Who’s That Girl?
Page 1
WHO’S THAT GIRL?
Celia Hayes
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About Who’s That Girl?
Sam Preston appears to be living the glamorous life of a journalist at the San Francisco Chronicle… If only that was the case… in reality, she’s frustratingly single, stuck living in her parent’s house, and oh yeah, in love with her boss, Dave, who barely knows that she exists…
Life seems like it will never change… until the day Sam is put on an assignment with Dave, reporting on the San Francisco Fashion Week. She hopes this might be a turning point in their relationship… But things never go to plan and practically overnight, Sam becomes an accidental contestant in the Beautiful Curvy pageant and life suddenly becomes very complicated.
How will she manage her new rise to stardom, her job, and her sudden irresistibility to not only Dave, but a new man on the scene?
Contents
Welcome Page
About Who’s That Girl?
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About Celia Hayes
Also by Celia Hayes
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
Mike,
I don’t know how to break this to you gently,
but we need some time away from each other.
The problem is that you are still so… married. So dramatically not there.
I’m really sorry, I wish it hadn’t come to this,
but I am dedicating this book to Colin Morgan.
I know it’s going to be hard for you, but let’s be honest: you’ve been a
terrible imaginary boyfriend.
We can still be friends, though.
Chapter 1
Me in the Middle
“Come on, damn you – fit!”
If there were a world championship for clothing contortionists, I’d win it – hands down!
“Come on… we’re nearly there…”
It’s half past seven. I have only thirty minutes to get ready, and I still haven’t been able to do up these damn jeans. It’s always the same with jeans: when you try them on for the first time in the shop, they fit perfectly and so, obviously, you buy them. Then you wear them once and, of course, you wash them. And that’s the end of your jeans: once they’ve seen the inside of a washing machine they wouldn’t fit you again even if you covered yourself with Vaseline.
“Come on, you stupid jeans! Fit!”
I end up rolling around on my bed, desperately trying to make the button go into its buttonhole, but somehow the damn thing manages to stay out. Maybe the button and the buttonhole have decided to divorce and share joint custody of the zipper, I think, snorting in amusement at my own stupid joke.
“Sam, it’s almost eight,” my mother shouts up from the stairs.
“I know… I’m almost ready,” I shout back breathlessly. I decide to gather my energies and give myself a little motivational talk. “Girl, you passed your exam in corporate marketing so you are not going to give in to a stupid pair of denim pants even if they are low-waisted!”
“Sam, you’re going to be late!” Mom shouts up, as though I didn’t already know.
“I’m almost ready,” I lie. I know very well that I won’t be able to leave my room until I get these jeans on. For one thing, they’re the only clean pair I have at the moment and the alternative is my tracksuit bottoms, and something tells me that the world might not be ready for the sight of me clad in those just yet.
“Come on, you dumb jeans, come on… Why won’t you give a little? Just… a… little… Ha!” I shout in relief. I really don’t know how I did it, but I’ve managed to do up my jeans. I feel like I deserve to celebrate my victory.
Unbelievable, right? Even today, I’m actually going to be able to go to work. All I need now is a dark, baggy and not overly casual top to go with my jeans, and that’ll be a cinch, given what’s in my closet. Since I was a teenager, practically all the clothes I’ve bought have been dark, baggy and not overly casual. ‘Middle Earth off the rack’ is what I call it.
That’s what happens when you’re not plump enough for people to find you automatically funny but you’re still not skinny enough for pretty much everything else. You end up in a sort of limbo and become either the connection between other, much cooler people, the safety net for friends who’ve been stood up on a Saturday night and found themselves at a loose end or an opportunity for aunties who are looking to get their sons married off. Have you ever noticed that there’s no place for the square pegs in this world? If you’re really overweight, society feeds you mottos like ‘believe in yourself’, ‘because you’re worth it’, ‘you’re special’ and ‘that’s not what really counts in life’. But what if you’re like me? What if you’re just… cuddly? What if you’re just… a bit soft? I mean, what if you’re not a skinny model with your bones sticking out all over? In that case, you’re classed as one of the ones who don’t want to pick a side – the undecided ones. And does that have any serious consequences? You bet it does, and they’re all catastrophic. Nobody has enough time to appreciate difference any more. You can be either one or the other. If you don’t adapt to fit that rule, you’re out of luck. I guess it’s a question of practicalities: life is easier when you can categorise everything by a set of origins, contents, functions and weights that everyone has to comply with. Special offer, two emotions for the price of one, hurry while stocks last. It’s a bit sad, but on the other hand it does save you a lot of time.
And what do I think about all this? Erm… Let’s say I try and live a quiet life, that’s my philosophy. And to be honest, I’d happily go along with all of it if it weren’t for the fact that my metabolism is an anarchist who insists on fighting against the impositions of a society whose unhealthy rules are dictated by the fashion companies. And so here I am – a woman who is well aware that she was born in the wrong decade and who is resigned to spending the rest of her life eating diet bars. I’ve given up the idea of constantly trying to change my weight to stay in line with whatever the ideal of the day is, so I just wear oversized pullovers. All I can hope for is a miracle. Or alternatively, a GQ model who desperately needs affection.
“Phew…” I sigh.
Then I look at myself in the mirror, and that makes me sigh again.
No, it’s a disaster. This isn’t going to work.
“Smile. Come on, Sam, smile a little,” I say to try and encourage myself. “Cheeeeeese…”
Jeez, that looks more like something from a horror movie than a smile. But it’ll do for now.
“Sam, will you hurry up, please?”
“I’m
coming!” I mumble, grabbing my keys from my dressing table just before rushing down the stairs. And at that moment I just let the daily routine take over, get a kiss on my cheek from my mom, pet my cat, Samson, for a moment and then run out of the house, desperately hoping I’m still in time to catch the cable car to Union Square.
My stop on the Powell-Hyde line is just two blocks from my house, and there’s a car every twenty minutes or so. When I see Market Street on the horizon, I’m already late for the quarter past eight car, but luckily it’s been stuck at the traffic lights, so I’m fortunate enough to be able to jump aboard before the driver can start the motor again.
Once inside, I make my way past a group of young boys holding onto the straps and look for a quiet corner where I can get my thoughts in order.
Today’s schedule:
8:45 a.m.: forward the email about the newsroom meeting.
12:40 a.m.: go and fetch Dave’s shirts from the laundry.
4:30 p.m.: send a confirmation for the appointment with John Carter.
Note to self: do not daydream about any imaginary weddings with your boss.
I doubt that I’ll actually be able to avoid that, though, because he is…
“Free?”
“I wish…” I sigh.
“I mean, is this seat free?” a woman of about fifty asks me, gesturing to a seat next to where I’m standing.
“Err… Oh, sure, of course it’s free,” I stammer. “Please, go ahead.” I move out of her way so she can take what is, I realise too late, the last free seat on the car.
Then the traffic light turns green and the journey resumes, all the passengers with their noses buried in their freshly printed newspapers. Looks like I’ll just have to stand for the whole trip – that’ll teach me to have my head in the clouds. The road outside flows past as we travel, and a jazz song starts to emerge from the car’s speakers.
I put a spell on you, because you’re mine…
“It’s 8:00 a.m. and this is Love Attitude 89.9 FM, the radio station that speaks directly to your heart. Another rainy day in San Francisco. The cable cars are packed and the traffic on Powell Street is at a standstill. The city has woken up and so the Love Attitude gang here at Fisherman’s Wharf studios is here to keep you company with the unforgettable voice of Nina Simone in that classic from the fifties. It’s still dawn on the West Coast – way too early to get up, so stay in bed for a little while, turn the volume up and stay with us on 89.9 FM, Love Attitude, the radio that reaches you across the airwaves of love.”
You know I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you anyhow. And I don’t care if you don’t want me. I’m yours right now. I put a spell on you because you’re mine.
Chapter 2
Swansong
While Sam is rushing to work and hoping she won’t end up stuck in traffic on Market Street, down at The Chronicle there are already people standing around the coffee machine gossiping while others are barricaded in their offices on the top floor wondering why they didn’t stay in bed this morning with a nice cup of green tea and the sports pages.
One of them is Tom Mayer, the newspaper’s chief editor. He’s sitting at his desk looking bored and weary, pulling random magazines he has just bought at the news stand out of his briefcase one by one and slamming them down on the desk top as he recites their names in a monotone.
“Ok Magazine, Celebrity News…”
“Come on, Tom, don’t tell me you’re actually giving any credit to what’s its name… People Today? You must be kidding!” says Dave. “Why not the National Enquirer too while you’re at it?”
“You’re in there too,” Tom snaps back, folding his arms. “Page nine.”
Dave turns on his iPad and looks for the page without saying another word. “Hey, listen to this,” he says, his eyes on the screen. “Shocking Hillary confession – suspicious goings-on. Who’d have thought it? Hillary is actually a man.” He ponders the article for a moment, pretending to be interested in the latest absurdities that the magazine’s unscrupulous writers have come up with.
“Dammit, will you put that thing down?!”
“I guess those were probably her husband’s last words as President of the United States. But come on, her hairdo should have given the game away – it’s always so unnaturally perfect… How did we miss it?”
“I’m really sorry, Dave, but analysing the ex-First Lady’s hairdo is not one of my priorities,” Tom says, sighing in resignation.
“It’s true what they say,” continues Dave, completely ignoring him. “Since they invented the push-up bra, you can’t trust anyone…”
“Will you cut it out?” cries an exasperated Tom. His agenda is full to overflowing with appointments he won’t possibly be able to make, there’s more voicemail on his phone than he’ll ever have time to listen to and his desk is completely covered in mediocre gossip magazines. He could really do without Dave’s sarcasm and is about to throw him out of his office. “What a disaster…” he mutters as he tries to clear some space. “Thanks to you, it’s going to take me hours to find my keyboard.”
“What do you need it for, anyway? According to To-Morrow, the planet’s going to be destroyed by an army of aliens who are going to arrive in a fleet of UFOs in ten days.”
“Goddamn it, Dave, I’m being serious here!”
“So am I – but these magazines aren’t!” He holds up his tablet right in front of Tom’s face. It’s displaying the National Enquirer’s homepage.
Tom ignores it, picking up one of the newspapers that cover his desk and showing it to Dave. “Perhaps you would rather read it in The New York Times, then?” he asks, sounding almost amused. “Does that sound more trustworthy to you? Because in that case, you should probably know that there’s a little article about you in there too, on page five.”
“Of course,” mutters Dave, grimacing irritably. “There would be…”
Tom seizes the opportunity and starts reading out the first lines of the short article for him.
One notable absence among the many celebrities spotted at the event was lawyer Anthony Walker, a supporter of the new South Bay regeneration project. It appears the lawyer had to cancel his visit at the last minute due to an accident which occurred while he was playing golf. By a curious coincidence, however, later in the evening, model Madeleine Hunt – Walker’s by now possibly ex-wife – made her appearance, accompanied by man about town Dave Callaghan, The Chronicle’s vice director and reporter. Callaghan is well-known for his turbulent relationships with showbiz celebrities and for the controversial enquiry he has been conducting over the last months into the affairs of councilman Willoughby Hoffman.
Tom doesn’t need to dwell on that. It’s old news, the type of nonsense you hear around the water cooler, so he races through the rest, ignoring the astonished expression on the face of Dave, who obviously hadn’t been expecting today’s New York Times to feature an article about his latest fling.
In reply to accusations of him having a relationship with underage Hilary Mason, Congressman Hoffman stated that he was the victim of an elaborate conspiracy which aims to discredit the image of his party only a few days before the elections. Public opinion has nevertheless been shaken by the news, which has caused a boom in sales of The Chronicle. A fact that the newspaper’s vice director seemed to be particularly proud of while, wearing Armani, he squired the Ralph Lauren model through the crowd of paparazzi. Apparently, Mr Callaghan doesn’t feel that the allegations with which he is dragging the name of San Francisco’s administration through the dirt should be applied to his daily activities. Rather, his glorious performances at every important local event add another notch to his reputation as a womaniser.
Deciding that he has read enough, Tom puts the newspaper down and glares at Dave. “Do I need to go on?”
“That’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” Dave mutters, without turning to face his colleague, as though to deny even the possibility. “Did you really say it was in the New York Times?
”
“That’s what it says at the top of the front page.”
“This is impossible,” he snorts. “You must have gotten it mixed up with some other newspaper. Let me see that,” he says, almost ripping the paper out of Tom’s hands and reading the article for himself, confident that there must be something in there that will exonerate him from these despicable accusations.
Tom raises his hands as though to say ‘help yourself’ and lets him check the article for himself, certain that he’ll find nothing to get him off the hook. There isn’t much that Dave can say, because one thing is for sure: starting from today, things are going to be very different around this newsroom. Tom just needs to find the right way to tell him. “Get used to it, you’re an easy target. You’ve been sleeping with the wife of one of the most popular lawyers in town. The opposition will use that to convince the public that everything you say is just some dumb vendetta. You can almost see the headlines: Disgusting Liberal Smear Campaign Scandal. If Walker decides to go after us, your little fling with Hunt will cost us a five year lawsuit and a ton of money.”
“All this is nuts! Nuts!” yells Dave, while reading through the article once more, still unable to believe that they are actually trying to use his personal life to destroy months of work. Tom isn’t over reacting – they really have gone for the kill.
“Listen to this: ‘We wish councilman Walker a quick recovery and hope to see him back on the course in the near future. And with personal assets valued at over fifteen million dollars, not even Dave Callaghan will be able to keep Hunt away from a good divorce lawyer.’ This is pure defamation!”
“No, Dave, this is politics, and I’m not about to let people belittle the serious work we’re doing here.”
At the sound of Tom’s tone of voice, Dave finally realises just how seriously he is taking the situation, and stops feigning indignant indifference. “So are you firing me?”