by Kelly deVos
“It’s freezing in Montana in the winter.” I tuck my fingers into the ends of my sweater.
“You’ve been there? In the winter?”
I sigh. He’s still got that pensive expression on his face. Like he won’t quit until he figures out who I am. And it’s possible, given enough time, he might be able to guess. I decide to get out in front of it and tell him.
“Yeah. I went with my mother. She did a photoshoot there a few years ago. Leslie Vonn Tate. That’s probably why I seem familiar. People say we look alike.”
He’s impressed. His eyes widen. “Leslie Vonn Tate. Sure, I remember. The Atelier Fur thing. Bruce Richardson shot it in Whitefish, right?”
The Atelier Fur thing.
A totally avoidable clusterfuck. If only Grandma’s hairdresser had used one more roller.
FAT: Two years before NutriNation
Mom’s in the living room of Grandma’s tiny yellow house, striking a slumped pose on the 1980s brown plaid sofa. In her off-white Valentino shift dress, she’s more the picture of a model on an ironic Nylon magazine photoshoot than a mom hanging with her daughter. She’s got Lois Veering on speakerphone.
“The day of the supermodel is dead. Truly dead,” Lois Veering moans. She’s the editor of Par Donna. Nobody likes Veering. I’d bet fifty bucks that she won’t last, that it’s just a matter of time before her assistant edges her out.
She’s calling Mom. Because anybody who’s anybody hates fur. “And they’re strutting around naked in the trades. On my shoots demanding vegan pizzas and goji berry smoothies,” she says. “I need you, Leslie. I really need you.”
In spite of the best efforts of sexy celebrities and inked-up athletes, fur companies keep raking in cash—around $15 billion a year. Their sales are up worldwide. The Eastern European nouveaux riches and the wives of Chinese millionaires, they want their mink.
“The biggest threat to fur is global warming,” Veering sneers.
And the biggest threat to fashion magazines is sluggish ad sales. Atelier Fur has big bucks. They want a cover. A supermodel. They want photographer Bruce Richardson.
Mom’s there to pick me up from the tiny yellow house for a spa weekend in La Jolla. It’s my bad luck that Grandma gets home early from her hair appointment.
“We can just do it another time, Mom,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”
Grandma comes in. Takes one look at Mom, phone in hand.
“Cookie, go wait in your room,” Grandma says.
“It’s fine, Grandma. Everything is fine,” I say.
“Go,” she orders.
Of course, I can hear them through the paper-thin walls.
“You got one daughter, Leslie. One,” Grandma says. “It’s her sweet sixteen. And I didn’t plan nothin’ ’cause you said you were coming to get her.”
“I’ll clear my schedule in a week or two,” Mom says. “Cookie’s fine with it.”
“Yeah,” Grandma answers. “She’s just about jumpin’ for joy.”
“Well, I guess she’s carrying on the grand family tradition of being disappointed in her mother,” Mom snaps.
“Oh, I see,” Grandma replies. “I was a shitty mother to you. And you get special permission to be shitty to your girl? Well, you say what you want about me, Leslie. But I made dresses for all seven of Nina Udall’s bridesmaids so you could have a cake with sixteen candles and a fancy party dress to celebrate in.”
“I have to work. Lois Veering is asking me to do a job. Do you have any clue what happens to models who say no to Lois Veering?”
I imagine Grandma’s disgusted face. The beads of sweat forming at her gray-blue hairline. “Shoot, Leslie. You got plenty of money. Plenty of fancy things. If you’re paradin’ around half-naked in a magazine, it ain’t cause you have to, it’s cause you want to. And I ain’t never asked you for money. All I ask is you try to be decent to your child. If you say you’re gonna do something, you keep your damn word.”
If only the hairdresser had used one more roller, Mom might have been gone by the time Grandma got home. Instead, I spend the next half hour wondering what I can wear to Whitefish. The high temperature there is thirty-seven degrees. I’ve got one light sweater and a windbreaker.
“We’ll pick something up on the way,” Mom says.
And on the way means at the airport gift shop. I have to go to a men’s store. Nothing fits anywhere else. Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I’m going to spend my sixteenth birthday in a fire-engine red sweatshirt. It’s covered with hideous suns wearing sunglasses and the horrible, synthetic fabric barely stretches over my stomach.
Veering must really have something on Mom. Montana is cold as all fuck. I’m not talking about “tongue stuck to a pole” kind of cold. I mean so cold you wish your toes would fall off so you won’t have to feel them anymore.
I’m surprised a few hours later when the car service pulls up in front of the Travelodge. Mom thinks hotels with fewer than five stars belong in third world countries.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I have the whole thing all worked out. Tomorrow Lois says we’ll wrap the shoot by two. And they have a wonderful spa up at the lodge. I’ve got us booked for hot rock pedicures.”
She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get out of the car.
“We’re staying here?” I ask, trying to make some kind of sense of what’s happening.
She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I had Cassidy make the reservation. It’s all paid for. They should have my credit card.”
“You’re leaving me here? By myself?” I ask.
She turns to the window. “Well...I got the magazine to pay for your airfare but...um...they wouldn’t give me another room at the lodge,” she says. “Budget cuts.”
Of course Mom wouldn’t dip into her own bank account so I can get a nice room too. “Why can’t I just stay with you?” The taste of the burrito I ate for lunch is rising in my throat.
She pauses.
“Chad’s coming and...”
“Fine.” I get out of the Lincoln Town Car and slam the door behind me. The driver scurries out of the front. He drops my suitcase on the ground in front of the sparse gray motel office.
Mom rolls down the window. “The lodge is about fifteen minutes from here. I’ll call you when I’m on my way in the morning.”
They don’t have a reservation for me in the office. I spend the next two hours waiting for Mom’s frazzled assistant, Cassidy, to show up with a credit card.
“So sorry, Cookie... I was supposed to call...but Bruce asked me to pull all these comps from your mom’s old books...and...” She gives the Norman Bates clone at the counter Mom’s credit card as she rattles off a long list of random jobs she’s been assigned.
She frowns at me. “I feel terrible leaving you here,” she says. “I’d invite you to crash with me but I’ve already got the makeup girls.” Then she’s gone in a flash of print leggings and Uggs.
“Is there anything to eat around here?” I ask Norman.
He shrugs. “Cattleman’s is up the road. Maybe half a mile. Vending machine near the laundry room.”
I rifle through the content of my purse. I’ve got my tips from Donutville. Seven bucks.
Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I feast on Doritos, Twinkies and Diet Coke. The room’s TV gets four channels.
The next morning, Mom doesn’t call. I check out and walk to town. There’s a gas station, a casino and a cute little car wash. Cassidy picks me up in front of the Travelodge around two.
It’s snowing in Whitefish. The town is somehow wholesome, with evergreen garland strung through the streets and silver bells hanging from lampposts. White powder dusts the 1930s storefronts. It’s the kind of place that should be on a postcard with the words Wish You Were Here.
Mom’s tucked away i
n the corner of the Ace Hardware. “They let us use this place for hair and makeup. We couldn’t get trailers,” Cassidy explains. “Bruce was going bananas at the thought they’d be in the shot.”
A hairstylist hovers over Mom, twisting her blond hair onto large Velcro rollers. “Oh, Cookie,” Mom says without glancing up from her phone. “We’re behind schedule. There are problems. With the snow and the light and people walking up the street. But don’t worry, Cassidy changed our appointments to...”
I spot Chad Tate surrounded by cowboys in jeans and Tony Lamas. He mimics throwing an invisible football. As he completes his imaginary pass, the crowd breaks out into cheers and hoots of laughter.
Oh sure. Having a washed-up, all-star quarterback as a stepdad is great. If you don’t mind the fact that’s he’s dumber than a bag of hammers and wishes I’d crawl off and die in a hole.
“I’m going home,” I say.
“Back to the hotel?” Mom corrects.
“Checkout at the motel was at ten. I’m going home.”
For the first time she takes a look at me. “Would you mind getting me a bottle of water?” she asks the hairstylist.
“Cookie,” Mom says the instant the hairstylist is out of earshot. “I can’t control the weather or the position of the sun. But I promise...”
My empty stomach grumbles. I spot the craft service table in one corner, but it has already been ravaged by the breakfast and lunch crowds. It now holds one lonely bagel and a half-empty jar of Snapple.
“I’m tired and I want to go home,” I say.
“I’m sure you’re dying to turn this into a referendum on how horrible your life is,” she begins, “but...”
“You’re busy and this was a mistake.”
“I’m working,” Mom says. “Someone has to. What do you think your dad’s mercy missions pay? I’m supporting five people.”
I push the thought of Dad out of my mind and focus my anger on what’s in front of me. “Well, maybe the child support checks are getting lost in the mail. Grandma thinks you’re dumping all your money into Chad’s sports bar. This week she’s making two holiday formal dresses to pay the water bill,” I say.
“It’s normal for restaurants to lose money during the first five years,” Mom says, pressing her lips into a thin, white line. “And whether you like it or not, I’m still the parent here. I’m sorry to inform you that you can’t just announce your plan to leave the state.”
“Let’s go and ask Chad,” I suggest. “I’m sure he’s thrilled I’m here.”
“You know, it hurts that my husband and my daughter are enemies,” Mom says.
“Right back atcha,” I say and walk away.
“Cookie, don’t you dare think you can—”
A tiny bell rings as the shop door slams behind me.
Cassidy runs out to catch me. Bluish black circles have formed under her eyes.
“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner. Your mom says to wait until—” She breaks off with a huff.
Behind her the wiry photographic genius Bruce Richardson leans over the top step of a tall ladder. “Cammie! We’ve got light for maybe another thirty minutes. Get Leslie out here stat. And clear this street. The last thing I need is that fat ass in my shot!”
Cassidy eyes Richardson with the crazed expression of someone on the verge of totally losing it. “It’s Cassidy,” she mutters under her breath.
But we exchange glances and she chews her lower lip. We both know I’m the fat ass Richardson means.
“Please. Wait here, Cookie,” she tells me, and she disappears into the hardware store. I know she feels bad. For me.
But I don’t want her sympathy.
And I don’t want to be in fucking Whitefish, Montana.
“Cookie. Perfect name for that girl. The jokes almost write themselves,” Richardson says as I walk toward the coffee shop.
SKINNY: Day 738 and strange benefactors
“Sure,” Gareth says, “I remember that issue of Par Donna. Richardson’s nothing if not memorable. And weird. The corsets and furs, I get. But what was with those rodeo clowns?”
I shrug. “Sorry. I don’t have much insight into his process. From what I could see, he spends most of his time on a ladder screaming at people.”
The flight attendant serves him his white wine with a dazzling smile. Gareth takes my soda and places it on my tray. I’m praying for a break in the conversation long enough that I can finally slip in my headphones. I’m pretty sure a woman across the aisle from me is considering tossing me from the plane and taking my seat.
“You been on a lot of shoots?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say.
“Not into the world of fashion?” he asks, arching his eyebrows.
I couldn’t help but smile. “My grandma taught me to sew when I was five. She’d put on Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Casablanca and we’d hand-bead wedding dresses. Claire McCardell said that fashion isn’t about finding clothes, it’s about finding yourself. That the girl who knows what to wear knows who she is.”
Gareth smiles a bit wistfully. “That’s kind of how I got started too.” I already know this.
“You work in fashion?” he asks.
I hesitate.
“I’m a blogger,” I say.
“You blog about fashion? Professionally?”
I nod and take my iPad out of the seat pocket. He puts his hand lightly on mine to stop me from turning it on. My stomach flip-flops at the touch of his slightly calloused fingertips.
“And I guess you’re not very good at it?” he asks with a smirk.
I drop my headphones and they land against the iPad screen with a click. “I’m guessing you’ve never read my blog. So how would you know?”
Gareth Miller chuckles. My face heats up. I hate his rogue appeal. I want to throw cranberry juice on his crisp linen shirt.
He ignores my death stare and continues to smile. “I’m Vogue’s Designer of the Year. I’m on my way to New York Fashion Week, where tickets to my show are nearly impossible to get. There’re a million fashion blogs. And, not to be immodest, but sitting next to me is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Shouldn’t you be trying to interview me? Working me over for samples or show tickets? Cookie, darling, I think you’re showing a real lack of initiative.”
He’s teasing. But still, the comment stings. I pride myself on my fashion expertise.
“Well, you’d be wrong. I already have an appointment to interview you.”
“Really?” he challenges. “Once we get to New York?”
“Yes.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads from the screen. “Huh,” he says in surprise. “On Sunday afternoon. This is your blog, Roundish?”
“Yes.”
Gareth shifts around in his seat. “It’s...uh...it’s a plus-size fashion thing?”
Ha! It’s my turn to smile. I finally feel like I’ve got him on the run. “Yeah. The title’s from that Karl Lagerfeld quote. You know, how nobody wants to see round women? Well, I do want to see them. And make sure they look and feel great.”
“Any particular reason you want to do plus-size when you’re not plus-size yourself?” he asks.
Yes. For every time I stepped into a store and they didn’t have anything in my size. For every time I found a designer I loved and then found that their stuff only went up to a size eight. For the fact that I had to lose weight in order to be taken seriously as a designer or blogger. That’s what I should say. Instead, I shrug. “Everyone wants to dress the super tall and super thin.”
He doesn’t look at me but continues to read. “You’re a finalist for the CFDA media award. My publicist seems to think you plan to demonize me. Create sort of a Karl Lagerfeld/Adele–type controversy.”
“My subscribers have questions.”
“What kind
of questions?” he says, his eyes narrowing.
“I plan to have them ready for you on Sunday at 2:00 p.m.”
“Maybe you need background info? Maybe you want to ask how I got started?”
I shake my head. “You’re Gareth John Miller. You’re thirty-one years old. You were born in Santa Fe but moved to Kalispell at the age of two. Your dad’s a rancher. Your mom’s an artist living at Arcosanti. Your contact with her has been minimal. Your grandmother taught you to sew doll clothes at a young age. When you were a junior in high school, you made prom dresses for the entire cheerleading squad. The dresses became the portfolio you submitted with your application to Parsons. It’s still regarded as their best incoming student submission. You’re the youngest graduate in the school’s history. When you were twenty-four, Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy offered to finance your label. But you turned Bernard Arnault down. Instead, your father mortgaged the family ranch and gave you $150,000 in working capital. Your three lines, Gareth Miller, GM by Gareth Miller and Gareth Miller Kids, earned over $90 million last year. And your brand is one of the few of its size without some offering of plus-size fashion.”
He watches me in a new way, sizing me up. “I stand corrected. You clearly do your homework. And you were planning to sit on this flight for four hours and not say anything to me?” He checks his phone again. “I think I paid for that seat.”
“It’s too late to take it back,” I say, remembering Gareth’s helpful publicist.
“I certainly wish I had read this email before I...so I would have known I’d be sitting next to...but I had to rush over here from...” he mutters. For the first time, he’s nervous. “That thing I said before...about the woman in the airport...”
I should so let him sweat this out. He’s chewing his lower lip in this annoyingly endearing way and I enjoy watching him way too much.
“I only plan to blog about what you say during our official interview.” Where I’m supposed to convince him to launch a plus-size capsule collection. My sponsors want tweets that trend.