Because Fat Girl

Chapter One

By the time I heard the giggles, it was already too late. A junior clerk had my arm in a grip and was pulling me behind a mannequin.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?” I replied.

“Is Chris Stanson really in the store today?” Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper.

“God, I hope not,” I said.

“Do you need any help with him, Diana? I know he has a reputation for being very particular.” Another clerk—Tim, or maybe it was Jim—sidled up to me like I was his best friend. He was the only one I’d ever talked to before this, all of them new recruits in a department far removed from where I worked.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to handle whatever or whomever the day brings us,” I said, extracting myself from the group and walking toward the Personal Shopper department where I worked.

“I’m in shoes today if you need anything,” said Tim or Jim, but there was no way any of them were getting a call from me. They’d already proven they couldn’t handle someone like Mr. Stanson, and we couldn’t afford another Marie incident.

I hurried over to the staff room, glancing at the large stack of inventory paperwork that would be ignored again today, much to the chagrin of accounting. Putting my purse and phone into our new lockbox, I adjusted my clothes, reapplied my lipstick, and headed out onto the floor. My colleague Emmy was waiting for me, giving the gawking junior clerks a steely glare that made them all scatter.

“Is he here yet?” I asked.

Emmy didn’t answer, just pulled back the privacy curtain and gave me a “see for yourself” look.

Opening the dressing room door, I was greeted by a tall, white, sandy-blond heartthrob with a set of mesmerizing blue eyes and the kind of smile that could charm your clothes right off.

“Emmy, my love,” Chris Stanson said, getting up and walking right past me to kiss her on the cheeks. “It’s been far too long.”

“You were here last month,” Emmy pointed out.

“Like I said, far too long.” Mr. Stanson laid on the charm.

Chris Stanson was a child star turned leading man and Hollywood’s latest obsession, starring in multiple box office hits that summer with a couple more planned for the fall. With his success came press junkets, galas, award shows, and society events, each of which needed a uniquely different yet similarly dashing ensemble. That’s where we came in. Or Emmy, I should say, since people like Chris Stanson never gave me the time of day.

We were technically equals at work, but Emmy’s supermodel stature granted her an access to megastars that I didn’t have. Emmy, a flawless fashionista with impeccable taste, hadn’t gotten her job on looks alone, and the ensembles she put together were truly inspiring. Her personality, however, was rather cold, which made it hard to get to know her as a colleague, but it somehow drew celebrities to her even more. Some came with their stylists, some came alone, but all came to see Emmy.

Unless it was to or about a client, Emmy rarely spoke to anyone, including me, opting instead to stand and silently evaluate. I wasn’t sure if she was a snob or shy, but she’d never been outright rude to me, and she was always good about sharing commissions when I helped her, which was the definition of considerate at a high-end, often cutthroat store like Roussard’s. I was pretty sure she was queer, like me, but even that I hadn’t nailed down over our seven years working together. All I really knew about Emmy was she loved every little detail concerning fashion.

She’d texted me the night before to see if I could come in early to help her with a client, and I’d begrudgingly agreed, weighing the potential commission against the anger our accounting department would aim at me for putting inventory off for another day.

Marie, our newest junior clerk, usually helped Emmy with fittings, but she’d been fired recently for sending her friend a photo of action star Drew Williams shopping in gray sweatpants. The photo made its rounds on the internet, causing a scandal that ended in a new store policy: locking cell phones in a box during our shifts.

Now, I wish I’d thought to ask who we’d be dressing. I might have said I was too busy, even booked another client, if I’d known I’d be starting my day with this guy.

Here’s the thing about Chris Stanson: he was even more gorgeous in person than on screen and taller than you’d expect. More often than not, movie stars were uglier and shorter in person, a fact that made me feel more comfortable near them. But not Chris Stanson. He was an Adonis, and he knew it, which made him even more insufferable to work with and made me even more aware of my status as a mere mortal.

Today was no different. Mr. Stanson was going on and on about this dinner party he was throwing, telling Emmy she should come, name-dropping pop star Kali and action star Drew Williams, as if that would draw Emmy in. She worked with celebrities all the time; Kali even used to come into the shop to get dressed by Emmy. If Chris Stanson was trying to impress her, it wasn’t working.

“This suit would be great for your dinner party,” Emmy said, holding up a dark gray Armani.

“Actually, I’m here for another event.” Mr. Stanson went on to explain he was hosting a fundraiser for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (or LACMA as the locals called it) at his house in a few weeks, requiring him to break free from his usual classic black or navy and go for something a little flashier.

“None of these will do.” Mr. Stanson pointed to the suits Emmy had laid out. “I need to pop .”

Anyone else would have been flustered by the game change, but if Emmy was bothered, she didn’t show it. She simply excused herself to go pull other options, leaving Mr. Stanson and me alone in the room.

“Would you like some Flamingo Estate cold brew?” I asked to fill the awkward silence. Emmy had preordered the famous pink cans—his file said it was his drink of choice—from the notoriously bougie L.A. lifestyle company and put one in his room on ice. Just the kind of touch a place like Roussard’s was known for.

“Sure.” He grinned. I could tell by the way he smiled that he was used to it having an alluring effect on people, and I could see why. The way his lips curved seductively, the intensity of his eyes when he fixed them on me.

But Chris Stanson did nothing for me. Not in that fake way girls in Hollywood say celebrities don’t affect them, pretending they’re used to walking in the presence of the gods, acting like they’re blind to the disparity between us and them. It’s precisely because I was acutely aware of our differences that Chris Stanson didn’t faze me. I studied Greek tragedies; I knew what happened to mortals who consorted with gods. I wanted no part in that.

It was one of the reasons I excelled at my job. A lack of fawning over the rich and famous was a unique asset in this town. Celebrities came to Roussard’s to work with Emmy. Desperate people came to work with me. Awkward rich kids were my bread and butter, especially fat girls and gender nonconforming queers whose mothers were exasperated with trying to dress them “in a manner appropriate for the occasion.” Their size, style, sexuality, and gender presentation were all seen as a personal fault, a rebellion against their families’ wishes for them to be thin, pretty, straight, and cis. I was a last resort, and the parents often came to me exhausted and looking for a miracle.

The key to my success was not settling for the small selection of clothes we kept in the store, but helping the person dream about finding an outfit that actually made them feel confident, beautiful, sexy even—something fat, queer, and trans people don’t really get to experience like thin, straight, cis people do. I’d grown up belittled for my weight, bullied for being gay, and generally miserable in my body. It wasn’t until I found plus-size fashion that I truly connected with myself, and I saw it as my job at Roussard’s to help others feel the same.

But while I loved fashion, dressing people was not my dream. Like a typical L.A. cliché, I moved to Hollywood because I wanted to make movies. I longed to write, direct, and star in the kinds of films that transformed audiences, ones full of characters that looked and acted like me and my friends, the people pushed to the margins of society: femmes, queers, people of color, gender nonconforming folks, and bodies of all different shapes and abilities.

You needed money to make movies, though, so I stayed at Roussard’s and lived with my sister and her kids in the suburbs, trying to save up as much as I could, working tirelessly on scripts during my days off, hustling my way to a big break.

I was starry-eyed but not naive, and I knew that break wouldn’t come from someone like Chris Stanson. He was him, I was me, and there was no bridging the gap society placed between us. So while most of America would love to be sitting in a room alone with People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” I was itching to get out of there and back to my own clients.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll go help Emmy,” I said after pouring his coffee.

“Sure, yeah, great,” he replied, texting on his phone, not bothering to look up at me as he spoke.

I left the customer lounge and headed straight for the bright coral Kiton cashmere jacket we’d gotten in the day before, the suit I’d been thinking of ever since Mr. Stanson said he needed something that “popped.” I grabbed a bright white pocket square, white pants, and a white shirt with light orange stripes to complement it. No tie, I decided. This was an artsy event; he’d want to be less formal.

“What do you think?” I showed the pairing to Emmy.

“He’s basic,” she said dismissively.

“Can I still take it back to see?” I asked, knowing better than to present something to her client without her approval.

She agreed that it was worth a shot. “If only for contrast.”

Emmy pulled an additional pocket square and cream pants for my jacket, and together we headed back with our bounty. Chris Stanson was busy talking on his phone, so we displayed the items on various pegs around the dressing room while we waited for him to finish sweet-talking whoever was on the other line. Without hanging up, Mr. Stanson pointed to his now-empty coffee cup, then at me, and mouthed, “More.” Emmy looked at me expectantly, and with a sigh, I left for the stock room where she kept extra.

It’s not that I was above getting someone coffee. I got coffee without complaint for the first year I worked in Personal Shopper, and I’d happily grab coffee for a friend. But there was something about a man telling me to pour him coffee that riled my feminist brain. It always brought up images of old men in suits sitting around large mahogany desks, the only woman in the room pouring them drinks while they admired her ass and called her “toots.” Or the stories I’d heard from women executives in corporate jobs who were still expected to order everyone coffee, take notes, and clean up the men’s messes while guys their junior sat back and relaxed.

I wondered if Chris Stanson ever got coffee for anyone else, if he ever even noticed how his coffee got to him, or if he took for granted its appearance in his hand. As I grabbed another can of the overpriced drink, I thought for the millionth time about what life would be like if women quit catering to men.

What would we wear?

What would we say?

What would we weigh?

Coffee acquired, I walked back into the fitting room to find Emmy and Mr. Stanson laughing together as he stood on the pedestal wearing the outfit I’d picked out for him, neither of them acknowledging my reappearance.

“I love it,” he said, fake posing for photos in the mirror. “I never would have thought to wear something like this, but I love it. What’s this color called?”

“Coral,” Emmy replied.

“Coral,” he repeated, trying the word on like a piece of clothing, seeing if it fit. “I guess I like the color coral. Thank you, Emmy.”

“It was Diana’s pick,” she corrected, acknowledging me as I poured more coffee into his mug. “She gets the credit.”

“Thanks, Coffee Girl.” He was smiling like I should be grateful for his attention.

I wanted to punch him in that cocky, dimpled face of his, but instead I dismissed myself to go downstairs and find shoes for his outfit. Hoping to vent, I searched for my best friend, Janelle, who also worked at Roussard’s, but she was on a break. I grabbed a pair of Gucci loafers patterned with coral and green G ’s and a gold buckle on them. Tim or Jim offered to help bring them up to the dressing room for me, but I made him stay away. Though the shoes were a bit outrageous, they paired well with the coral jacket, and Mr. Stanson loved them.

“I feel like a different person.” He strutted around the dressing room. “It’s not too flamboyant, is it?”

“It’s perfect for LACMA,” Emmy stated in her matter-of-fact way that left no room for discussion.

“If you can’t make it to dinner, you should come to the LACMA fundraiser,” Chris said to her. “See the suit in action.”

“I’m busy,” Emmy declined, taking the shoes from him and putting them back in their box.

“I’ll have Bradley bring over an invitation for you anyways, just in case,” Chris insisted, coming out of the dressing room and handing Emmy his credit card. “As a thanks for finding me this suit.”

“Diana found the outfit,” Emmy reminded him, ringing up his purchase. “She should be the one to go.”

Chris Stanson glanced at me, then back at Emmy. “Then I’ll have Bradley bring over two invitations, one for you, one for Coffee Girl.”

“Fine. Here you go.” Emmy handed him the bag with his shoes and pocket square. He said his goodbyes and invited her to dinner one last time before he left, saying nothing to me.

“Are you going to the party?” I asked on our way to clean up the dressing room.

“No,” she said, gathering the suits Chris had passed on. “You?”

“Normally I’d veer far away from that guy… but I really love LACMA, and it could be a chance to meet some interesting artists.”

“Both tickets are yours, then,” Emmy said as I walked over to the table and picked up Chris Stanson’s coffee from where it sat, untouched.