The Next Big Thing

  We met in online bulletin board for anglophiles. Even though I’ve never actually been there, I’ve been obsessed with England for as long as I can remember. I’ve dreamed about for so long: Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden, the Tube, the gorgeous countryside. I wanted to explore it all, every nook and cranny, from the ancient stone castles to the wild nightlife, where I’d round things out by having a pint (or three) of ale in one of the century’s old pubs. Somewhere along the way I’d meet a gorgeous, shaggy-haired English boy who would speak to me with his adorable accent and then kiss me gently under the soft drizzle of rain.

  It’s been a secret dream of mine since I was a very young, and in some ways Nick is the closest I’ve ever come to having a real piece of it. I rarely share this dream with people, because most of them just think it’s silly, or crazy, or dumb. How can I be so in love with a place I’ve never even seen? I guess it’s the same way I’m in love with a man I’ve never met….

  Even though meeting someone on the Internet isn’t such a big deal anymore, meeting someone on the other side of the world is sort of mortifying.

  It embarrasses me and, as such, I have carefully avoided telling people the truth. Instead I say we got together while I was visiting my parents in Denver.

  “He was there on holiday with friends,” I lie. “We met at a ski lodge. It was love at first sight. It was devastating when I had to return to Memphis and he had to return to England, but our love is strong enough to survive the long distance.”

  It’s pure bullshit, but most people buy it. Only Donna knows the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “It’s not like you’re one of those dorks who only has Internet friends,” Donna said when I told her. “You were bored and looking to have some fun. You couldn’t have predicted you’d meet a guy who would sweep you off your feet.”

  It was a massive understatement. I’d never known anyone from England before and I could tell from his very first post, which quickly progressed to e-mailing were so great, so connected. Nick painted a gorgeous picture of England. He’d been born in a place called Royal Tunbridge Wells, a town that sounded so perfect even its name was magical.

  He’d gone to school at Oxford, obtaining both an undergrad and a masters, and graduating with honors. He was perfect in every way – if I could have conjured up my dream man, Nick would have been it.

  He lived in London now and often promised to fly me over for a visit “whenever I felt ready.” Money wasn’t a concern for him; his journalism job was low-paying, but his family was loaded.

  “You’ll love it here,” he wrote. “We can stroll hand-in-hand along the bank of the Thames, visit Oxford Street, eat Indian food. London’s a multicultural city, which I absolutely adore. We have the biggest Indian population outside of Asia. I can’t wait for you to learn all about Britain.”

  It was a wonderful fantasy, but I had no idea how to make it a reality. The trouble was, no matter how much I was dying to meet Nick in person – and believe me, I was dying to – I couldn’t exactly do that. At least not for a very long time.

  Even though I trusted that what we had was real, I hadn’t exactly been perfectly honest with Nick.

  To put it bluntly, I first blew it when I told him I had a flat stomach. It was, without a doubt, the dumbest mistake I have ever made in a relationship.

  The thing is, Nick alluded to the fact that he wanted a woman who was “trim and fit.” Unfortunately, he didn’t this until we’d already been talking for four months. So it couldn’t have been that important to him, right? And he never suggested we exchange pics, a fact that even I found to be a little bit odd after a certain point. Wasn’t he at least a little bit curious as to how I looked?

  When I posed that question to him one night during one of our marathon phone sessions (and, admittedly, after I’d had just a bit too much wine) it was met with a long pause. Then, Nick finally said, “I’d love to see a picture of you, Kat.”

  My breath drew in.

  “But I don’t need to.”

  I exhaled.

  Huh? What was this? Had I found the one man on the planet who didn’t care about a woman’s appearance?

  “I already know exactly what you look like.”

  I was taken aback. “You…you do?” I stammered. How was that possible? I’d been so careful. I didn’t have a photo uploaded to my Linkedin, and I’d set my Facebook profile to a photo of my cat (which was probably a dead giveaway that I was a “fat girl,” but I didn’t have any better options). A Google image search of me turned up nothing, so I’d thought I was safe. (Of course, a Google image search of Nick had only turned up one picture – a grainy photo of him at an art gallery. It was something I found odd, but I never questioned the issue. After all, to do so would mean I’d have to admit I’d been Googling him in the first place. It would also bring the whole photo issue front and center, which I’d been trying to avoid.)

  Of course, in wine there’s truth, and in this case the wine had caused me to blurt out something about exchanging pictures, leading to Nick’s proclamation that he knew exactly what I looked like.

  I was horrified. “How?” I choked out.

  “It’s easy,” he said softly. “I’ve known since the first moment I heard your voice, Kat. I can picture you perfectly in my head...blonde hair, green eyes, gorgeous body.”

  Well, he had two out of three right.

  Nick and I had promised, from the very beginning, that we would trust each other. And part of that trust meant we wouldn’t snoop for each other online. We never went into the specific details of this, but I took it to mean I wasn’t supposed to, say, Google him. Which I did immediately. I also ran the aforementioned Google image search, turning up very little, and greatly piquing my curiosity.

  How was it possible that in this day and age such a hot, high profile person could leave so little of an online trail?

  I knew why I wasn’t online. I’d taken great pains to keep it that way. I was the one always ducking out of the way of cameras, the one who kept her Facebook settings heavily guarded so that no one could tag me in anything or search for me by name. I didn’t have a twitter account or an Instagram, and rarely went out to social functions. Even if Nick had broken his promise and Googled me, he wouldn’t have found much of anything. In some ways I found this comforting. As long as I could control the image I put forth of myself, I could keep this relationship on track.

  But then I messed up and started bugging him about pictures.

  Once I’d opened that door, there was no closing it. So thanks to my prodding, we wound up exchanging blurry scans of ourselves. Nick sent me the exact same photo of himself that I’d already found online, the one of him at the art opening. The quality was slightly better, but the pic was still grainy. Nevertheless, it showed him to be tall and handsome, with jet-black hair and dark eyes.

  My photo showed me to be thin, a feat I’d accomplished by taking a picture of myself snapped eight years earlier when I was at 174 pounds, my lowest weight ever—and doctoring it in Photoshop. Yes, I realize how bad this is, and yes I realize it was a stupid thing to do. But I panicked. I didn’t want to lose him. Besides, it wasn’t a total lie. I was planning on starting a full-fledged, hardcore diet any day now. So by the time Nick met me I actually would look like the girl in that picture. That had to count for something, right? (Or so I tried to convince myself.)

  Nick wrote back that I was pretty, and he was happy I had a flat stomach. He went on to say he thought a size eight was “really pushing it” and a size ten was “way too fat for my tastes. I make a lot of public appearances for Status, so these things have to be considered.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Nick I wore a size eighteen. Instead I told myself, Finally, just what I need to kick start my weight-loss dream. I knew I either had to lose the pounds or I’d lose Nick. Sooner or later, he’d demand a meeting.

  Yet even with that horror hanging over me, I hadn’t made any headway. Maybe a monetary i
ncentive was exactly what I needed. “So?” Donna prodded, growing impatient. If anyone other than Donna had handed me that article I’d have rolled it into a ball and shoved it up their ass. But I knew her intentions were good. I thought about the downside. For starters, I’d have to reveal my real weight on national television. I don’t reveal my weight to my closest friends and family, not without knocking thirty pounds off. How would I do it on TV?

  I rationalized. True, all of America will see how fat I am, but then they’ll also see how hard I work to fix it.

  I often think the general public believes people my size do nothing but sit around and eat cake and bacon (not at the same time). This would be a great opportunity to prove this isn’t true.

  I picked up my notebook and wrote, You think it’s worth a shot? Then passed it back to Donna.

  Absolutely! Imagine if you won all that money? What would you even do with it?

  That was easy. I was grinning at the thought. Quit my job and move to England. Marry Nick. Then launch a career as a—

  “Excuse me, Kat.”

  Instinctively, I dropped my pen. “

  You want to share that with the rest of the group? If it’s so fascinating, I think we all ought to know.”

  Richard had stopped his presentation and was staring straight at me. Around the room a few people snickered. My ears started burning and my face felt prickly with heat. It was like being in grade school, getting caught passing notes by the teacher.

  “I’m sorry, Richard,” I said, quickly putting the notebook away. “I was filling Donna in on what she missed.”

  I hoped he would buy it, but he didn’t. “I’m paying you to work, not pass notes, kiddo,” he said, pausing before pulling up a new PowerPoint screen. For some inane reason, Richard has taken to calling me “kiddo.” Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-seven. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind paying attention, I think we’d all appreciate it.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been embarrassing, but at least he hadn’t grabbed my notebook and read what I’d written. After such a close call I tried to pay attention. But I was already planning my post-reality show life.

  I was going to be a star. A rich, beautiful, thin star.

  Chapter Two

  The deadline for From Fat to Fabulous was in less than four days. If I wanted to audition for the show, I’d have to act fast.

  The first order of business was to buy something new to wear for my audition video, a nightmare I tackled after work on Tuesday. When you’re fat, buying a new outfit isn’t a casual affair. You can’t simply drop by the mall and scope out the latest fashions. You need a well-thought-out plan. It’s the only way to avoid disappointment, overspending, or worse yet, mortal embarrassment.

  The one thing every big girl knows about clothes shopping is that you’ve got to have a partner. Even though Donna is my best friend, I never even entertained the thought of taking her along. I’m not stupid. There is only one person I trust in a shopping situation: Cara Magley, my old college roommate.

  Cara and I see each other about four times a year, almost always when one of us requires something new to wear. Cara is a size twenty. Even most big guys simply do not get what we plus-sized gals go through to find a decent outfit. While a size eighteen girl is hard-pressed to find even one piece of clothing that fits her in Gap, a similarly sized man will have no problem whatsoever. Retail clothing stores rarely carry above a size XL in women’s outfits but they stock 2XL and bigger for men. Gap even has a 3XL for those guys who “need extra room.” Why provide stuff for plus-sized men but forget about women altogether? Aren’t we viable consumers? And everyone knows men’s clothing sizes are cut much more generously to begin with.

  When I phoned Cara and explained about the reality show she was jazzed for me. We made plans to meet after work; she didn’t ask what store I wanted to go to. She didn’t have to. There was pretty much only one place in all of Memphis that carried what I was looking for.

  “I can’t wait—an evening at our favorite store!” Cara rubbed her hands together in mock anticipation as we entered the mall.

  “More like fifteen minutes.” I snorted. “That’s all the time it takes to go through their stock.”

  “Ah, come on, Kat. Lane Bryant’s not so bad,” she said.

  “True.” I nodded. “I just wish they didn’t put all the best stuff by the front door.”

  The marketing geniuses at LB, in an attempt to attract more customers, always place the most striking items right in the store-front windows. The trouble is, no one wants to be seen shopping there. You never know who might walk by and catch a glimpse of you browsing in “the fat girl’s store.”

  And it isn’t just the fear of seeing someone you know. I had an upsetting incident once, when a group of frat guys paraded past Lane Bryant yelling “Sooooey!” as though calling a pig. I’ve heard of overweight girls who are so paranoid about things like that happening to them that they shop exclusively on Lane Bryant’s website.

  And thus, to combat any potential problems, Cara and I have devised and perfected “The Lane Bryant Dance.” Since I was the one shopping today, and she was assisting, Cara guarded the door.

  “Make it quick,” she instructed, positioning herself behind a rack of clothes just to the left of the entrance. I watched her pretend to rummage through a bunch of dresses, while keeping a firm eye outside. She was poised and ready to give a signal should trouble arise.

  “All right,” I said, “here goes nothing!” I shot through the store like a marathon runner, snatching clothes off the racks as fast as humanly possible. It took me all of twelve minutes to locate and try on a deep purple button-down shirt and a pair of nice black slacks.

  After snagging an acceptable outfit, I made a mad dash toward the cash registers. I was grateful to have found something that would fit without emphasizing my butt, thighs, or any other unflattering body part.

  The salesgirl rang up my purchases and placed them in a giant navy blue bag with LANE BRYANT printed across the front, back, and both sides. Before we’d even made it out of the store, Cara reached into her purse and retrieved a folded Gap bag. We quickly transferred my purchases.

  “I’ve got an exquisite treat in store,” Cara said, as we made our way out to the parking lot, tossing the offending Lane Bryant bag into the first trash can we found. “Remember that quadruple extra-large T-shirt we both swooned over at Wal-Mart last year, the green one with the giant rooster on the front?”

  “I think you mean puked over, not swooned.”

  “I recall you tried it on and discovered what a great fit it was, how it hung down to your knees and pouched out like maternity wear. Well, today is your lucky day, ’cause you’re finally going to get your hands on that treasured piece.” She winked. “And to show you what a great friend I am, I’m buying.”

  I burst out laughing. “You brat!” I said, even though, secretly, I kind of wished she would buy me something. It’s not that I’m greedy, but Cara’s parents are exceptionally wealthy.

  “Come on. You know you’re dying to wear the rooster for your audition. It would really knock their socks off,” she promised.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  We drove over to Wal-Mart, where we discovered the plus-sized clothing choices had slightly improved. The rooster T-shirt was nowhere to be found, but I did buy a nice brown top, a blue button-down, and a halfway decent pair of flared jeans. Having already spent close to a hundred and fifty dollars I decided to call it a day.

  Just as we neared the exit Cara stopped. “Kat, look!” She grabbed a light blue shirt with a picture of a big yellow pitcher sewn onto the front. A kaleidoscope of pastel flowers sprouted up from the center. “What do you think?” she asked, holding it up to her chest. “Is this perfect for a night out or what?”

  I smirked, grabbing the shirt from her hands and steering her out of the store. “I think we’ve had enough fun for one day.”

  “You know,” Cara mused, “
the fashion industry must think bigger women have heinous taste.”

  “If I get on From Fat to Fabulous you’d better believe I’m going to tell America how sucky the plus-sized clothing industry is,” I said, opening the car door. I started up the engine and headed out toward Union Avenue.

  “After I’m finished, I’ll bet stores like Victoria’s Secret”—we both groaned at the mention of the lingerie chain—“will start carrying our sizes.”

  “Don’t bet on it. You’re not a miracle worker,” Cara said. “

  Hey!” I exclaimed as a thought hit me. “Why don’t you try out, too? It’d be a riot if both of us got on.”

  Cara winced. “No,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I couldn’t deal with it. It’d be like announcing to everybody in the country that I have a weight problem. Plus, my parents would kill me. And while we’re on the topic I have to be honest with you.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Are you sure you want to do this, Kat?”

  “The more I think about it, the more excited I get,” I told her. It was true. “If I get on, I can be a good role model,” I suggested, “for fat women everywhere.”

  Cara considered this for a moment. “Yeah, if you get on—that’s a big if. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” Her tone shifted and she gave me a sad look, one that belied many years of big-girl heartache. “When you start counting on something, that’s when you get disappointed.”

  * * *

  “They want to know if I have difficulty reaching orgasm.”

  “What! Who wants to know?” Donna demanded. She was practically shouting into the phone.

  “The casting people with From Fat to Fabulous. I’m filling out the application as we speak.” It was Wednesday night and I had just downloaded the massive PDF file from their website. And I do mean massive. All things included, it spanned eighty-three pages.

  “That’s nuts,” she said, lowering her voice. “Why do they need to know about your orgasms?”