“I–I was thinking, the magazine could feature some new kinds of tips. Maybe for women of a larger body type.”
A cloud of confusion passed over his features, his brows arching slightly. “What did you have in mind exactly?”
Okay, this is your opening–no going back. She launched into a breathless spiel that held none of the grace or clout of her phone persona.
“See, I really feel there’s a whole untapped market out there for women who are what we’ll call curvaceous,” she said, smoothing down the ridiculous crisscross ruffle on her dress that insisted on standing up. “If we offered special tips just for them, I think we could expand our readership, maybe even double it. Advice on stuff like how to dress for your shape, flattering hairstyles, how to embrace your inner beauty…”
She trailed off as an awkward silence ensued, broken only by the splash of the dozen or so tranquility fountains. An effect which did nothing to soothe her flustered nerves as Jack broke into a slow, indulgent smile.
“Ah, well, Ms. Gellar, I think you’re probably right about that. But it’s my firm belief that our readers want to be like the models who appear between the pages of Accessorized. We’re appealing to a fantasy, a dream, a goal, if you will.”
Her heart sunk lower with each new descriptor. Clearly he wasn’t willing to be sold on this idea. “But the average woman hardly ever reaches that dream,” she faltered, pushing the ruffled trim down again. “I mean, it’s just not practical to reach for supermodel looks.”
“Again, I agree with you,” he said. “However, the publishing industry for beauty and fashion follows a strict, well-established system. Our readers have certain expectations and risks are rarely worth the effort.” This followed by a helpless shrug and smile.
That’s all? She expected a little more consideration, at least an offer to think it over.
With a final dismissive smile, Jack turned his attention back to the marketing department folder. “While you're here, I'd like your thoughts about the upcoming girl’s night out survey …”
And that was it. The rest of the meeting consisted of meaningless questionnaires for her to conduct on everything from best hobbies for singles to tried-and-true barroom dating rules. Along with a reminder to phone his secretary and schedule a meeting for next month–where he hinted a percentage raise would be discussed for top-ranking phone salespeople.
In the elevator, she was joined at the last second by a tall, willowy brunette she recognized as Claudia Kellar, one of the magazine’s regular clothing models. Her micro mini figure was draped in a filmy sundress that made Tess’s wrap look like a heavy drapery pinned in place. Her eyes glued to her cell, as her perfectly manicured nails paged through a series of text messages.
This must be what Jack was talking about. Wouldn’t she choose to be like that if she could? Her eyes cut enviously in the direction of the flawless complexion, the long legs, and shimmering locks of hair.
Two floors down, the elevator paused, its doors opening to admit Sam Bryar, the leading photographer at Accessorized, sporting his trademark beret and sunglasses. A diamond earring winked from his left earlobe, as he fiddled with the strap on his flash camera.
“Hey Claudia,” he said, sliding in next to the model. His eyes skimming briefly over Tess and her ruffled monstrosity. They had been formally introduced twice at employee gatherings, but if he remembered it, his stony gaze gave no indication.
“So how about this mandatory anniversary bash, next month?” he asked, turning back to the bored-looking model. “Jack’s pretty much threatened every staffer with annihilation if they don’t show up.”
Every staffer? Tess couldn’t help looking in his direction with widened eyes. Aware the invitation no doubt extended to the members of the marketing department. Minus the fat recluse who spends her days playing phone tag, that is.
“Jack only pretends to be a tyrant,” Claudia said, never bothering to glance up from her cell. “Besides, why pass up the chance for free publicity? I mean, the man may be a bore, but there’s no denying he’s got connections.”
“All I know is that it cuts into my Paris trip.” Sam panned the elevator with his camera lens, lowering it just before he got to Tess. “Nice job on the shoot for the new the rain gear, by the way. Jack wanted it to be Wendy, but she’s totally let herself go.”
Claudia snorted. “Yeah, I know. Ever since she split with that race car driver, what’s-his-name, she’s been stuffing her face. Right now it’s just a few pimples, but how long before the pounds pack on?”
“Hello, airbrushing,” her companion joked, with a twisted smile.
Hot tears pricked Tess’s eyes, the elevator floor numbers swimming in and out of her vision. Nine more floors–could she make it that long? Trapped in an elevator ride that felt like a flashback to her worst high school moments. If, say, Claudia were a head cheerleader and Sam a member of the Drama club.
“So how about you Claudia? Seeing anyone special?” the photographer asked, with a knowing leer that elicited an eye roll on the model’s behalf.
“Define ‘special’–I dare you to, with your track record.”
They shared a conspiratorial snicker that made Tess’s face flame. Why should she care if they chose to snub her? She had every right to be in this elevator, to work in this building even. Wasn’t she a fashion expert, after all–no matter what her own wardrobe and appearance might say otherwise?
A merciful silence fell that lasted until the doors slid open again to reveal the main lobby. Brushing past the smirking pair, Tess marched for the exit doors, head held high. Eyes deftly avoiding the curvy figure that came towards her in the glass, the ridiculous ruffle on its wrap dress flapping in the air conditioned breeze.
*****
Outside her apartment building, Tess nearly collided with a tall figure, their arms loaded down with a stack of postal packages. “Sorry,” a muffled voice apologized. Followed by Ethan’s face peering round the boxes a moment later. “Oh, hey , Tess. How’d your big meeting with the boss go?”
“It could have been better,” she said. Imagining a broken leg might have been more pleasant than the skeptical look on Jack’s face, the five or so minutes of humiliation in the elevator. “What’s all this?” she asked, tapping the packages. “Early Christmas?”
He grinned. “Just some review products I’m mailing back. You’re looking stylish,” he added, with a nod at the black wrap. “New dress?” As if it could be anything but new to him, considering he’d only seen her in jeans and blouses, maybe the occasional skirt and sweater ensemble for weddings and holidays.
“I bought it last week,” she admitted, forcing a smile. Not bothering to add it would be residing in a donation bag as soon as she locked the apartment door behind her. How could she fall for that ridiculous “ten pounds slimmer” claim?
“Well, I hope your day gets better. And on that note, anything I can do to help?” he asked, a mischievous spark invading his blue gaze. “Give your boss a warning, maybe send him an email virus? As long as it doesn’t involve a round of pool, I’m game.”
She laughed, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. “Thanks anyway, but right now all I need is a pint of ice cream and a sofa to crash on.” Though part of her longed to take him up on the offer. The idea of a handsome guy rushing to her defense–what woman didn’t fantasize about such things?
The elevator scene at work had left her a little wary, so she trudged up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, gasping a little as she stuck the key in the lock. No doubt her face was flushed red from the effort, as much as if she’d run a mile.
Discarding the dress for stretch jeans and a bulky blouse, she pinned her long locks into a clip. It was time for some comfort food and guilty pleasure TV in the form of afternoon soap operas. Maybe watching people with problems a hundred times weirder than her own would improve this blue funk.
“Hey, sleepy head,” she greeted the orange tabby–otherwise known as Firefly–curled at
op the coffee table. Giving it a playful poke with her barefoot as she punched the power button on the remote. The TV flipped to life, but instead of showing a glamorous office setting or a tense hospital drama, it was an infomercial for weight loss. The revolutionary Rapid Reducer Juicer and its recipe book companion.
“Lose forty pounds in only one month!” the caption screamed, as testimonials from satisfied customers flashed across the screen. Women and men who took the challenge only to be rewarded with the body of their dreams. And–if you could believe the other claims–new career opportunities, fun-loving friends, and enviable love lives.
“Too good to be true,” Tess murmured, lifting a spoonful of Chocolate Hazel Crunch, only to pause as the newest before and after snapshots appeared on the screen. A woman close to her own age and physical appearance, right down to the limp auburn curls and pasty makeup application. Who found her natural beauty, and a size 6 bikini, in a mere four weeks thanks to the Rapid Reducer’s transforming abilities.
Plop, plop, plop.
She glanced down to find the syrupy ice cream dribbling from the spoon to her blouse. Her plain and baggy blouse, meant to mask the flab while making her look all the more out of shape and out of touch with her own professional field.
“Find your true self,” the infomercial hostess urged in a smooth, understanding voice. “It’s never too late. Happiness is just around the corner.”
What would her co-workers say if she embarked on such a quest? To walk back into the headquarters of Accessorized a month from now, her svelte new figure draped in a delicate little eyelet dress, her feet encased in strappy, high-heeled sandals.
Maybe her new self would even be capable of looking fashion models and professional photographers in the eye–or breezing past them without a second thought.
She pictured jaws dropping, whispered conversations exchanged behind her back. If they even managed to recognize her, that is.
Excitement tingled through her, all the way to the tips of her fingers. Slightly breathless, she shoved the bowl of melting ice cream onto the coffee table and reached for the cordless phone. But wait–was this crazy? She couldn’t help wondering for a moment if she had become like most of her customers, lured in by empty promises and a crafty sales technique.
“Thirty magical days to a brand new you…”
It was now or never. Without another thought, Tess grabbed the phone.
*****
This was not goodbye forever–just a month. Something Tess had to remind herself of more than once as she polished off the final jelly donut from a supermarket bakery box. Licking the last trace of raspberry filling from her finger with a sigh.
It was two days since she placed the order for the Rapid Reducer Juicer, meaning its arrival was almost upon her. Too late to go back, especially with the two easy payments of nineteen ninety-nine already made. A deal that included not only the supposedly amazing machine but its secret recipe guide.
In the middle of the kitchen floor was a pile of junk food containers and fattening snacks from her pantry. The trash can overflowed with pints of ice cream and old takeout boxes from Chinese restaurants and Ramone’s Corner Pizzaria. Where the delivery people knew her by sight and the ones who answered the phone could predict her orders with scary accuracy.
Would they wonder what happened to their most faithful customer?
Bzzz! She pulled her head from the recesses of the pantry to answer the buzzer.
“Direct Delivery,” a bored masculine voice crackled over the speaker.
The juicer–it had to be. “Come on up,” she said, punching the lobby button.
Frantically, she stuffed her hair back beneath its handkerchief scarf, hiding the bits of dust that clung to it from the pantry. No time to sweep up the mess of boxes, bag the trash, or even move the Japanese screen in from the living room to block it from sight. But then, wasn’t it the season for spring cleaning?
“Here you go,” the delivery guy said, as she yanked the door open. His eyes glancing past her at the pile of boxes, eyebrows raised.
“Thanks,” she said, signing the clipboard with a hasty scrawl. She took the package–which was surprisingly heavy–and used her foot to swing the door shut behind the deliveryman. Plunking the juicer down on the kitchen table, she dug a knife from silverware draw and began to rip the tape.
“This is it,” she told the curious feline that jumped atop the table to witness the grand unveiling. “You won’t recognize your owner four weeks from now,” she promised, giving the orange head an affectionate ruffle.
Prying the metallic machine from its nest, she dug through the packing materials until she unearthed the recipe booklet. A glossy soft cover that featured a slender blonde in workout clothes enjoying what appeared to be a hefty glass of carrot juice.
A slight sinking sensation invaded her stomach as she flipped through the roster of health food pictures. Page after page of mega fat-burning breakfast and lunch juices, made from a smorgasbord of fruits and vegetables. Included also were a list of appropriate dinnertime “meals” that one could assemble quickly with a pan and a stove burner.
“Fauxtatoes?” She read aloud, her nose wrinkling automatically with the words. “Black bean jumbalaya mix?”
Firefly mewed and bumped his head against her hand. “Don’t worry,” she told him, “you’ll still be eating your beef flavored kibble and tuna treats.” Which almost sounded more appealing than what she was facing with this thirty day body makeover quest.
But it’s worth it–to be like that. Her gaze returning to the smiling beauty on the book’s cover. What would she look like as a thin person? It was a question she couldn’t answer from experience, since she’d always been the “pudgy” type, even as far back as third or fourth grade. Only back then, she hadn’t let it limit her imagination, as she paired neon socks with denim skirts, and tied vintage scarves across the wide hips of her raggedy jeans. In high school, she’d designed her own prom dress from a collection of People magazine covers.
So what happened? When did she go from proudly exhibiting her creations to shutting herself in an apartment twenty-four seven, her “imperfect” form safely hidden behind a telephone line?
Well, no more. Because already she had a strong feeling that the book in her hand was her one way ticket back into the real world. First stop: the health food section of the grocery store.
*****
Tess’s alarm clock sounded like an evacuation warning. In fact, she dreamed it was one, a fire alarm from a flame that engulfed her kitchen’s contents–in this case, the donuts, ice cream, and takeout food she’d thrown away yesterday. As her dream self rushed helplessly to save it, the smoke threatened to cut off her exit. Until she woke a moment later to find pale sunlight streaming through her window, the digital clock flashing seven-thirty a.m.
Time for a jog in the neighboring park, followed by a healthy glass of Zesty Melon Mix.
Old swimming shorts and an oversized T-shirt would have to do for workout clothes, at least until a few pounds started coming off. Pulling her hair back in a ponytail, she ran to the kitchen for a water bottle and a timer for the jog.
Last night’s groceries, a veritable rainbow of fruits and veggies, crowded her countertops. Apples, oranges, carrots, cucumbers, watermelons, cantaloupes, and grapefruits. In the fridge crisper were packages of spinach and celery, while a variety of beans occupied the shelves in her nearly empty pantry.
“Hold my calls,” she told Firefly, giving him a quick pat on the head before she slipped out the door.
Mercifully, the hallway was empty, but her frame remained tense as she crept towards the stairwell. Afraid any moment Ethan might emerge from the door next to hers and catch her…well, looking even sloppier than usual.
But she didn’t see anyone until she reached the sidewalk, where the morning rush was on for those who actually worked outside their homes. Men and women with briefcases, shop owners busy unlocking the gates on their businesses. Winslow Park w
as two blocks away and had its own fair share of activity, with nature lovers, photographers, painters, and young mothers pushing prams.
Tess set out on the paved trail at a steady pace, trying to breathe slow and deep, like her PE coaches instructed back in high school. Only she had hated PE and spent most of it hiding in the locker room, while the more athletic types tried to outdo each other on the track and gym floor.
The morning sun, which at first seemed like a warm bath, became sweltering after a few laps. She blinked hard as sweat trickled like drops of rain from her forehead to her chin. Brushing it aside, she took a swig from the now lukewarm water bottle and surged ahead.
“Think thin, and you‘ll be thin.”
Wisdom from the juicer’s recipe and diet guide, which included motivational tips, homilies, and a food diary section for keeping the dieter’s spirits up. Cheesy stuff, she knew, much like the tips featured in Accessorized about projecting confidence and charm. It was all relative, this mind over body stuff.
“Ooff,” she gasped, stumbling to a sudden halt, as a Yorkie dog scurried across her path, its leash trailing behind. Its owner, a frazzled looking middle-aged man in sweats, followed close at its heels.
“Stop blocking the path!” an irritated voice snapped from somewhere behind.
A moment later something clipped Tess’s elbow, a small blonde jogger, who shoved her way onto the path in front of her. Without a word of apology, the woman surged ahead like a marathon runner taking the lead. Her tiny, muscular form disappearing where the path diverged into a small woodland section.
Who knew jogging could be so hazardous? Limping to a bench, Tess plopped down and checked her timer. Five minutes–and to think she planned on starting with ten. A goal she felt certain would land her in the emergency room, given the rate her heart was pounding.
Food for Love Page 2