Food for Love

by Briggs, Laura

  She paused as some of her work notes scattered across the floor. Hastily snatching them up, she started to tuck them in the back panel. Only to freeze mid-action as she recognized the tips and articles she’d sketched out for the magazine’s “curvaceous” readers–the ones Jack rejected without so much as a fair consideration.

  “I guess I could use a free trial,” Miss Lake’s chirpy tone continued, oblivious to her distraction. “I mean, I’ve bought a few issues off the rack lately, so why not?”

  “Wonderful,” Tess murmured, still staring at the papers in her hand. Why did she suddenly feel so guilty for consigning these ideas to the back burner? As if conquering her own weight dilemma somehow made her forget how it felt to be trapped in a stereotype of lifelong frumpiness.

  Back in her bedroom, sketch supplies crowded her dresser, the notebook pages filled with blueprints for women’s casual and formal wear. Future portfolio materials for expanding her horizons beyond her work in the PR department.

  She paged through them, pausing now and then to make a notation or alteration. A little frown tugging her mouth as she realized most of the cuts were designed to flatter a malnourished build like Claudia Kellar and the other models at Accessorized. A crowd of people who generally sneered at her and doubted her ability to recognize good fashion if it kicked her in the face.

  Her pencil hovered over a pantsuit sketch with bell-bottom style legs and a jacket that tapered in at the waist. Could she somehow make it flattering for a heavier build? If say she, she removed the belt and lengthened the jacket?

  After hesitating a moment, she brought her eraser down on the midsection of the outfit. Only to have it leave a trail of lead smudge in its path.

  With a sigh, she tore the drawing from the notebook. Then crumpled it and tossed it on the floor, where Firefly was only too glad to pounce on it.

  *****

  What she really needed for this occasion was a speaker system to blast the theme from Rocky.

  That’s what Tess told herself as she ducked inside the wooded area of the park, shielding herself behind a hedge as she lay in wait for the rude jogger. Her watch read seven thirty-five a.m., meaning the blonde bulldog (as she sometimes thought of her nameless competitor) should be there any moment. And for once, she wasn’t going to hog the trail.

  Because this morning–day four of week three in the great diet experiment–Tess’s bathroom scale had informed her that she weighed a mere one hundred and fifty pounds. Numbers she hadn’t seen since freshman year at college or maybe before, and even then she never felt this invigorated or quite this ready to take on the world.

  Breathing deeply, she performed a few stretches and took a long swallow from her water bottle. Her jogging shirt had grown so lose at this point that she had to pin the extra fabric in place; her shorts suffered from the same problem. She would have to buy some proper workout clothes in the future, but for now, she enjoyed the dilemma of being too small for her clothes.

  As opposed to the old days, when she held her breath to force a zipper closed.

  A rustling sound in the distance told her someone was coming. She quickly squatted close to the ground, biding her time until the blonde had zoomed past in her trademark fashion. Then it was a matter of counting down the seconds from five, four, three, two…

  Tess tore onto the trail, her ponytail steaming behind her in the morning breeze, her pace casual and confident. Her sneakers slapped the pavement in a steady rhythm that seemed to match her heartbeat. Which picked up speed as she approached the jogger, her breath quickening until at last they were neck and neck.

  The blonde woman jerked her head around, giving Tess a brief impression of wild-eyed surprise. A moment later, she was in the lead, the path stretching before her in a winding fashion. She soared forward, the wind rushing in her ears, the sound of the other jogger’s tread fading far into the background.

  There was no ribbon to break through, no trophy waiting at the end of the loop. But she’d already gotten her reward, and any extra little aches and pains were worth the look on her opponent’s face.

  Triumphant, she jogged all the way back to her apartment building and up the three flights of stairs. Where she stumbled through the door just in time to snap up the ringing telephone.

  “Miss Gellar?” a nasal feminine voice inquired. “This is Jack Henson’s personal secretary calling to confirm an appointment for your next meeting.”

  “What?” Tess gasped, breathless from her victory run. After a moment, she remembered Jack's request at their last meeting. "Of course–I remember," she answered.

  “Would Thursday the twenty-eighth be all right? At four-thirty?”

  “Wonderful.” She sank onto the sofa, before her legs could give out. Was she weak from the extra mile–or was it the thought of returning to the magazine's office, her butterfly fully emerged from its cocoon?

  “I’ll let Mr. Henson know when to expect you,” the secretary promised, then hung up. Leaving Tess to envision the perfect walk-on in a life drama where she’d always played an extra.

  *****

  Bang, bang, bang!

  Tess jolted awake on the sofa, the cordless phone falling from her lap to the floor, along with the notebook of customer names and numbers. She had dozed off on her dinnertime break, after consuming a modest tuna salad with a side of carrots. She was in the middle of dreaming about a chocolate cherry-flavored milkshake when a series of small explosive sounds broke into her malt shop fantasy.

  Speaking of which, where had that noise come from? Next door?

  She scrambled off the sofa, her legs tangling in the afghan in her haste to check on her neighbor. Remembering previous incidents in which he fried his microwave and somehow caught a blender on fire.

  “Ethan?” she rapped on his apartment door, her head tilted close to the wood.

  Clattering sounds echoed from the other side, followed by a muffled voice saying, “Come in.”

  She edged the door open to find her neighbor squatted on the floor, using a brush and dustpan to sweep up shards of colored glass. Looming behind him was a tall, green ornamental object that had lots of twisted arms sticking out like vines.

  “It’s okay, I didn’t electrocute myself.” He offered a sheepish grin from his position on the floor. “Just some light bulbs exploding.”

  “What is that?” She peered at the green, twining decoration, suppressing a note of revulsion from her voice. “Some kind of modern sculpture?”

  “It’s supposed to be a Christmas tree lamp,” he said, standing to empty the contents of his dustpan in the kitchen trash. “But I don’t think I can give it a rousing review considering it tried to spear me. And apparently disturbed the peace.”

  Tess laughed and shook her head. “I was just taking a cat nap in between phoning customers. Believe me, I needed a good wake up call.”

  He peered at her for a long moment, a strange expression in his gaze. Surprise or maybe confusion? Perhaps inspired by the fact she was several pounds lighter than the last time he saw her.

  “How’ve you been?” he blurted suddenly. A faint flush creeping over his face a second later. “That is, I haven’t seen you in awhile. You seem…different.”

  Her heart wobbled a little under his scrutiny. Did she just imagine the lack of enthusiasm in his tone? “I’ve been good. Better than good,” she managed, with a bright smile. “Remember I mentioned going on a diet? Well it’s working.”

  He nodded slowly, the crease in his brow disappearing. “Right. I can see that.”

  That was it? No congratulations? No obligatory ‘you look incredible’ stuff?

  “I–I should probably get going.” She nervously twisted the extra fabric on her blouse, suddenly aware her clothes were wrinkled, her hair mussed from sofa sleeping. “You’ve probably got more products to review…” she trailed off, her gaze sweeping over the stacks of cardboard boxes piled in his kitchen and living area. The lids popped open on some to reveal packing materials and instruct
ion manuals.

  “Actually, I was thinking of calling it a night.” He propped the dustpan in a corner and assumed his usual relaxed smile. “One round of exploding light bulbs is about all I can handle for now. I, uh, don’t suppose this diet lets you eat raspberry cheesecake?”

  She shook her head, aware a tingling sensation had invaded her mouth and face. Wishing she could say ‘yes’ to the invitation, for more than one reason.

  “What about mineral water, then?” He opened the fridge and rummaged around. His hand re-emerging with two chilled bottles. “I know it’s not five star restaurant quality. Or the best atmosphere.” This with an apologetic glance for the piles of boxes, the messy computer station, the scattered supply of catalogues and newspapers.

  “The mineral water’s perfect,” she assured him. “And as for the atmosphere–I think I might know how to fix that.”

  *****

  “No way!” Tess squealed, nearly spilling her mineral water in a burst of spontaneous laughter. “You actually sang You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore–in front of a barroom of strangers?”

  She and Ethan were perched on the rooftop to their apartment building, a cozy little patio area where the landlady grew basket full’s of colorful pansies and petunias. And where the blanket of stars winking overhead somehow steered their conversation in the direction of personal romantic disasters.

  “How was I to know she was the reigning karaoke champ?” Ethan asked with a boyish grin. “Anyway, I couldn’t chicken out, not with all her friends egging me on. So I went for it–and ended up getting us booed offstage.”

  “And what did your date do?”

  He took another sip from his bottle. “Dumped me, of course. She said I got her off key and ruined her reputation.”

  “Well, so far you’re the winner for Worst Dating Streak Ever. Because spilling syrup and walking into a glass door just can’t compete with karaoke gone wrong. Or shattering a window with pool game equipment.”

  “Great,” he said, rumpling his hair. “I always knew I was special somehow. Maybe this counts as some kind of talent. I could write a book on how to date badly.”

  “But you must have had at least one good relationship. Someone like you…well, it seems kind of impossible not to have.” She stopped short of saying that funny, good-looking guys were hard-pressed to avoid attention from eligible women. Shyly, she shifted her gaze to the city skyline, the neon lights blinking from the business’s below.

  “I guess I just lack good timing,” came his hesitant answer. “I try too hard and then end up missing the mark, you know?”

  She nodded, a warm understanding flooding her senses. Thinking it seemed crazy that Ethan could ever share that same awkwardness and insecurity that seem to rule her whole existence.

  “Take right now,” he continued, clearing his throat. “If I were some Casanova type, I’d do something really spontaneous and romantic. Like pick some of these flowers and put them in your hair.”

  “And then our landlady would kill you for ruining her display,” Tess laughed. The shakiness in her tone revealing how nervous this conversation made her feel–or was that excitement?

  “Or I’d just get them tangled and make a mess of everything.” He stared hard at his water bottle, his jaw clenching in a frustrated gesture. “I don’t suppose that magazine you work for has any advice for guys? Tips on how not to humiliate yourself and your date in public?”

  She shook her head, a gentle smile tugging her mouth. Without hesitating she reached over and touched his hand, letting her fingers stay warm against his skin. “You don’t need some silly magazine to tell you how to be likeable. Just be yourself and don’t go overboard. Trust me, you’ve got plenty of qualities that women look for, without pretending to be anything more.”

  “Think so?” He glanced up at her, his blue-gray eyes scanning her own for the answer.

  She nodded, her mouth too dry to respond. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he might lean in and kiss her, like a perfect scene from a movie. But instead, he dropped his gaze to where her hand rested on top of his. An uncertainty creeping into his voice as he spoke again.

  “Do you think…I don’t know. That you’d be willing to go on a date with me sometime?”

  The question stunned her. Heart hammering, she felt her mind rush into her favorite fantasy, the one she only indulged in during moments of weakness.

  Ethan–and her –on a date? For a moment she wondered if she’d actually heard him right, or if maybe wishful thinking had supplied the question as his lips formed some other, more mundane statement.

  “You could consider it research if you want,” he rushed, noticing the crimson stain on her cheeks. “Analyzing the socially inept male, or something like that.” A joking tone in this statement making her heart plunge again.

  “I-I’d like that. The date part, I mean,” she stammered. Eager not to lose this moment as it threatened to slip away. “What did you have in mind?” Because the word “sometime” seemed awfully vague to her, and she hated being kept in limbo.

  “Well, something without karaoke and pool tables, for starters.”

  “And chocolate syrup,” Tess added, with a smile.

  “How about a movie, then?” he asked, taking another drink. “There’s a place on Fifth Street that shows retrospectives. If you like old movies, that is.” His eyes were trained somewhere over her shoulder, the blue depths beyond her reach as she clung to his words.

  “Love them.” Her fingers wrapped tightly around her bottle, as she gathered courage for the next question. “Does Thursday night sound good?”

  After all, she was already facing a few of her demons that same afternoon. Why not reward herself with the one thing she thought completely beyond her reach–a handsome guy with a charming smile?

  “Thursday it is,” he said. And clinked his bottle against hers in a silly gesture that made her smile.

  *****

  “Firefly–bad cat!”

  Tess sprang off the mattress in time to keep the playful cat from snagging her newly made-over wrap dress. She had spent the weekend taking in its measurements and adding the elaborate new bead design. It was only three days away from making its debut, and the last thing she needed was for a pair of kitty claws to put a run in the fabric.

  “Out,” she said, shooing the miffed tabby into the kitchen. Then slipped inside the bathroom to check the scale for the tenth time that day. A little thrill shooting through her every time she read the digital number 137.

  Could this really be happening? All in a mere thirty days, just like the commercial promised. She used to scoff at those ads, as she wolfed down pints of ice cream and emptied soda cans. And now, here she was, a walking advertisement for the Rapid Reducer Juicer.

  Drifting across the bedroom floor, she paused at the dressing table. She would need makeup to complete this transformation, as well as a curling iron and some hairspray. Yanking open the drawers, she dug through the jumbled contents, tossing various expired items into the trash can. The leftovers formed a modest but sufficient selection of lipstick, eye shadow, foundation, and mascara.

  “Time for the mail,” she murmured to herself. Automatically checking her hair and outfit in the mirror before going out. She hadn’t seen Ethan since their magical rooftop moment, and she didn’t want to jinx herself by running into him before the big date. Luck was on her side, though, as she made it down the hall and back without meeting a soul.

  That was the end of her luck, it seemed, as the next few days passed in a haze of juicing and jogging. Her race to take off the last handful of pounds seeming more difficult than the whole journey put together. She told herself it would be worth it for the most perfect day of her life. But by the time Thursday morning dawned, she was tired and achy, and hit the sleep button when the alarm sounded its seven-thirty a.m. buzzer.

  After punching the same button ten more times, she crawled out of bed with just enough time to make a breakfast juice before the round
of phone calls begin. But she must have been starting her jitters a few hours early, because she spilled half the Grapefruit Delight on her work folder, as she set it on the coffee table.

  “Rats.” She sighed and tried to catch the mess with some napkins. Pretending to ignore the way Firefly jumped from the table and stalked away, no doubt still peeved from the foiled dress snagging incident.

  It took some patience to decipher the blurred phone numbers as she made the morning rounds. Not that it mattered–no customers were renewing subscriptions that day, no matter how much sultry persuasion she injected into her salesgirl persona. And the reaction to her girl’s night out survey was downright hostile from a few of the consumers, who claimed they didn’t have that kind of burgeoning social life–or the time and money to waste on frivolous activities.

  Juice, juice, jog, jog. She repeated these words like a magic charm, a chant that prodded her though a haze of physical activity and lackluster job performance. Until the final weigh-in awaited, her fingers crossed as she climbed the scale and prayed that two–maybe even four–pounds had melted over the last few days.

  The needle trembled, then registered the final number: 129.

  She sucked in her breath, amazed. It wasn't model-thin, to be sure, but it was less than she'd ever imagined. And who was to say that a few more weeks wouldn't transform her into a lithe figure rivaling Claudia's feather-thin status?

  Visualize your success and you’re halfway there, the diet guide reassured her in today’s motivational entry. Trite words that gave her a little inspiration as she zipped up the now-clingy wrap dress and teased her auburn hair into holding a curl.

  Shaky fingers applied mascara and swept smoky eye shadow into place. A touch of ruby red lipstick and a hint of blush to infuse her pale features with some color. The result being an hourglas figure whose severe expression was reflected from the mirror’s surface. A total stranger, whose pouty countenance was not completely unlike the runway shots of models in Jack’s office.