Because Fat Girl

Chapter Five

The doldrums of heading back to work after such an eventful weekend was dulled a bit, knowing my favorite client was coming into the store. Shamaya, a boisterous lifestyle blogger, lived a life of fortune and glamour. Her father was born in Jodhpur and moved to Mumbai to become a successful Indian film producer, and her mother had been a farmer’s daughter from Guanajuato turned famous Mexican telenovela star, which meant Shamaya spent part of her childhood in India, part in Mexico, and part in the U.S.A. giving her one of those impossible-to-pin-down accents.

She was very popular online, with around a million followers on most social media apps and the kind of hits on her blog that would make major news sites jealous. She was known for two contrasting things: her signature comical vulgarity as she displayed the ridiculously over-the-top wealth and access that came from being a nepo baby, and her lovingly tender posts about body positivity and the way society treats fat women of color.

One day she’d post about her latest Neiman Marcus haul, and the next she’d show herself half-naked in the dressing room, all her insecurities laid bare. Shamaya appealed to a broad audience precisely because she never apologized for who she was, embracing every inch of the largesse that was her body and life. She was one of my biggest inspirations—and my biggest commissions.

Shamaya sashayed into the dressing room looking fabulous in a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a peek-a-boo cutout on her belly, carrying overflowing bags from Tres, an upscale Mexican restaurant nearby.

“I’m starving,” she declared, piling containers onto the small dressing room table. “Food first, fashion later.”

“I like your priorities,” Janelle chimed in, helping Shamaya with the spread.

With most of my clients, Janelle simply came up to consult on shoes, then quickly returned to her own department, but Shamaya had a particularly voracious appetite for fancy footwear, so Janelle’s manager let her spend the whole afternoon with us when she was in town. Shamaya always insisted on taking her time to indulge in the pleasures of life, which for her included eating, shopping, and gossiping. Over the years of afternoons together, the three of us had become great friends, and we all looked forward to our “working lunches.”

“Is that Premme?” I asked, pointing to Shamaya’s outfit.

“This old thing?” She twirled around, showing off the jumpsuit. “It’s my favorite to wear on days I want to be fashionable yet comfortable.”

“I like that you consider those pointy Louboutins you paired it with comfortable,” Janelle said.

“A girl can’t leave the house looking sloppy, my love,” Shamaya answered, sitting down on the sofa next to me. “So what’s the latest gossip?”

“Diana got hit on by Drew Williams,” Janelle blurted out.

“I did not!” I insisted.

“Why else was he following us around?” Janelle asked.

“Maybe he was hitting on you ?” I shot back.

“Yeah, like Drew Williams is into studs,” Janelle said.

“Like Drew Williams is into fat femmes,” I countered.

“Wait, stop, go back,” Shamaya demanded. “This is too juicy. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave a single detail out.”

As we dug into the food, we regaled Shamaya with the events of the LACMA party. Janelle stood by her claim that Drew Williams had been hitting on me, but I insisted he’d taken pity on the two awkward plebs in the corner, especially after Chris had been such a jerk.

“What’s he like?” Shamaya asked.

“Chris Stanson? I don’t know,” I answered. “Full of himself?”

“No, no, obviously he’s going to be a narcissist, right? Any man that pretty is. I meant Drew Williams. What’s he like? You can’t tell from the gossip mags, now, can you? He’s one of those guys who could go either way. I mean, he was fat—”

“He wasn’t fat,” I interrupted.

“Wasn’t he?” Shamaya asked.

“Fat is when you can’t shop in the regular sections at department stores,” I said, then took a bite of my taco.

“Is that the official definition now? I should update my blog.” Shamaya laughed, scraping the last of the ceviche onto a chip. We didn’t waste food around these parts. “Wasn’t he the fat kid in that TV show? And he always played the fat sidekick in those comedies. He was fat.”

“He was chubby, not fat. There’s a difference,” I pointed out. “And he still dated that model… What’s her name?”

“Gwen,” Janelle said. She had an amazing knack for remembering celebrity names, which sat in contrast with how little she actually cared about celebrities unless she was filming them.

“Yes, Gwen.” Shamaya spoke the name like she had beans stuck to the roof of her mouth. “One name. Gwen. Fat women can’t catch a dick in this town to save their lives, and yet fat men get to date one-name supermodels. It’s so unfair.”

“I keep telling you to join the sapphic side,” Janelle said.

“Not like it’s much better,” I added. “Remember my ex Sam? She loved the attention I was getting around Lalo’s Lament , liked to show off my success online, and bragged that she was dating a filmmaker, but then privately she would nitpick everything I ate, say things about my body that she claimed were encouraging but were totally offensive, and even ‘confided’ in me that her friends didn’t know why she was dating someone as fat as me.”

“I still don’t get why you stayed with her for so long.” Janelle had always been protective of me when it came to Sam.

“Because I’m fatphobic, too,” I admitted. “We all are. It’s so ingrained in us that fat is the worst thing we can be, so when people say shit things about our bodies, deep down we wonder if they’re right. I was put on my first diet at age seven, and my dad weighed my food before I ate it all the way into high school. Sam treated me better than my parents had. Better than most of society does. I thought that relationship was the best I could get.”

“This is why I write my blog,” Shamaya chimed in. “I know it looks all fluff on the outside, but at the core of it, I want fat girls to see a fat woman living her best life.”

“I wish I’d had you as a kid to look up to.” I often wondered what it would have been like to grow up with fat role models like her.

“You can look up to me now.” Shamaya stood and twirled. “I’m quite inspiring.”

“Especially in those shoes.” Janelle pointed to Shamaya’s heels.

“I know fatphobia is a big issue for gay men, trans people, and nonbinary folk, too,” I continued. “And straight men don’t have a pass from it, but life will always be easier for white, straight, cis men like Drew, even when they’re fat.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t fat.” Janelle smirked at me.

“Fuck off, Twiggy.” I flung a bit of corn tortilla at her.

“Heyo!” Shamaya screamed loudly, pointing to an outfit in the corner. “Not near the Pucci!”

Shamaya walked to the dressing room, taking the gorgeous Pucci caftan with her. It was peach with umbrella-like circles radiating out of the sides in turquoise, black, and white, a pattern that screamed Shamaya. Luckily, Pucci was into the oversize look right now, so it fit her plus-size body perfectly.

Some designers had gotten better about carrying larger sizes, but it was still practically impossible to find high-end pieces above a ten. Shamaya was a size fourteen to eighteen, depending on the day or brand, so we sometimes lucked out and found stuff for her that fit. It was harder finding clothes for the larger bodies that came in, but I always tried to make them feel like they had the same amount of quality options thin people did, even if I had to special order items for them.

Janelle handed Shamaya turquoise Gucci heels to go with the caftan—leading to a long debate over whether you could pair Pucci and Gucci together—and I grabbed some big, chunky Kendra Scott earrings to complete the ensemble. The look was fabulous and would be a big hit on her blog. Already, her dressing room photos were blowing up social media, and her phone kept dinging with notifications.

“How can you stand all that noise?” Janelle asked when Shamaya’s phone buzzed for what seemed like the thousandth time. Janelle was one of those very rare creatures without any social media presence.

“Eh, I don’t notice it anymore,” Shamaya said as she shut the ringer off on her phone. “And you never answered my question: what was Drew Williams like?”

Dreamy, a voice in my head said.

Dreamy, really? Dreamy? I hadn’t called a boy dreamy since my crush on all of the Jonas Brothers in the fourth grade. And Drew Williams hadn’t been dreamy. Mae Martin was dreamy. Kristen Stewart was dreamy. Dreamy was when you wanted to stare and swoon. Drew Williams was not dreamy. He was too awkward to be dreamy. So then what was he?

“A little weird,” Janelle replied.

“Obviously, right? He’s so awkwardly funny on screen—that kind of comedic timing can’t be faked. But, like, what else?”

“Ask Diana. She was the one flirting with him.” Janelle sipped on the iced tea Shamaya had brought us.

“Ooh!” Shamaya energetically elbowed me in the side. “You going straight for him now?”

In her excitement, Shamaya tipped over the small tray holding the food, sending leftover salsa flying. Luckily, it landed on the carpet, not the clothes. I went to the employee room to grab some napkins and checked my phone while I was there. I had a missed call from a random local number. It was probably spam, but I listened to the voicemail anyway.

“Hi, Diana Smith,” a shockingly sensual voice said. “This is Susan Barry from LACMA, calling regarding your prize. Please call me back at 310-555-6649.”

Stunned I’d won something, I wrote the number down on a pad of paper and tucked my phone into the lockbox, hurrying back to the dressing room, napkins be damned.

“Did you do this?” I asked Janelle, half excited, half accusatory.

“No, the bids were too high!” she said, then proceeded to explain to Shamaya how she’d put my name down for tea with Meryl Streep. “Did you do it in a hangry craze?”

“Of course not! The bids were up to $9,800.”

“Then who did?” Janelle asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Shamaya sang as she dialed the number and handed me her bright pink phone.

Susan Barry’s voice was deep and sultry, like a phone sex operator from a bygone era. I wanted to ask her what she was wearing but instead opted to explain who I was and why I was calling. “I’m so sorry to do this, but I can’t afford it. It was a joke between a friend and me. Besides, we thought I’d been outbid.”

“My records show you already paid.”

I heard her clicking a mouse as she verified that yes, indeed, this auction item was fully paid for. She could not tell me how, when, or by whom.

“I can double-check with accounting—that’s not my area of expertise—but this is all paid up. I don’t even get your information unless the account has been settled and money has been transferred. My job is to connect the prize winner with the person who donated the prize. Is this a good number at which Mr. Williams can call to arrange your tee time?”

“Wait, Mr. Williams? You mean Ms. Streep, right? I won tea with Academy Award winner Meryl Streep.”

“No…” Susan Barry said, clicking and typing some more. “My records show you won a round of golf with Drew Williams.”

This had to be someone’s idea of a joke. I didn’t even play golf. I tried to explain this to Susan, who gently reminded me that she had lots of other winners to call and if I didn’t want my already-paid-for prize with a famous movie star, I could take it up with Mr. Williams himself. Apparently, he’d be calling me later today if I would kindly verify my phone number with Susan, which I did.

“You can borrow my clubs!” Shamaya squealed as I handed her cell phone back. “They’re bright pink and have Louis Vuitton covers on the drivers.”

“Of course.” Janelle laughed.

“Picture it, you and Drew Williams golfing together, tabloids snatching photos, wondering who is this mystery girl.” Shamaya took the Basille Georgette embroidered tunic dress I handed her.

“That image is hilarious.” Janelle offered Shamaya her choice of multiple Tory Burch flats to go with the dress.

“Ridiculous is more like it,” I said as Shamaya grabbed the green suede flats approvingly.

“But you’re going, right?” Shamaya asked, shimmying into the outfit, not bothering to close the dressing room door.

“Of course I’m not going,” I insisted.

“Do you know how many deals my father has brokered over golf? This could be your chance to get him to read your script, maybe even take a role in your movie! You have to go, Diana.”

“What do you think?” I asked Janelle as Shamaya came out of the dressing room and twirled around in the mirror, admiring her look.

“I think that outfit looks great on you, Shamaya.” Janelle ignored my question.

“Fabulous, right?” Shamaya began snapping photos of herself.

“What about me ?” I asked.

“You look fabulous, too.” Janelle smirked. “As for the golf thing, I think that you asked for this from the universe, so you should take it.”

“How did I ask for golf with Drew Williams?”

“You bid on yourself. You put your name down for your dreams, and the universe answered in its own way.”

“You bet on Serena Williams, but I don’t see you borrowing Shamaya’s tennis racket.”

“I’m still waiting for my call.” Janelle smiled. “It’s coming.”

“Who even paid for this?” I wondered.

“Does it matter?” Janelle replied. “You get to network with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars for free. Don’t turn this down.”

“Janelle is right,” Shamaya agreed as I rang up her purchases. “I love visiting you here, you know I do, but this isn’t where you belong. Either of you. Playing golf with Drew Williams is an opportunity to make the kind of connection that could propel your career exponentially forward. This is a gift from God or fate or chance, or whatever you want to call it. Don’t return it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, hesitant to accept this prize. It had been nice meeting Drew. He’d been friendly and funny. But small talk over appetizers at a crowded party was drastically different than sitting in a golf cart talking for however long a round of golf took.

“Don’t overthink it,” Shamaya scolded as I returned her AmEx Black card.

“That’s what she does best,” Janelle teased.

Shamaya kissed us both goodbye and strutted out of the store followed by three assistant clerks carrying armloads of designer goods and another filming the whole parade for her followers.

Reluctantly, Janelle returned to the shoe department, and I returned to the dressing room to clean up. I picked up some napkins from the employee room and grabbed my phone out of the lockbox, tucking it into the planter in the dressing room where no one else would see it. As I scrubbed salsa off the floor, I wondered if Drew Williams would actually call me and what I would say when he did.

Two hours later, I’d convinced myself this was all some elaborate prank when my phone buzzed, showing a call from an unlisted number.

“Diana Smith?” the familiar voice said when I answered. “Hi, this is Drew Williams. We met at the LACMA party.”

“Hmm, I met a lot of people that night. Remind me again what you look like?” I wasn’t trying to play it cool. There was just something about him that made me want to be a smart-ass.

“Somewhat tall, white man, with dark hair and dashing good looks.”

“I met someone that matches that description,” I said, “but he told me his name was Andy.”

He laughed, and it was that same bottom-of-the-belly laugh that audiences loved, the nice-guy-next-door bit he was famous for. On camera, Drew made you believe you’d be best friends someday, if only you got the chance to meet in person.

“Ma’am, I hate to break this to you, but we’re one and the same.”

“Damn, and here I thought someone famous was calling me.”

“I can try to get Chris Stanson on the line.”

“Nah, that guy’s a prick,” I said, only half joking. “His friends are even worse.”

“Too true,” Drew replied. “But I hope that won’t keep you from coming golfing with me.”

“Yeah, about that,” I began, not quite sure how to explain the situation but deciding honesty would be the best, “I don’t know how this happened. I think they have me mixed up with someone else. I never bid on going golfing with you, and I definitely didn’t pay for it.”

“I bought it for you!” he sang enthusiastically, like someone jumping out at a surprise party.

“Why would you go and do a thing like that?” I asked.

“Some handsy older lady I really didn’t want to spend time with signed up. I couldn’t stand the thought of hours in a golf cart with her. So I put down the name of the first person I thought of who would be fun to go golfing with: Diana Smith.”

“Shouldn’t you give it to someone else? Who bid on it before her?”

“It doesn’t matter. What does is you won! And now we get to go golfing together.”

“First off, I didn’t win. You did, since you put my name down and paid for it,” I replied. “Second, and I don’t mean to sound full of myself or misread the situation when I say this, but if this is some weird way to hit on me, I’m flattered, but I don’t date cis men.”

“You’re a beautiful and talented woman,” Drew replied. “But that’s not why I put your name down.”

“Then why did you?” I asked.

“Like I said, you were the first person I thought of that wouldn’t annoy me if I had to spend four hours with them. Plus, I thought it would be nice to hear what you’ve been working on since Lalo’s Lament .”

My heart sank. That would be four hours of nothing to talk about, then. Not nothing , I reminded myself, thinking about the script my agent was about to try to shop. Still, I didn’t need to spend four torturous hours failing at golf in front of Drew Williams to get this screenplay sold.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t golf.”

“I can teach you,” he said.

“I appreciate the offer, but the tee fees would be wasted on me.”

“They’re already paid for. The club donated them. So you’ve gotta go with me, or I’ll be out there all by myself lookin’ like a loser.”

“Take Chris.”

“Then I’d look like even more of a loser,” Drew replied.

I chuckled. I liked the way Drew was willing to laugh at himself and his friends. Not mocking or cruel, but fun, jovial. It reminded me of my friends, my people—real people.

“Let’s pretend for a second that I agreed,” I said, questioning if this actually could be fun. “What would this golf outing entail?”

“I could pick you up, or we could meet there—it’s a course called Brentwood that donated a few rounds of golf with various celebrities for the fundraiser. We’d tee off, play the first nine, have lunch at the clubhouse, play the back nine, then be done.”

Even with Drew’s humor to liven it up, that sounded absolutely miserable to me. I couldn’t imagine playing eighteen holes of golf at a stuffy country club, everyone staring at me, wondering what that fat, queer woman was doing with Drew Williams. It was one of my definitions of hell.

“I really appreciate that you’re following through with this whole thing,” I said, “but you put my name down. You can pretend someone else won it, someone who actually enjoys golf and snotty clubs and sandwiches cut into diamonds with little frilly toothpicks through them. That someone is not me.”

“Okay, then what do you like? I owe you something if you don’t want to go golfing.”

“You signed my name, and you paid for it. You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I ruined your shirt,” he replied.

“Is that what this is all about?” I asked. Of course Drew Williams was trying to assuage his guilt; he didn’t actually care to get to know my work. Or me.

“It’s all the other things, too. I just feel bad about that still.”

“Don’t worry, Andy. I got the stain out.” It was a lie. The shirt had been ruined, but he didn’t need to know that. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So we’re good, then?” he asked.

I reassured Drew Williams that we were indeed good, and he promised he’d call on me the next time he needed a new suit. When we hung up, I sat staring at my phone for a while, wondering if I had done the right thing. Some girls would die to spend the day with Drew Williams. Most people would instantly regret giving up the chance to play golf with him. But I refused to be one of them.