Chapter nine Kendra
Chapter nine
Kendra
“You! The big one on the end!”
I look to my left and right, hoping to God the casting director isn’t barking at me.
With eyebrows plucked clean and drawn on with black eyeliner, slathered in foundation she must’ve borrowed from Beetlejuice, and wearing stilettos so high and sharp, they could double as a weapon, this stick figure of a woman looks like Cruella DeVil’s twin.
She taps her toe on the drab linoleum floor of the studio and waits for me to make eye contact.
Of course she’s talking about me. When my agent told me about this casting call, I double-checked the designer twice.
Theodora Galette is known to have strict weight requirements for her models, which is why she’s never contacted me before.
At 217 pounds with quite a bit of junk in the trunk and no discernible thigh gap, I don’t really fit her androgynous, gaunt aesthetic. But Morty had insisted.
Once I walked through the door, however, I noticed I was the only woman above a size four. Everyone else was sporting the expected willowy frame.
I texted Morty right away.
Morty
Hey, Morty. I’m feeling like a bull in a china shop here. Are you sure about this gig?
Morty: Positive. They called to confirm you’d be there twice.
I locked my phone and tried to tune everyone else out, but Morty’s text kept needling me. They called twice to confirm, yet I’m the only big girl here? If I weren’t almost positive they brought me in as some sort of token fat woman, I might be flattered.
Cruella’s tapping gets more insistent, and she adds a click of her pen against her clipboard. Now I’m certain I’m the token fat woman.
I stand up from the uncomfortable folding chair and follow Ms. Murder Heels down the corridor.
“Welcome, Ms. Gray,” Theodora herself greets me as I walk through the door into the room.
Unlike the hallway, the walls and floor are black and matte. There’s a white table in the middle and three folding chairs; one for Cruella, one for Theodora, and one for a studious-looking man sitting next to her—probably her assistant.
“Thank you for joining us,” Theodora continues.
“Thank you for having me,” I answer, standing tall and putting on my best public smile to hide my nerves. “I’m a big fan of your work.”
I’m not. Theodora’s designs have never been inclusive; most would rip if I dared to try them on. And not only are her models primarily waif-like, they also tend to all be white. She was nearly canceled for that precise reason following her last show.
“You’re too kind,” she drawls. Her voice is smooth and melodic, like a siren tempting you to a fatal crash on the rocks. “If you’re familiar with my work, you’re likely wondering why you’re here.”
“I was just happy for the opportunity,” I lied again. Inclusive or not, Theodora Galette is a big name. Walking in one of her shows would be huge. There’s no reason for me to burn bridges before I get what I need from her.
“Yes, well,” she sighs. “Due to recent…events,” she spits out the last word with clear disdain, “I’m expanding my line to include sizes 10 and 12. I would love for you to be the face of those sizes.”
I stifle a snort. 10 and 12 are hardly extended sizes. Also, I’m a size 16. 14 if I starve myself, which I haven’t had to do since my last Times Square spot. I’m way past jumping through hoops at this point in my career.
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. Morty and I might need to have a talk.
“Adding extended sizes is so exciting!” I say with a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’m sure many women will be happy that Theodora Galette is finally within reach. But I’m a size 16.”
I smile wider, attempting to soften my rejection when what I really want to do is sashay my ass right out of here and give my agent a piece of my mind. Theodora presses her lips into a thin line, and Ms. Murder Heels suddenly looks uncertain, her eyes shifting between me and the imperious designer.
“I had hoped,” Theodora begins slowly, “that you might be willing to accommodate the size limitations due to the…exclusivity of this line.”
She bares her teeth in what I think is meant to be a smile, but what looks more like a threat. I take another calming breath.
“No.” It’s a complete sentence.
“No?” she challenges, baffled that I wouldn’t take her up on the offer to change the entire composition of my body.
“No,” I repeat. Theodora’s mask slips further, and I add, “I’m sorry for any miscommunication.” The only miscommunication was my agent agreeing for me to come.
“Well,” she huffs. “This is quite disappointing. You big girls always have so much to say online, but when I offer a compromise, which goes against everything this label stands for, it’s still not good enough.”
I’m not about to get into the myriad issues with what she just said. She’s not open to change, and she never was. I give a small nod.
“I understand. Thanks again for having me.”
I don’t wait for her response. I simply turn and exit the room, walking straight into my waiting car. Once inside, I finally let my rage bubble over.
Fuck Theodora Galette! And fuck any label that offers big girls crumbs and expects us to be grateful. If you don’t want to offer plus sizes, don’t offer plus sizes. But don’t you dare try to call 10 and 12 plus-size and then get mad when a real plus-size woman can’t wear them!
Niko, my driver, is a middle-aged Greek man who runs a car service to put his four daughters through college.
I don’t always use a car service, especially when I’m staying in the city, but it helps to have a smooth getaway for casting calls and meetings that can be tough on my ego, even after all these years.
I could hail a cab, but I trust Niko to be where I need when I need him to be there, and to know when to keep quiet while I decompress. Today, that’s exactly what I need.
I put in my earbuds and pull out my phone, ready to doom scroll. Instead, I’m stopped in my tracks by a notification from the News app.
Two-time Grammy Winner Andre Gibbs Announces Engagement to Long-time Background Singer, Julie Baker
My ears grow hot, and my hands start to shake. He’s marrying that ho?! I had no idea they were still together; he was photographed with Chantel Lamonte just last week! Then again, she’s already proven she’s OK being the other woman.
The article’s accompanying picture shows him down on one knee in the middle of his concert at Fillmore Miami.
How did that asshole keep a straight face, asking her for forever when he already walked out in the middle of ours?
When the only thick and thin he understands is a thick wallet lined with my money, and thin groupies on their backs to serve him?
For Christ’s sake, Julie was at our wedding, wishing us well while plotting her way in.
I pull up a text message without thinking, ready to say screw the NDA! and air all his dirty laundry. I’m halfway through reading him for filth when another text message pops up.
(347) 555-9824
(347) 555-9824: Hi Kendra. This is Damon. Are you still up for coffee?
I swipe back to my angry paragraphs. I should do it.
Shatter Andre’s Mr. Perfect persona and let the world see his true colors.
Sure, I’d get sued for breaking the NDA, but I never should’ve agreed to it.
Now he gets to move on like what we had never even happened, while his devoted fanbase talk about how I was to blame?
How I should’ve worked harder to keep him? As if that conman is such a catch!
Then, I look back at Damon’s text. I’m still pissed we missed out on what was bound to be a perfectly enjoyable hookup.
Something to end this dismal dry spell so I’d be refreshed; better able to let this shit with Andre roll off my back.
Fuck! I was wound tighter than a spring even before the article.
Feeling more clearheaded after a few deep breaths, I close the text to my asshole ex and save Damon’s number in my phone.
We may not have fucked, but he gave me exactly what I needed in the moment: a genuine connection.
One I’ve been thinking about since it happened two days ago.
I could use a little genuine connection right about now.
Damon
Wow. You waited a whole two days. Trying to play it cool?
Damon: I think I blew my chance at cool that first night.
I chuckle and fold my legs under my butt in the spacious backseat.
Damon
Aww, it wasn’t THAT bad.
You may not have taken me up on my offer that first night, but you haven’t missed a show yet.
Damon: Damn. Does that make me a simp?
You’d only be a simp if I didn’t like it.
Damon: So you like me, huh?
I’m betting his face matches the smirk emoji he just sent. Smug bastard. I wiggle my toes in my heels, feeling giddier than I have in months, when something occurs to me.
Damon
You may be at all my shows, but you also have a bad habit of leaving me hanging.
That first night after the Maxwell show. Sneaking out after the infamous wink. July 4th.
Damon: Hey! That’s not fair. I didn’t cause the signal issues.
Damon: Would you have preferred I try to fuck you while you were stuck underground, freaking out?
I think for a moment. I legit crashed out on that train.
Almost two years later, that fucking trailer on the Viega shoot is still haunting me.
It’s not enough that it now takes eons for me to orgasm; I get panic attacks in small spaces now too!
At least I only have to go in them…almost every fucking day!
I take a deep breath and reread the message. He’s right. With where my head was at that day, if he’d come home with me, I might not have cum at all.
Damon
Fair enough. I was a mess that day.
Damon: Hardly a mess. Just…slightly disheveled.
Damon: And still as beautiful as ever.
With anyone else, I’d roll my eyes at the cheesy line. But with Damon, I know he’s just doing what he did on the train: trying to comfort me. To make me smile. That level of chivalry deserves a reward.
Damon
Well, I’m down to meet up…but not for coffee.
Damon: No problem. How about the new ice cream place that just opened on 7th?
How about dinner?
And before you try to say no, remember this would be your third time turning me down, and baseball rules apply.
Damon: There is zero chance I say no to dinner with you. When and where?
I type in the details, smiling to myself the whole time.
Was asking him out a little forward? Hell yeah.
But I can’t afford to let Lurking Leon set the pace when we’ve already been dancing around each other for months.
Flirting and texting are all well and good, but I’m a grown woman with grown-woman needs, a king-size bed, and a box full of toys.
It’s go time. Hopefully, I’ll forget this shit with Andre in the process.
Damon
Great. I look forward to dinner.
Damon: I’m already counting the hours.
I snort. Oh boy.
Damon
LOL. You’re sounding like you’re half in love with me already.
Damon: No way! I’m very dark and cool and mysterious.
LOL! Whatever, lover boy.
See you soon.
I lock my phone and put it in my purse just as Niko pulls to a stop in front of my building.
Thanks to Damon, I feel exponentially better than when I first got in the car.
He’s just what I need. Someone tall, dark and handsome—and maybe a little smitten with me—to get my groove back and get over Andre’s ass for good.