn’t enough room on the camping mattress, and Adam never moved over. Neither did Olivia. I decided to take a shower and wash myself up a bit. I grabbed my bag, found my toiletries, and told them I was going to take a shower. I was hoping this would give Olivia the opportunity to let Adam know that it was time to go to bed. Maybe he could watch his show another time, tiny-handed bitch.

  I came out of the shower feeling even more tired. I was relaxed and clean and cuddly in my pajamas. Adam was still sitting on the camping mattress . . . alone. Olivia was standing exactly where she had been before I took my long shower.

  I loaded my toiletry bag back in my suitcase and loitered around my waiting bed. Adam was absolutely focused on the television. Olivia was standing stock-still with her hand on her hip, staring blankly at the television screen. I don’t know if she was pissed off at Adam, or if she was as riveted as he was to this seemingly vapid show. I tried to make eye contact with her but got nothing.

  I sat at the kitchen table and waited it out. I was beginning to get cold, so I put an afghan over my shoulders as I sat on the hard wooden kitchen chair. My head began to bob, and my eyes could no longer voluntarily stay open. I ended up sitting in that chair for almost an hour as Adam finished watching his show, grabbed his keys and wallet, and silently walked into the bedroom. Not one thank you or one good night; nothing. Grabbed keys and wallet—went to bedroom. Olivia made a silly face and fussed with my bed. She wished me good night, tucked me in, and said she couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Yeah, me, either. Whoopee.

  She also told me Adam would be working all day tomorrow. I thought that this was payback for that evening’s antics. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you for sure. That night was a peek into what Olivia and Olivia’s life had become. The two queen-size beds were a mere trailer to the full-length film that unfolded here tonight. I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like that Olivia never considered advocating for me. Hell, she didn’t even feel the need to advocate for herself. Her best friend of fifteen years was sleeping with an afghan over her shoulders at the kitchen table and she never once thought that this was anything but business as usual. I wonder how many times she’s sat in that exact same chair waiting. This is what happens when you don’t think the fantasy through. Adam decorates with black leather couches, and I hear he goes to black-tie affairs a lot. The part you don’t hear about is the two queen-size beds and nights spent with an afghan over your shoulders waiting for the king to go to bed.

  Back at EuroPane, I ready myself for a day at the Getty. Kate and Mom are taking the girlies to the Huntington Library to see the famous paintings Pinkie and The Blue Boy. Emily shows me the pamphlet she saved from last time they went. Kate rolls her eyes as she loads the girlies into her minivan. Bella can’t stop chattering about sculperrs and how there’s no dollies at Huntington, just “nakeds with their ding-dongs showing.” Emily fans herself with her beloved pamphlet and buckles herself tightly into her seat. Mom gets into the front seat and begins fiddling with the seat belt. I almost lunge at the van and beg them to take me with them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hemming a Degas

  After parking in the lower lot, I board the pristine white tram that will climb the hills overlooking Brentwood and Santa Monica up to the Getty Museum. I am nervous and at the same time calm. I’ve made this trek hundreds of times. I often come to the Getty to get some peace of mind. This tram ride means I’m safe. I am not thinking about Olivia or Domenic. I can’t even begin to go to the place in my mind where I would deny myself this place, this tram ride and Marcus Aurelius. The tram jostles forward. I catch myself and smile at a pregnant lady who is sitting two seats to my left. If this is about trust, let’s see if I can trust in myself.

  I check in with the guard and let him know that I am here for an interview. He taps a few buttons on the computer and presents me with a name badge. It has my name on it in all-capital letters, MARGARET THOMPSON. I can picture it on my bulletin board now. He tells me to have a seat and Ms. Urban will be right out.

  I wait for only a few seconds before I notice a woman approaching who has got to be Ms. Beverly Urban. Her stark white hair is perfectly straight and hangs below her shoulders. She has milky white skin and wears no makeup. She wears black matching separates and accessorizes with what look like African beads around her neck. Her chandelier earrings hang low and only accentuate her beauty.

  “Ms. Thompson?” Ms. Urban extends her hand. I stand.

  “Yes, wonderful to finally meet you.” I pull at my shirt as I stand, almost dropping my interview materials. I am trembling, yet I shake her hand firmly.

  “Follow me, please.” Ms. Urban walks in front of me past the security officer. I continue to follow her down into the basement.

  The office is filled with all kinds of art—all original. Sculpture. Tapestry. Paintings. Some photography. She sits behind her desk, flips open a file, and asks me to sit.

  “So, Ms. Thompson?” Ms. Urban is looking through a file on her desk. “I received the résumé you faxed over and suffice it to say, I am thoroughly impressed.” Just listen. Let the résumé do the talking until I have the balls to jump in.

  “Thank you,” I manage.

  “Magna cum laude from the University of California at Berkeley and then on to San Francisco State. From there it appears that you did restorations for some of the top museums in San Francisco.” Ms. Urban looks at me. Not quite ready. Am horrified. No balls.

  “You’ve got recommendations here from some of the most respected curators in the business, Ms. Thompson.” Ms. Urban is flipping through the photo album I apparently pushed at her sometime in the last five minutes. I am breathing so hard I can’t make out the words Ms. Urban is saying. I want this internship so badly, I can’t bring myself to come down to earth and be present. On top of all this, I believe I’m being complimented. Enough. No more. If I can’t believe in my own talent, how can anyone else? If I fear mediocrity, why am I struggling so fiercely to hang on to it? It’s staring me right in the face and I’m having a nervous breakdown at the thought of someone complimenting me on my own talent. I am qualified. Enough—enough of this half life of numbness and the daily grind.

  “Mr. Frankel was a big fan of my in-painting. I won him over with the cherub on page nine—if you look at the ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, you’ll see the subtlety of my work. I worked for him sev
eral times. He was very generous in his recommendation.” I have forgotten to breathe. I look at Ms. Urban so clearly. I deserve to be here.

  “He wasn’t generous at all. Your work speaks for itself, Ms. Thompson. Is this a Degas?” Ms. Urban’s voice catches as she holds my photo album as close to her face as she can get it.

  “Yes, ma’am. They brought her in from a rough international flight. It was due at the Norton Simon Museum for their spring installation. They brought me in to hem the skirt and reconnect her third finger—you have to look close.” I scoot my chair up and lean over the table to point out the restoration to Ms. Urban. She nods in agreement as she flips between the “before” and “after” shots of the sculpture.

  There are blue buckets passing me at the speed of sound. I am on. I am funny. Even Ms. Urban laughs at a joke about the Venus of Willendorf and myself. All hips. It’s a fertility-goddess joke. In the end, she shakes my hand and tells me she will call within a couple of weeks. I tell her it was a pleasure and I actually mean it.

  I drive home and can’t keep one thought in my head. I am a mixture of joy, fear, excitement, and a little sadness. I haven’t seen Domenic since our “date.” Was that night some kind of beginning or was it just another night with a friend? Of course, I’m feeling anxious about it. I know he’s not with Erin anymore. Maybe . . . maybe he’s not with her anymore because he secretly loves me? I find myself thinking about Beverly Urban. I finally have someone who gets my jokes about ancient fertility goddesses. It’s a small demographic, sure, but when you find them they’re loyal as hell. I get home and turn on my computer. My mind is reeling. I decide to check my e-mail.

  There’s a note from Olivia that includes the addresses of bridal-shower invitees. She recommends I send everyone a bulk “Save the Date” e-mail. It’s ironic that the three women who celebrated her shower a couple of weeks ago know more about the actual event than I do. I read on. She thanks me for her birthday gift, which arrived two days early. I sprang for a spa package for her in Las Vegas so she could have some time to herself during the big bridal-shower weekend. I got her a hot bath in rose-scented water with a scalp massage, followed by a Vichy shower where she will be rubbed down with coconut and other tropical oils. Our birthdays are only days apart. Over the years, Olivia has showered me with embarrassing gifts like dancing Candy Grams, Ferraris rented for the day, and a weekend at the famous San Ysidro Ranch outside Santa Barbara. When it comes to my birthday, Olivia goes all out. Even as our friendship waned over the last few years, Olivia has never dropped the ball when it came to my birthday.

  I scroll back up to her list of shower invitees. Gwen is at the top of the list, of course. I hate that we are communicating via e-mail. I would love for her invitation to get lost in the mail. Now it would just be me lying about getting her e-mail address wrong. Where’s the drama in that?

  Olivia gives me a full bio on each of the remaining three girls. Panchali Nagra runs an art gallery in Georgetown. She mentions that Panchali lives with her husband and their dog, Luciano, in an apartment they’ve renovated over the gallery. She also mentions offhandedly that she competes in triathlons around the world. Yeah, there’s someone I can relate to. Hannah Ratner is a corporate lawyer for one of the top firms in the nation. She is single. That’s all on Hannah Ratner. She is single. I guess that’s enough said. Then there’s Shawna Moss, a girl who’s famous for having bowls of M&M’s in her office, which is dangerously close to Olivia’s office at the PR firm. Of course, Olivia goes on a three-paragraph tirade about how Shawna just wants to get her fat. Or anyone to get fat—for Shawna is, and I’ll quote Olivia here, “an anorexic bitch who won’t let her narrow ass get past a size 0.” There’s a true friend. I can just see the toast now at the rehearsal dinner: “Hi, I’m Shawna Moss and I’m trying to get everyone fat because I’m an anorexic bitch who won’t let anyone get skinnier than my narrow ass.” And . . . cue applause.

  I reply to Olivia confirming the “Save the Date” e-mail. I go over some of the details I’ve arranged for her shower in Las Vegas. Olivia and I will meet for a martini before the festivities begin. I e-mail her that we should meet at the Caramel Bar in the Bellagio, where they have a whole menu of specialty martinis. I am looking forward to spending an afternoon with just Olivia. Then I really think about it. What will the new Olivia and Maggie have to talk about? How many times can we fantasize about different people from high school stumbling onto her wedding and being asked to leave (rather loudly and with much fuss)? Is this it? I will try to resurrect our friendship in Las Vegas. I will set aside all of my thoughts of Adam and his teensy hands. I will set aside all of my insecurities and just focus on us.

  That night, I put together and send the “Save the Date” bridal-shower e-mail to Olivia’s list of friends. I try to sound as mellow and fun as possible:

  Viva Las Vegas!

  Join us at the Bellagio to celebrate

  Olivia’s impending nuptials.

  That sounds too frightening. The nuptials are impending so the hospital must quarantine those already exposed. Just think breezy.

  Viva Las Vegas

  We’re partying like it’s 1999 up in Bellagio’s hizz-ouse.

  Woop Woop!

  No.

  I finally put together a basic list of the weekend’s activities in a neutral format. It’s sterile and could be construed by some as breezy. I can’t help but look forward to the coming weeks. I know about the elephant in the living room. And I know that Olivia and I are fine china no longer fit to eat upon. But we have to have something to show for our years together. We have been like sisters through some of the hardest times in our lives—how can it all now be for naught?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Seabiscuit and The Corner

  I’d like to think that all this introspection and digging would have prizes at the end. Find out you eat because you’re lonely—get a trip to Paris. Find out your best friend is a walking leftover from a lost childhood—get a nice Crock-Pot. Realize you’ve run from men because the fear of rejection or commitment scares the shit out of you—take home a nice dining room set. But you don’t get prizes. You get pain and an inordinately heavy feeling that you’ve failed in absolutely every way. Gee, I wonder why more people don’t try it?

  This is the day I’ve been dreading my whole life. The day I dress my ass up in “workout” clothes and walk myself into a gym. I imagine shrieks of horror. I imagine small children being shielded from my hideousness by their parents. Just your basic pointing and laughing.

  Mom meets me out in front of the gym. She looks perfect. Her little pink sweat suit is accented with black piping, and she is carrying a matching shoulder holster with a perfectly chilled bottle of water. I, on the other hand, have on pajama bottoms and an oversize men’s white V-neck T-shirt. I am wearing a pink-and-gray pair of Pumas, and my hair is up in a ponytail.

  Mom and I approach the counter. She announces we are here to see Gabriel James. “We have an appointment,” Mom says, tapping her diamond Rolex Lady President watch on the counter. The Rolex was an Arbor Day present from Russell. The girl behind the counter, momentarily blinded by the diamonds, regains her composure and announces over the intercom that Gabriel is wanted at the front desk.

  To my horror, Gabriel James is a strapping young lad. No more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Internationally good looking, with a swagger equaled only by celluloid cowboys and the aging male movie stars who play them. He is way over six feet tall, dwarfing me. I doubt he can even see my poor, tiny mother from where he stands. His cocoa skin is flawless and only emphasizes his light green eyes. He wears Adidas workout pants and a T-shirt advertising some fraternity’s big all-alcohol summer blowout festival jamboree. This is the man who’s going to train me? This is the man to whom I’m going to tell my deepest, darkest secrets? This is the man who is going to take on my Area? I think not.

  “Howdy, ladies.” Gabriel extends his paw to my mother and then to me.

 
Mom is endearing and funny. She compliments him on his green eyes and says she knows we’re now in the best of hands. I grunt something like, “Area . . . big . . . fatty . . . you . . . pretty . . .” Gabriel takes my hand and tells me it’s a pleasure while looking right in my eyes. He asks us to follow him “on back” to his office. I nod. Mom bats her eyelashes.

  He leads us around the gym like a couple of toddlers, showing us the water fountain and saying hi to virtually everyone he passes. He knows all of their names and exactly what to talk to them about. With this one, it’s the Dodgers. This one, it’s the stock market. This one, he talks about landscaping and carpools. He is absolutely intoxicating. I loathe him.

  He takes Mom and me into a back office filled with diplomas and framed photos. There’s Gabriel in a race car. Now he’s on a bike in the hills. Now he’s standing next to a great white shark, which he has apparently just caught. I sit in one of the chairs and pull at my shirt. Mom settles in and takes a swig of her water.

  Gabriel starts in with his spiel about health and exercise. He talks about the epidemic that’s sweeping the nation—cue scary music—obesity. He says it as if it’s some kind of modern-day leprosy. I sit there a full-blown victim of such a disease. I feel a tad vulnerable and even more untouchable. He goes on about metabolism and keeping the fire burning by eating six times a day. My ears perk up. He talks about almonds, avocados, and giving up dairy. It still sounds okay; I’ve never been a dairy fan. And eating six times a day sounds promising. He passes us two little journals across his desk.

  “These are your food diaries.” Gabriel flips open a file and starts jotting something down. He is left-handed.

  “We have to write down what our food is feeling?” I ask.

  “No . . .” Gabriel is laughing. His teeth are perfect. “This is where you write down what foods you are eating and at what times.”