by Cathy Kelly
Ginger shook. Getting to write a feature was amazing. A bikini shoot was utterly horrifying.
‘I can’t do that,’ she blurted out.
‘Oh come on,’ said Carla slyly. ‘It’ll be fun. Some sessions with a personal trainer – you’ll get the full treatment for free. Most people would kill for that. I’m thinking CrossFit for you. I know of a nice place – I’d like free membership there. This should nail it. I’ll email you the number. The guy who owns it is very fit, he might train you himself.’
CrossFit! Personal training? Ginger was appalled. And her in a bikini?
But Carla outstared Ginger and Ginger, who knew that Carla was too clever to be caught out with any sort of blatant discrimination, felt the flush of embarrassment flood her like fire.
Within minutes, the beauty reporter, a sweet brunette called Jodie Fawcett – who had neck and shoulder problems – was assigned to try a 10K with help from a running club.
Fiona, a reporter who’d done a lot of news work and had recently transferred into features, was sent to try Krav Maga, a form of self-defence used by the Israeli army.
‘I know some already,’ Fiona said flatly, the only person who dared to stand up to Carla. ‘I did a week with the Army on manoeuvres on the Border.’
‘You’ll find it easy, then,’ said Carla, who stared at Ginger speculatively. ‘And don’t forget the photo shoot for all of you – before and after. Punters love that.’
By Wednesday, male reporters and female non-journalistic staff were telling Ginger she was lucky to get such a plum assignment.
‘A month of some guy helping you with CrossFit,’ sighed Sinead, the deputy editor’s assistant, who had a tiny under-desk fridge outside the deputy editor’s office in which she kept cottage cheese, skimmed milk and her emergency dark chocolate rations. ‘I’ll bet you lose inches.’
Ginger, who was finding it very difficult to keep her tough and funny schtick going when she wanted to run home and hide under her bed, laughed.
‘To paraphrase the great Joan Rivers – if God had planned for women to do any jumping jacks or squats with kettlebells, he’d have stuck diamonds on the floor.’
‘Ginger, you are so funny,’ said Sinead. ‘I’ll swap with you!’
‘Oh everyone wants to swap, but hey, anything for a story,’ said Ginger, wondering how she was going to do this.
Carla had picked her most vulnerable spot and stuck a poisoned dart into it. But why? Ginger was no threat to her. Ginger had only just started working for the Sunday News, had transferred from a free-sheet newspaper at that. She would hardly pose a threat to the powerful magazine editor in any way.
The only people not congratulating her were the features team who’d been in the conference room with her.
In the break room, Jodie, the young beauty columnist, who looked wan despite many columns on how to appear dewy and sun-kissed, sidled up to Ginger and muttered: ‘Don’t let Carla get to you. She hates competition. It’s easier to just do what she says and take the heat. Then, she leaves you alone. If you fight her, she’ll get you dumped from her team, and with all the redundancies, you’ll be gone. You’re on contract, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ginger, thinking of her mortgage, which had been a nightmare to organise given the fact that she was only on contract.
‘Think of that and the fact that the features editorship won’t hold her for long. Mattheson’s got her heart set on being deputy editor, although the poor sucker currently in the job has no idea he’s in such danger. She’s probably grinding up glass to put in his morning coffee. Nobody would ever know.’
They laughed a little at that, then Jodie grew morose. ‘I have whiplash, I take pain meds yet I have to try running even though my physio says the most I can do for the next while is light exercise. But I have to give it a go or I’m toast.’
Ginger grabbed the younger girl’s arm and squeezed.
‘Talk anytime,’ she said. ‘It’s worse if you keep it all in.’
‘Thanks, friend-slash-therapist!’
Ginger grinned. ‘That’s me.’
She phoned her sister-in-law, Zoe, that evening and blurted out the news.
‘The photo’s the afternoon after next – all of us in bikinis or sports clothes, revealing sports clothes. The before photos.’
Zoe almost growled down the phone. Ginger had explained that the chances of nailing her boss on any sort of harassment/bullying/discrimination charges would be impossible.
‘And don’t tell me to try. I want this job.’
‘There are laws against this sort of thing, Ginger,’ said Zoe, who worked in an ordinary office and couldn’t quite imagine the subtlety of machismo and discrimination in some work arenas.
‘Yes and they don’t really work in my industry.’
‘I don’t believe that, Ginger. You have to stand up for yourself—’ began Zoe.
‘I will,’ said Ginger calmly. Why did nobody think she couldn’t stand up for herself? Probably because Liza had stomped on her for so long, nobody believed she had any backbone left.
‘I’m going to do this,’ she added. Despite the sheer fear in her belly. ‘Your sister, Zoe, still works in styling, right? Do you think she could help . . .? Do something to fix me up in nice workout clothes or anything?’
‘Yes!’ shrieked Zoe. ‘Brilliant idea. I’ll phone her and she’ll ring you in fifteen, promise. But why are you doing it, hon?’
Ginger laughed. ‘I thought it was a good idea, time for me to lose a few pounds,’ she said. This, suddenly, was a challenge that would push her to the limit.
Liza had said she whined about not losing weight. What if Liza was right? And what if she was OK really in her own skin but had never been brave enough to step outside in that skin? This was the time to test it all out.
Carla might think she’d handed Ginger a hand grenade but Ginger would lob it right back at her.
Lulu, gorgeous like Zoe but a total fashion-head who made her living styling weird shoots in forests where ethereal girls wore papier mâché antlers on their heads or tame foxes in their arms and drifted around in couture, was on the phone in ten minutes.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a situation, Ginger.’
In those ten minutes, Ginger had completely changed her mind. She’d stared at herself in the mirror and had then misery-downed half a glass of wine and eaten half a packet of chocolate biscuits. She now no longer saw any way out but to give in her notice. She, size eighteen on a good day, eighteen-with-a-safety-pin on a bad one, could not pose in workout gear or swimwear in the magazine and ever hold up her head again. The humiliation would be too great. Who cared about actual working out. The photographs would be agony. The thought of people seeing it in the newspaper . . .
‘Lulu, I’m size eighteen. I have never even owned a bikini. I must have been nuts to think you could help—’
‘Stop right there, honey chile,’ said Lulu, who apparently came over all Louisiana when she was in styling mode. ‘If this was hopeless, we’d get an employment lawyer onto it. I know a really cute one.’ She sighed. ‘Didn’t last. He was very strait-laced.’
She got back on topic. ‘But as it’s not hopeless, we have a canvas, but it needs work. Hair, make-up, a sculpting tan and gym clothes that make you look hot. I really need to see the brief your boss has given you so I know what we’re aiming for.’
‘No brief unless the photographer has it. The aim is ritual humiliation. Plus, I really hoped you’d mention some fat-sucking machine that will make me half the size,’ said Ginger.
‘The only machine we need is the one to suck your body anxiety out of your brain,’ Lulu replied. ‘Plus-sized models are the hottest thing ever now. But even the skinny models get as anxious as you. Womankind has been told that no matter what shape they are, it’s the wrong shape. That’s why beautiful seventeen-year-olds are in
anorexia units thinking they’re ugly. Until we take over the world, we have to get clever. Here’s the plan.’
They met at lunchtime the next day. Lulu, whom Ginger had met at Mick and Zoe’s wedding, was as tall as Ginger, raven-haired and dressed in something very cutting edge in shades of grey. She was also greyhound-thin.
Lulu brought Ginger into a small lingerie shop where she greeted the owner with a big hug.
‘Ginger, this is Eugenia, and she can tell you your bra size from fifty paces.’
‘Forty E,’ said Eugenia, raising an eyebrow.
‘Forty-two double E,’ said Ginger, feeling embarrassed.
‘Honey, you’re wearing the wrong size,’ Eugenia said.
‘Did the stuff arrive?’ Lulu asked
‘Two boxes. I called in the best from all over the place.’
Lulu rubbed her hands together. ‘Let’s get you into the cubicle. This is going to be fun.’
The last time Ginger had been in a clothes cubicle, it had been trying on bridesmaids’ dresses like tents with Charlene and Liza giggling outside, admiring Charlene in a dress Ginger’s leg wouldn’t have fitted in. She still hadn’t heard from Liza – not a single call or text. Her plan to do this to show Liza that she didn’t whine felt like a very far-off plan indeed.
She stood inside for a moment, unwilling to strip off. Then she sat down on the small leather-look cream pouffe and started to cry.
In an instant, Lulu was in with her.
‘I can’t do this, Lulu,’ Ginger said. ‘I will feel so exposed. It will be just like the wedding all over again, but this time, in work. In photos. Photos everyone can see. I dress to hide myself, I can’t do this.’
‘You don’t have to do it,’ Lulu said, hugging her until the sobs subsided. ‘Nobody says you can’t file a discrimination complaint. The entire management can’t think the sun shines out of that woman’s butt.’
‘They do,’ said Ginger. ‘I’m new to her team, still on contract, totally replaceable.’
‘Yet she’s threatened by you,’ said Lulu, ‘or else she wouldn’t be trying to break everyone on her team. Ever wonder about that? You got more power than you think, girl: you need to find it. Honey, we’ve got the tools and under that tent of black, I think you’ve got the materials. Sexy comes in all sizes. I try not to call any fellow woman a bitch, but if the cap fits . . . so let’s show the bitch that you’re coming up fighting.’
‘It’s not easy for me,’ Ginger said tearfully. ‘I’m . . . I’m fat. People aren’t allowed to be fat. I hate it, but other people seem to hate it more.’ The tears poured out of her and she blindly reached for tissues.
Lulu handed her one. ‘Come on, girl. Let’s try this and if you hate it all, then you walk. Deal?’
‘But . . .’ Ginger looked up at all the swimsuits Eugenia was hanging up on the rail. ‘I thought we could try workout gear – like sweatpants with a long T-shirt or something . . .?’
‘I got a brief from your photographic department. It’s a swimsuit shoot. Swimwear only.’ She patted Ginger comfortingly. ‘I won’t let you do it if you don’t look amazing, I promise.’
The photography studio in the Sunday News was an airy, light-filled area with dressing rooms, a shower and proper hair and make-up stations. The photographer was surprised to see a team, led by Lulu, arriving with a hair and make-up person and an abashed Ginger bringing up the rear.
‘Photos are not till half-two,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘That’s in over three hours.’
‘Sweetie, we need time,’ said Lulu, wearing something even more scarily high fashion today, dark hair dried poker-straight so her fringe sat Cleopatra-style over vivid green eyes outlined with don’t-fuck-with-me eyeliner that matched her metallic charcoal eyeshadow. ‘We’ve got hair, make-up and I’m styling. If a reporter has to be a model, we need the professionals,’ she said, eyeballing him.
‘Me, I love professionals,’ he said, throwing a leather jacket on. ‘Jack Hanratty. See you later. I’m off to lunch.’
Ginger had never had her auburn mane curled with rollers into a sexy tumble of curls. She liked make-up, but the things the make-up artist did with her skin and her eyes made her look exotic: huge eyes outlined into mysterious sexiness, and her face contoured properly so she really didn’t recognise herself. Her lips were so glossed, she was sure they could be seen from space. Best of all was the tan – a rich bronze sprayed on by someone Lulu knew who’d spent forty-five minutes the night before contouring Ginger’s body so that she would not have believed it was her in front of the mirror. It had been worth the forty-five minutes in the tanning booth, holding her boobs up, shivering as the cold spray hit her skin.
‘No bikinis,’ said Lulu and had found a sexy purple swimsuit with plenty of hold that came with a small sarong and, when worn with ludicrously high nude platform sandals, transformed Ginger into a 1950s pin-up with a beautiful waist, and long, long legs.
‘Why are you covering these up?’ said Lulu. ‘You have the most amazing legs and what a waist. Why do you tent yourself?’
‘My waist is only there because this swimsuit has a tourniquet in the middle section made of industrial rubber,’ bleated Ginger, ‘and I’m not usually this colour.’
‘Nobody is this colour,’ Lulu said. ‘Humans do not come in molten bronze with carefully applied highlighter. Well, except for Dwayne Johnson. A little old, obvs, but still, you would, right?
‘Thing is, Ginger, if you can learn to love yourself with tan on, you might learn to love yourself without it.’
They practised posing with Lulu directing her, until Lulu made her face a full-length mirror and go through it all again.
‘I can’t look at me!’ Ginger said in embarrassment.
‘That’s what the models do. Pose and learn. Figure out your angles. You have a great shape. Total hourglass. That’s rare.’
Ginger had spent years avoiding herself in mirrors, but with Lulu barking directions, she had no option but to comply.
By two, the photographer was back, as were Jodie, the beauty editor, who had clearly had her make-up professionally done, and Fiona, the Krav Maga girl, who favoured purple lipstick and hair with blue tips, neither of which looked to have been touched up lately.
‘You decent, Reilly?’ asked Fiona as she barged into the changing room where Ginger’s crew were tidying up.
Ginger herself stood with her back to the mirror, breathing deeply with her eyes closed. She had to practise her stance a few more times, but she was getting so nervous . . .
‘Fuck,’ said Fiona. ‘Ginger, you look freakin’ amazing.’
Jodie, now clad in a bikini that showed off her slender, porcelain skinned-body and long brunette hair, hurried in and stopped dead. Her mouth fell open and she didn’t say anything for a beat. ‘You’re gorgeous, Ginger,’ she said. ‘Your hair, your make-up, your body . . .’
She went over to Ginger and began examining her with delight, testing the auburn curls styled into fat, glossy waves. ‘Your make-up is incredible and this tan – the contouring. And the swimsuit . . . Why do you always wear trousers? Those legs!’
‘Hidden masterpieces,’ said Lulu. ‘I’m Lulu, Ginger’s friend. Swimsuit shots need work for non-professionals.’
‘Screw that,’ said Fiona, gesturing down at her outfit, an old and much-washed jungle camo T-shirt and leggings. ‘This is my look. I’m not wearing a swimsuit for bloody Mattheson. You don’t take down a guy twice your size using an Israeli martial art wearing a bikini and if she doesn’t like it, she can shove it.’
Jodie giggled.
‘You ladies ready for this?’ said a slightly bored voice outside.
Lulu went out and the women heard conversation.
Moments later, Lulu came in, grinning.
‘Jack’s ready to go. I’ve told him this will take time. We want the
nice lighting, mood music and another photographic assistant to hold up the gold reflectors.’
Fiona smiled. ‘Nobody tells Jack what to do. He’ll probably put the fish-eye lens on for a laugh.’
Lulu gave her a shimmering, dangerous smile: ‘He’ll do what I’ll tell him and it won’t be using fish-eye lenses.’
The women came out and Jack, clearly either primed or slightly pushed around by the force of Lulu’s personality, was like a different man.
‘OK, instead of doing this as a speedy shot, let’s think Vanity Fair,’ he said, spending more time than was entirely necessary staring at Ginger. ‘Ginger, right? You look – different,’ he said, eyeing her in a way that made Ginger feel weirdly aware of her own body.
‘Yes,’ said Lulu, ‘my fault really. I advised her not to hit the newspaper staff with the full blast of her amazing sexuality when she started working there.’
Jack’s mouth fell open as he considered this.
In the background, Fiona broke out laughing.
‘I hear you,’ said Fiona, recovering. ‘I mean, that’s why I wear this sort of stuff. I don’t want to let the full blast – were they the words you used, Lulu? – the full blast of my sexuality out in case anyone in the office couldn’t cope with it. Us lesbians have to be careful with the full blast stuff.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Lulu. ‘I’d probably be too attracted to you if you wore a bikini.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Fiona. ‘Us girls, all we think about is sex, right?’
‘Right,’ Lulu agreed.
Jodie and Ginger bit their lips as they all watched Jack try to compute this.
‘We ought to stop tormenting him,’ Lulu whispered.
‘Nah,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s fun.’
‘Let’s get started,’ said Jack, definitely confused. This was not the way he had figured that this photo shoot would go. Carla Mattheson had told him it was a quick shot for the magazine of three female staff members who were going to do various things for the bikini diet. He had not expected one of them to turn up in combat clothes.