The Next Big Thing (2 page)

Incentive.
Maybe that is the secret ingredient I’ve been missing all this time. And what could be a better incentive than being paid ten thousand dollars every week to lose weight?

When I began talking to Nick online, I had hoped he’d be the perfect motivation. Nick Appleby works as the fashion editor for
Status,
a sophisticated men’s magazine in London.

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 p
icture 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 incentive 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?”

“You’ve got me. But the entire application is like that. I figured the questions would be personal—we are talking about weight after all—but I had no idea they’d be this bad.”

“Sounds intrusive.”

“It’s an interrogation, that’s what it is,” I told her. “Have I ever made a sex tape? Do I masturbate often? How many men have a slept with? How many
women
! What the hell does any of this stuff have to do with weight loss?”

“Beats me.”

“By the way, I do have some good news,” I said, switching subjects. “Nick finally wrote me back.” It was more than good news. Words couldn’t describe how deeply relieved I felt. I’d spent the past three days in a state of total anxiety over why he’d been out of touch.

“Did he say why he’s been MIA?”

I groaned. “That’s actually why I’m calling. He told me he was too busy with work to write. What do you think that means?”

“Well . . .”

“Come on, Donna, give it to me straight. I can take it.”

She hesitated. “It’s tough to say. He could be telling the truth. From what you’ve told me, his job sounds pretty intense. He probably keeps pretty busy going to all those fashion shows, all that manly stuff he does.” She burst into giggles. I knew what she was hinting at.

“Nick’s not gay,” I said defensively. “I know, you’ve told me he’s not. But you’ve got to admit, his job . . .” I knew I shouldn’t get angry, but I was. “Did you forget what I told you?
Sexually
. . .” I emphasized, letting my voice trail off. “

Yeah, yeah, Nick’s into giving oral sex. Trust me, I didn’t forget,” she said. “You mention it every five minutes—you’re awfully proud of that, aren’t you?”

“I am, actually,” I said sheepishly. It seemed an important conquest. It wasn’t often that I “got some,” and I was pretty excited about the prospect. The guys I’d been with in the past subscribed to the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sexual philosophy. It would be nice to be with a man who was concerned about my pleasure for a change.

“Well, I’d better go,” I told her. “I just wanted to update you on everything. Now, I’ve got to get this finished before I go to bed.”

“Have fun.”

I got to work as soon as we hung up. The first couple of questions were a breeze.
 

Name:
Katrina Lynne Larson
 

Age:
27
 

Height:
5’6”
 

Weight:
227
(Painful as it was, I put down my real weight without bothering to knock off the usual thirty pounds.)  

Hair color:
Blonde
 

List all previous boyfriends:
That was easy enough. There were only three:
Bryce, Josh, and Nathan.
I thought briefly of including Nick, but opted against it. There was no telling how many people might ultimately see my application. And we hadn’t actually met, so I reasoned it was okay to leave him off.

Favorite Book:
I thought about this one for a minute. My real favorite book is
To the Nines,
by Janet Evanovich, but I couldn’t very well write that down. I needed something literary, something that would show the producers I was intelligent. I racked my brain, trying to remember the last important novel I’d read. After much deliberation, I settled on
The Great Gatsby.
It was one of the few books I’d been required to study in a college English lit course that really held my interest.

I kept on for a while, jotting down everything from my favorite movie (
Pretty Woman
) to my favorite type of ice cream (chocolate chocolate chip). I told them I was an Aquarius, that I loved roller coasters, and that my secret dream was to be a novelist. Then things got uncomfortable.  

How long have you had a weight problem?
Since age ten.
 

Have you ever been given a cruel nickname because of your weight? If so, what was it, when was it given to you, and by whom?
I’ve been called Fat Kat, Kat Lardson, Kat Largeson.

When?
Grades five through twelve.

By whom?
There’s too many people to list.
 

Is anyone else in your family overweight?
Nope, I’m a lone wolf.
 

Are you jealous of skinny people?
Every minute of the day.
 

If you could change one feature on your body, what would it be?
My hips. I’m as pear-shaped as they come: 38-34-46. If you stretched my hips out, they’d be almost four feet tall!
Predictably, the questions about weight spanned several pages. Then the unpredictable stuff began. In addition to asking whether I came during intercourse, the people at
From Fat to Fabulous
wanted, inexplicably, to know every sordid detail of my sex life. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I actually had anything to tell. The sad truth of it was, I hadn’t slept with anyone in fourteen months, ever since breaking up with my last boyfriend, Josh. Or, if you want to get technical about it, being dumped by Josh. I answered them to the best of my ability.