six-one—loudly announced outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her
legs and sighing. “They would make my ass look even more gigantic than it already is.”
“Andrea,” called her friend, a girl I didn’t know very well who worked in accessories,
“please tell Hope she’s not fat.”
“You’re not fat,” I said, my mouth on autopilot. It would’ve saved me many, many hours
to have a shirt printed up that said as much, or perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed
directly on my forehead. I was constantly called on to assure variousRunway employees
that they weren’t fat.
“Ohmigod, have you seen my gut lately? I’m like the fucking Firestone store, spare tires
everywhere. I’m huge!” Fat was on everyone’s minds, if not actually their bodies. Emily
swore that her thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia.” Jessica believed
that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s. Even James complained that
his ass had looked so big that morning when he got out of the shower that he’d
“contemplated calling in fat to work.”
In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am-I-fat questions with what I thought to
be an exceedingly rational reply. “If you’re fat, Hope, what does that make me? I’m two
inches shorter than you and I weigh more.”
“Oh, Andy, be serious.I am fat.You’re thin and gorgeous!”
Naturally I thought she was lying, but I soon came to realize that Hope—along with
every other anorexically skinny girl in the office, and most of the guys—was able to
accurately evaluate other people’s weight. It was just when it came time to look in the
mirror that everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back.
Of course, as much as I tried to keep it at bay, to remind myself over and over that I was
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normal and they weren’t, the constant fat comments had made an impression. It’d only
been four months I’d been working, but my mind was now skewed enough—not to
mention paranoid—that I sometimes thought these comments were directed intentionally
to me. As in: I, the tall, gorgeous, svelte fashion assistant, am pretending to think I’m fat
just so you, the lumpy, stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat
one. At five-ten and 115 pounds (the same weight as when my body was racked with
parasites), I’d always considered myself on the thinner side of girls my age. I’d also spent
my life until then feeling taller than ninety percent of the women I met, and at least half
the guys. Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know what it was like to
feel short and fat, all day, every day. I was easily the troll of the group, the squattest and
the widest, and I wore a size six. And just in case I failed to consider this for a moment,
the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me.
“Dr. Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit, too, you know,”
Jessica added, joining the conversation by plucking a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez
rack. Newly engaged to one of the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs, Jessica
was feeling the pressures of her upcoming society wedding. “And she’s right. I’ve lost at
least another ten pounds since my last fitting.” I forgave her for starving herself when she
barely had enough body fat to function normally, but I just couldn’t forgive her fortalking
about it. I could not, no matter how impressive the doctors’ names were or how many
success stories she prattled on about, bring myself tocare .
At around one the office really picked up pace, because everyone began getting ready for
lunch. Not that there was any eating associated with the lunch hour, but it was the prime
time of day for guests. I watched lazily as the usual array of stylists, contributors,
freelancers, friends, and lovers stopped by to revel in and generally soak up the glamour
that naturally accompanied hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, dozens of
gorgeous faces, and what felt like an unlimited amount of really, really, really long legs.
Jeffy made his way over to me as soon as he could confirm that both Miranda and Emily
had left for lunch and handed me two enormous shopping bags.
“Here, check this stuff out. This should be a pretty good start.”
I dumped the contents of one bag onto the floor beside my desk and began sorting. There
were Joseph pants in camel and charcoal gray, both long and lean and low-waisted, made
from an incredibly soft wool. A pair of brown suede Gucci pants looked as though they
could turn any schlub into a supermodel, while two pairs of perfectly faded Marc Jacobs
jeans looked like they were custom cut for my body. There were eight or nine options for
tops, ranging from a skintight ribbed turtleneck sweater by Calvin Klein to a teeny,
completely sheer peasant blouse by Donna Karan. A dynamite graphic Diane Von
Furstenburg wrap-dress was folded neatly over a navy, velvet Tahari pantsuit. I spotted
and immediately fell in love with an all-around pleated Habitual denim skirt that would
fall just above my knees and look perfect with the decidedly funky floral-printed
Katayone Adelie blazer.
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“These clothes . . . this is all for me?” I asked, hoping I sounded excited and not
offended.
“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just some things that have been lying around the Closet forever. We
might have used some of it in shoots, but none of it ever got returned to the companies.
Every few months or so I clean out the Closet and give this stuff away, and I figured you,
uh, might be interested. You’re a size six, right?”
I nodded, still dumbfounded.
“Yeah, I could tell. Most everyone else is a two or smaller, so you’re welcome to all of
it.”
Ouch. “Great. This is just great. Jeffy, I can’t thank you enough. It’s all amazing!”
“Check out the second bag,” he said, motioning to where it sat on the floor. “You don’t
think you can pull off that velvet suit with that shitty messenger bag you’re always
dragging around, do you?”
The second, even more bulging bag spilled forth a stunning array of shoes, bags, and a
couple of coats. There were two pairs of high-heeled Jimmy Choo boots—one ankle-and
one knee-length—two pairs of open-toe Manolo stiletto sandals, a pair of classic black
Prada pumps, and one pair of Tod loafers, which Jeffy immediately reminded me to never
wear to the office. I slung a slouchy red suede bag over my shoulder and immediately
saw the two intersecting “C”s carved in the front, but that wasn’t nearly as beautiful as
the deep chocolate leather from the Celine tote that I threw on my other arm. A long
military-style trench with the signature oversize Marc Jacobs buttons topped it all off.
“You’re joking,” I said softly, fondling a pair of Dior sunglasses he’d apparently thrown
in as an afterthought. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He looked pleased with my reaction and ducked his head. “Just do me a favor and wear
it, OK? And don’t tell anyone that I gave you first pick on all this stuff, because they live
for the Closet clean-outs, you hear?” He bolted from the suite when we heard Emily’s
voice call out to someone down the hall, and I shoved my new clothes under my desk.
Emily came back from the dining room with her usual lunch: an all-natural fruit
smoothie and a small to-go container of iceberg lettuce topped with broccoli and
balsamic vinegar. Not vinaigrette. Vinegar. Miranda would be in any minute—Uri had
just called to say he was dropping her off—so I didn’t have my usually luxurious seven
minutes to beeline to the soup table and gulp it down back at my desk. The minutes
ticked by and I was starving, but I just didn’t have the energy to weave through the
Clackers and get examined by the cashier and wonder if I was doing permanent damage
by swallowing piping hot (and fattening!) soup so fast that I could feel the heat coursing
down my esophagus.Not worth it, I thought.Skipping a single meal won’t kill you, I told
myself.In fact, according to every single one of your sane and stable coworkers, it’ll just
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make you stronger. And besides, $2,000 pants don’t look so hot on girls who gorge
themselves, I rationalized. I slumped down in my chair and thought of how well I had just
representedRunway magazine.
11
The cell phone shrilled from somewhere deep in my dream, but consciousness took over
long enough for me to wonder if it was her. After a stunningly fast orientation process—
Where am I? Who is “she”? What day is it?—I realized that having the phone ring at
eight on a Saturday morning was not a good omen. None of my friends would be awake
for hours, and after years of getting screened out, my parents had grudgingly accepted
that their daughter wasn’t answering until noon. In the seven seconds it took to figure all
this out, I was also contemplating a reason why I should pick up this phone call. Emily’s
reasons from the first day came back to me, though, and so I started my arm in a floor
sweep from the comfort of my bed. I managed to click it open just before it stopped
ringing.
“Hello?” I was proud that my voice sounded strong and clear, as though I’d spent the
past few hours working hard at something respectable rather than passed out in a sleep
that was so deep, so intense, it couldn’t possibly have indicated good things about my
health.
“Morning, honey! Glad to hear you’re awake. I just wanted to tell you that we’re in the
sixties on Third, so I’ll be there in just ten minutes or so, OK?” My mom’s voice came
booming over the line. Moving day! It was moving day! I’d forgotten entirely that my
parents had agreed to come into the city to help me pack my stuff up and take it to the
new apartment Lily and I had rented. We were going to lug the boxes of clothes and CDs
and picture albums while the real movers tackled my massive bed frame.
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I mumbled, lapsing back into tired-voice mode. “I thought you were
her.”
“Nope, you’ve got yourself a break today. Anyway, where should we park? Is there a
garage right around there?”
“Yeah, right under my building, just enter right from Third. Give them my apartment
number in the building and you’ll get a discount. I’ve got to get dressed. I’ll see you
soon.”
“OK, honey. Hope you’re ready to work today!”
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I fell back onto my pillow and considered my options for possibly going back to sleep.
They were looking really grim, considering they’d driven all the way in from Connecticut
to help me move. Just then, the alarm clock blared its signature static. Ah hah! So Ihad
remembered that today was moving day. The reminder that I wasn’t going completely
crazy was a small comfort.
Getting out of bed was, quite possibly, even harder to do than other days even though it
was happening a few hours later. My body had been briefly tricked into thinking that it
would actually get to catch up, had depended on reducing that infamous “sleep debt”
we’d learned about in Psych 101, when I wrenched it from bed. There was a small pile of
clothes I’d left folded by the bed, the only things besides my toothbrush that I hadn’t yet
packed. I pulled on the blue Adidas windpants, the hooded Brown sweatshirt, and the pair
of filthy gray New Balance sneakers that had accompanied me around the world. Not a
second after I swooshed the last of my Listerine did the buzzer ring.
“Hi, guys. I’ll buzz you up, just a sec.”
There was a knock on the door two minutes later, and instead of my parents there stood a
rumpled-looking Alex. He looked great, as usual. His faded jeans hung low on
nonexistent hips, and his long-sleeved navy T-shirt was just the right amount of tight. The
tiny wire-rims he wore only when he couldn’t tolerate his contacts were perched in front
of very red eyes, and his hair was all over the place. I couldn’t stop myself from hugging
him on the spot. I hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before, when we’d met for a quick
midafternoon coffee. We’d intended to spend the whole day and night together, but
Miranda had needed an emergency babysitter for Cassidy so she could take Caroline to
the doctor, and I had been recruited. I’d gotten home too late to spend any real time with
him, and he’d recently stopped camping out in my bed just to get a glimpse of me, which
I understood. He’d wanted to stay over the night before, but I was still in that stage of
parent-pretending: even though all parties involved knew that Alex and I were sleeping
together, nothing could be done, said, or implied to actually confirm it. And so I hadn’t
wanted him there when my parents arrived.
“Hey, babe. I thought you guys could use some help today.” He held up a Bagelry bag
that I knew would contain salt bagels, my favorite, and some large coffees. “Are your
parents here yet? I brought them coffees, too.”
“I thought you had to tutor today,” I said just as Shanti emerged from her bedroom
wearing a black pantsuit. She hung her head as she walked past us, mumbled something
about working all day, and left. We so seldom talked, I wondered if she realized today
was my last day in the apartment.
“I did, but I called the two little girls’ parents and both said that tomorrow morning was
fine with them, so I’m all yours!”
“Andy! Alex!” My father stood in the doorway behind Alex, beaming as though this
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were the best morning on earth. My mom looked so awake I wondered if she was on
drugs. I did a quick once-over of the situation and figured that they would rightly assume
that Alex had just arrived since he was still wearing his shoes and was obviously holding
recently purchased food. Besides, the door was still open. Phew.
“Andy said you couldn’t make it today,” my dad said, setting down what looked like a
bag of bagels—also salt, no doubt—and coffees on the table in the living room. He
deliberately avoided eye contact. “Are you on your way in or out?”
I smiled and looked at Alex, hoping he wasn’t already regretting what he’d gotten
