I didn’t tell Jagger, but I secretly wished Zaidee had forced me to move into a room (and a bed) with Nick. At least then he’d have no choice but to acknowledge me. Given a few minutes of time to plead my case, maybe I could make him realize I was the same girl he’d fallen in love with—just seventy pounds heavier. And I was working on that, chipping away at my weight problem. Didn’t that count for something?
As it was, Nick and Matt’s bedroom door remained closed and—incredibly—they had a lock. Whenever Nick was out and about, he went around wearing a CD Walkman, humming. It seemed grossly unfair that Nick, Matt, and Briana were allowed extra amenities (like access to a CD players and Kindles so they could listen to music and read) while the rest of us suffered with zero entertainment.
“Don’t stress about it,” Janelle said. “Just focus on your game plan for losing weight and winning challenges, that’s the only way—”
“Kat, please come outside by the pool. Your interview session with Jagger will begin in five minutes,” a voice called over the house intercom.
“Sorry, guys,” I said, standing up. “Looks like it’s that time again.”
“How come they never let us know anything beforehand?” Regan complained. “Yesterday I was about to hop in the shower when Jagger ordered me to go to the Confession Chamber. I was sweaty and gross and looked like a beached whale.”
“They’re trying to keep us on our toes, keep things spontaneous. If we knew what was going to happen in advance we’d be too prepared. They want us to slip and say something stupid.” Janelle’s reality TV savvy never ceased to amaze me. I often wondered how she’d gotten cast in the first place, considering she always seemed to be one step ahead of the producers. Maybe she was a plant who was actually working for the production team. Hmm? I’d have to give that some thought.
“Well, whatever. I’ve got too much on my mind right now to worry about prepping for some dumb interview.” Janelle eyed me sympathetically. “Want me to pump Matt for more information?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Nick myself.”
“Really?” Regan asked incredulously. “How are you going to get him to talk to you?”
“Who knows? I’ll bludgeon him over the head if I have to,” I joked. “Wish me luck, gals.”
I headed downstairs and into the backyard. I had come to a decision. No matter what it took I was going to confront Nick. I was sick and tired of dancing around things. Good or bad, I needed to know where we stood. If I had any chance with him at all.
“So tell me about this boyfriend of yours,” Jagger said, settling into the chair across from me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and stared down at my hands.
“You want to hear about my boyfriend, do you?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
My boyfriend. It sounded strange, foreign. Was that what Nick was? Certainly not now, but had he ever been?
“Yeah, I’m very interested to hear more about your relationship.” He smiled at me. “Any guy worthy of your attention has gotta be pretty special.”
I knew it was a line. A cheesy line, probably prewritten for him by Zaidee or one of her cronies. After all, it was Jagger’s job to pry stuff out of us; and flattery, as they say, will get you everywhere.
But I clung to it anyway. I was feeling low as pond scum, and his flirtation was oddly comforting. “There’s really nothing to tell,” I said. “We were sort of seeing each other – or not seeing each other, if you want to get technical about it, considering we’d never met. He was a guy I started talking to online and I, probably very foolishly thought I was in love. I thought we were in love. And then we he came here and he kissed me,” I swallowed hard, to keep my emotions from getting out of control, “I thought there might be some hope, but now it’s kind of up in the air.”
“Uh-huh. What do you mean by ‘up in the air’?”
Wasn’t it obvious? Did I have to spell it out for him? “Well, it’s been over a week since Nick and I first met. We’ve barely spoken since then.”
Jagger nodded. “You guys have been pretty distant. What’s the story there?”
“What’s the story?” I repeated. “I’m fat. That’s the beginning, middle, and ending—the story of my life. Never mind that I’m smart, or loyal, or funny. At least I hope I’m all those things.”
Jagger fixed me with a small grin. “You are.”
“Well, thanks. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I’m fat, and that’s all Nick cares about. Hell, that’s all anybody cares about. My whole life, that’s the only thing that’s mattered.” My self-doubt had reached a fever pitch, and I struggled to keep it in check.
Jagger looked alarmed. “You can’t honestly think that.”
“I don’t think it; I know it.”
“Kat, you’re overreacting.”
Overreacting? My mind flashed back to our volleyball game. I remembered the man and woman who’d chastised me on the boardwalk. Total strangers who had hated me. I was a whiner, they’d said. I was lazy. Stupid. Mean.
Before I could say anything, Jagger spoke again. “Honestly, Kat, do you really believe one so-called ‘bad’ quality cancels out all of the good ones you have?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Because it doesn’t. People aren’t that shallow. Well, maybe out here in L.A. you might find a few people who are that shallow.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But what do you care what shallow people think anyway?”
I sighed. If only it were that simple. “I wouldn’t care . . . but it’s just, I don’t know, I always measure myself up to other people and I come up short. Sometimes it’s like the world is this exclusive club and I’m not a member.”
“Come on, isn’t that paranoid?” Jagger frowned. “The first step is to stop being so negative. It’s self-destructive.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Truth be told, I wasn’t normally so self-indulgent. But I’d been publicly humiliated in front of all of America. I was entitled to wallow a little. “
If you feel this bad about yourself, you’re never going to be happy, no matter how much weight you lose.”
What was he, an armchair shrink?
“Once I’m thin enough, self-esteem will no longer be an issue.”
“But who classifies when someone is ‘thin’ enough?” Jagger countered. “When you can wear a bikini? When a doctor gives you the seal of approval? When Hugh Hefner calls and invites you to do a Playboy spread?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “It’s simple, really. I want to be thin enough so I don’t turn beet red when someone tells a fat joke. I want to be thin enough so that I never get embarrassed when shopping for clothes. Thin enough that no one ever calls me lazy, or dumb, or ugly, or worthless. I want to be thin enough so that no one would ever even dream of calling me fat.”
Jagger nodded. “It seems like you’re placing a lot of emphasis on what other people think and say.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then, what if I tell you you’re thin enough? Does that count?”
I blushed. “If you meant it, it might. But we both know that’s not true.” I patted my protruding belly, wishing I could push it down, flatten it out.
“Say I do mean it. Say I prefer women who aren’t skin and bones. Say I prefer women like you, Kat.”
“But you don’t,” I argued, my mind whirling at the prospect.
“I might.”
“There’s not a man alive who does. Guys want a Cameron Diaz, not a Camryn Manheim.”
Jagger laughed. “And you know what every guy on earth wants, huh?”
“Sorry, I’m being a pain in the ass. I’m in a foul mood. I’ll admit it.” I couldn’t help smiling in spite of myself.
Despite the fact that Jagger knew all the sordid details of my life—including my real weight—I was comfortable around him. And the feeling was obviously mutual. Jagger was definitely flirting with me big-time. It was an unexpected—and highly wel
come—experience.
Then he burst the bubble.
“Full disclosure: I don’t actually prefer larger women.” I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. He’d lured me into believing him, and then slapped me in the face with reality. “Oh, right. See, I told you so,” I said, dejected. How much rejection did I have to endure in the name of this damn show?
“I don’t prefer any type of woman,” he said, still smiling. “Big, small, it doesn’t matter to me. I honestly don’t think about that kind of stuff. When you like somebody, they become more attractive to you—no matter how they started out looking. And if you don’t like them, they’re the ugliest person in the world.”
“Right.” I wasn’t falling for his cornball shtick twice.
“So, back to what we were talking about,” Jagger said. “Tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”
“Oh God, haven’t we already been through this?” I groaned. “Nick won’t talk to me. End of story.”
“Yes, but I’ve got an answer to offer you.”
“Sure, fire away. I’ll try anything. Well, just about.” I wouldn’t eat a bowl of live roaches. This wasn’t Fear Factor.
“What if I arrange a romantic dinner for the two of you? Candlelight, wine, the works! That way you could have some private, uninterrupted time together.”
I was stunned. “That would be amazing,” I said. “You could do that?”
“Of course,” Jagger said, winking. “Anything for one of my leading ladies.”
I groaned inwardly. Right when I was lured into thinking Jagger was a decent guy, he’d start up with the smarmy attitude.
“When could we do it?” I asked, trying to steady my pulse.
“How about seven o’clock?”
“Seven?” I repeated. “As in, seven o’clock tonight?”
“Yep, tonight’s the night.” He rose from his chair, signaling that our interview was over. “Be downstairs in the living room at six forty-five sharp. I’ll arrange everything.”
I stared at him in shock. That was less than an hour away. Janelle was right; they did like to keep us on our toes!
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks, Jagger! I can’t believe it—a private dinner for just the two of us!”
“Yep. Just you, Nick, a couple of cameramen, and the sound guy!” he quipped.
“Whatever you do, don’t throw yourself at him,” Janelle warned, as she applied eyeliner to my left lid. “Don’t lay all your cards on the table. Let Nick show you his hand first.”
“Oh, God, this is going to be a disaster,” I wailed.
I was upstairs preparing for my “private, uninterrupted time” with Nick. Janelle, who was much better with cosmetics than hair, had graciously offered to do my makeup. Luisa was curling my hair.
“Hey, chill out,” Luisa advised. “What are you afraid of?”
“A whole bunch of stuff,” I said. “What if I laugh so hard I spray wine out of my nose?”
“At least you’d be laughing,” Janelle said with a shrug. “If you’re laughing that’s a good sign.”
“What if I choke on a piece of food and Nick has to give me the Heimlich maneuver? He’ll have to put his arms around my body and then he’ll feel how fat my stomach still is! Oh my God, I will die of embarrassment if that happens!”
“Girlie, you need to calm the fuck down!” Luisa said. “You keep this up, you’ll be so nervous you’ll puke on his shoes.”
Great. One more thing to worry about.
“Everything’ll be fine,” Janelle said soothingly. “Just relax and be yourself. You guys had a great thing going over the phone and online, so build on that. Don’t focus on all the stuff that can go wrong.”
Which was pretty much everything.
“Okay,” I agreed, taking a few deep breaths.
Janelle gently applied eyeliner and shadow to my right lid. She finished up with some mascara, then topped it off with blush and lip gloss. I got dressed (in all black—I wanted every ounce of its slimming power), and it was six forty-five on the nose.
“Wish me luck,” I said, starting out the door.
Luisa gave me a tight hug, and Janelle patted me softly on the back. “Not that you need it, but good luck,” she said. “You’re going to have a wonderful time tonight.”
For the life of me, I hoped she was right.
Chapter Twenty-One
When I first started chatting online with Nick I never would have predicted our first date would take place in front of all of America.
Even though I was a few minutes late, Nick still hadn’t arrived.
I darted into the downstairs bathroom for one final appearance check in the mirror, and was surprisingly satisfied with the reflection. My hair was curled into soft waves and piled elegantly on top of my head; my face was delicately made up to show off my best features, and my body? Not so bad! The outfit was decidedly slimming, true. But my weight had dipped to 199 pounds, making me nearly thirty pounds lighter than when I’d first joined the show.
To some people, 199 pounds might sound pretty hefty, but for me it was thrilling. I was in the hundreds! I was only one pound away from the big two-double-0, but still. That one pound gap felt as wide as the Grand Canyon. I was ready to knock Nick dead!
My nighttime cameraman Tate stood dutifully by my side, filming my every move.
I returned from the bathroom, and still no Nick. According to my watch, it was two minutes till seven o’clock. I remembered Jagger’s instructions to be here at six forty-five sharp. Obviously, it wasn’t being strictly enforced. After what seemed an eternity, the double doors to the living room swung open, and in he came.
My heart caught in my throat. Oh. My. God. There were no words to describe what it was like to be here so close to him, at long last, in the flesh.
Like me, Nick was dressed in all black—but he was wearing an expensive-looking suit with a black shirt and a shiny black tie. His dark hair had been cut shorter since the last time I’d seen him, and it was slightly spiked.
Just being near him made me weak in the knees. I tried to push them out of my mind, but memories kept leaping into my mind. The things we’d said to each other, the things we’d promised, the things I’d felt for him. And the things we’d done. I went blood red as I stood face-to-face with the man who had described touching and kissing me, covering every inch of my body with his fingers and tongue. All the times we’d had phone sex, when I’d brought myself to orgasm over and over again aided by the sound of his intoxicating voice and words.
I had told him everything – everything there was to tell – about myself. Every secret, every feeling, every desire. And now here he was, standing right in front of me.
I took a deep, shaky breath.
Well.
This was reality, all right.
“Lovely to see you, Kat,” Nick said, smiling slightly. He extended his hand and I shook it.
“Nice to see you, too,” I managed, removing my sweaty palm from his and wiping it casually against my pants. I felt in desperate need of a syringe of Botox—Alyssa had said a few shots in your palm is enough to paralyze your sweat glands for six months.
We stood awkwardly for a couple of minutes; then Jagger came sauntering in. I had never been so relieved to see him in my life. Jagger was dressed in a white tuxedo and his hair was slicked back. He gestured toward me with a little bow.
“Greetings, Mademoiselle Katrina,” he said in a French accent. “Monsieur Nicholas. I will be your Maitre D’ for the evening. Follow me please,” he instructed. “Your adventure awaits.”
I was hoping our “adventure” would take place at a fancy restaurant somewhere in downtown Los Angeles, but we weren’t venturing outside the mansion’s backyard. Literally.
Jagger led us outside where an elegant table for two had been erected. We would be dining in full view of the From Fat to Fabulous household. And, as Jagger had promised, two cameramen and a woman holding a boom mic were present. I wasn’t fazed; I had given up on privacy a l
ong time ago.
“Tonight we’ve prepared two separate menus for you,” Jagger explained once we were seated. “One menu contains a decadent four-course meal prepared by one of California’s most celebrated chefs. The other contains a two-course, macrobiotic dinner intended to help keep you, Kat, on track with your diet. Which one you choose from is entirely up to you.” He handed us each a menu.
“I’m not trying to slim,” Nick said, without even flipping his open. “I’ll take the gourmet meal.”
I peeked inside the menu at the two-course macrobiotic fare. Rutabaga Delight followed by Fish Fillet with Organic Mustard Sauce. They had some nerve using a word like delight in the same sentence as rutabaga. I couldn’t think of anything that sounded less delightful. Then again, seeing how I was far too nervous to eat, what difference did it make?
“I’ll have the second option—the macrobiotic health-food dinner.”
Nick nodded his approval.
“Ah-ha! Not so fast,” Jagger said gleefully. “I said you could choose one of the menus—I didn’t say you could choose both. I’m afraid you’ll have to come to an agreement on which one you want. You’re both going to be dining from the same menu.”
Nick flipped open his menu, then wrinkled his nose. “We’re staying with the four-course gourmet meal,” he announced.
I hate it when someone speaks for me.
“Actually, Jagger, we need a moment to decide.”
“What on earth for?” Nick demanded. “Rutabaga Delight sounds positively unpalatable.”
“I’m trying to be healthy.” I wasn’t sure what offended me more, that he’d insulted my decision, or that he’d spoken for me without asking my opinion first.
“One night won’t make much difference,” he said.
“Actually, it will. Everything adds up!”
We were off to a terrible start. Nick shot me a stony glare, and I decided it wasn’t worth the argument. Pick your battles, I scolded myself silently. He’s right, one night won’t matter.
“You know what, let’s take the gourmet dinner. Why not?”