The Hungry Mirror

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Come and sit with me,” Maia says, a top-heavy rodent in a huge black cape. Her eyes bulge, her cleavage, of which she is inordinately proud, spills from her Gothic Lolita corset. I heard from the office manager that head office had sent a memo telling her to “dress more appropriately” and that she laughed as if it were the funniest thing, crumpled the memo up, and threw it on the floor.

  “You are always so serious,” she says now, looking up at me, “which is also why I want to give you this treat, you have been working so hard.”

  She pats the crimson velvet loveseat and waits for me to sit down.

  “But before I tell you about that,” she says, “let me finish my story. So, our sweet little Josie went off to spend a weekend with her boyfriend and his family and when she was there, they had dinner, naturally, and once they had eaten, she excused herself to go and purge.”

  Maia cracks open a diet Coke she’s swiped from her mini-bar, drinks and pulls a face.

  “I hate this stuff,” she says. “I like something sweeter,” and reaches for a sugar-free Red Bull instead, offering me one too.

  “So then to her horror,” she continues her story, “the toilet won’t flush. So she tried to stuff it all down the drain of the shower and turned the shower on, got all wet in the process, and it wouldn’t go down there, either. So in the end, she had to throw it all out the window, and she worried all night that someone would find it. Plus of course they had no idea why she was running the shower or why she came out of the bathroom wet.”

  She crosses her legs and looks at me. She has thick calves, heavy thighs, and clay-like ankles. She refuses to let the dictates of fashion deter her from wearing what she wants. She is clad in the corset, a short black ruffled skirt, high-heeled purple sandals with ankle straps, and her trademark voluminous black chiffon cape.

  She blinks at me. “So, she was totally humiliated, even though no one said anything, but she decided right then to just stop bingeing and purging. And now she is loving her nice big new breasts. I took her bra shopping, bought her the best Italian underwear, although of course they gave me a great deal because of the magazine, and they gave me this fab corset as a gift, and it retails at well over two hundred dollars. Oh,” she adds, “make a note to mention it in the Get-The-Look must-haves.”

  I tell her I will and slug down my Red Bull.

  “Josie says she is much happier now because she can go out more. She avoided all kinds of social things because she couldn’t eat and she was worried all her life she’d get fat and now she is bigger admittedly, much bigger, but she’s her real weight and she says her moods swings are not nearly as intense and her boyfriend is being very supportive.”

  She pauses.

  Anything you say can and will be held against you, I think.

  “I am happy for her,” I say neutrally.

  “She’s going to write a My Story for next month’s issue so I want you to organize a photo shoot for her. Just don’t get that little Russian photographer. He’s great but he’s always telling everyone how he loves his models thin, and she doesn’t need that.”

  I agree. I had worked with him on an advertorial for plus-size women and he’d nearly wept.

  “Look at how the sofa is sinking where that one is sitting,” he had hissed. “Get her lifted up, how, I don’t care. She is nearly on the floor. Put a cement block under the cushion, cut it if you have to, or tell her to raise her body up somehow. And those legs, like big fat sausages in shiny stockings, they look ready to pop. And the double chins and the big arms, the dimples, the folds.”

  He was getting hysterical. I called a break and led him away.

  “Go outside and have a cigarette,” I told him, “and when you get back, everything will be better.”

  He sniffed. “I will put it on autofocus and not look,” he said. “Maybe I should get my assistant to shoot this. I don’t even want these images imprinted on my brain, all this heaviness.”

  I turned him around to face me squarely and held him by the shoulders.

  “You need to stay calm,” I said. “This isn’t our editorial; it’s advertising for a ‘real people’ client and real people, by and large, are large. Now, just get through today. Tomorrow you have two models, one from Milan and the other from Miami, and I promise you, you’ll be in paradise. The whole shoot will feel like a light breeze carrying you through clouds of heaven. There will be nothing real about it and you can do whatever you like.”

  He sighed. “Only for you my darling, would I suffer this torment,” he said as he cast a glance of hatred at the plus-size models who were laughing over a shared joke at the snacks table, and then went outside for a smoke.

  So I agree with my editor, we need another photographer to shoot our real life, bigger sized, ex-bulimic fashion assistant.

  Maia pauses and looks out the window. “I keep thinking we should do a plus-size editorial section,” she says, “but the fashion director practically threatens to kill herself whenever I mention it and never mind that, where would we find the clothes? And there aren’t that many plus-size models. And I don’t think the advertisers would like it, except for the ‘real people’ bandwagon. Hmmmm.” She falls into deep thought.

  “And then,” she says, swinging around and glaring at me. “Even if we did, you’d just retouch them all to look slim which would defeat the entire purpose. Speaking of retouching, how are you doing on fixing me for my editorial page? Remember, no double chins, no lines, no under-eye bags and also, don’t forget to do that woman, the one who let us feature the inside of her jewelry box and then told us she looked too fat? You should never show anybody the proofs, it’s just asking for trouble.”

  “You told her she could approve the image before we used it,” I remind her. “It was the only way she’d do the story. And don’t worry, you’ll love the eds note pic of you, it’s ready.” I don’t tell her how long it has taken us to achieve what she wants or that the production house has discreetly told me there’d be no charge. “And,” I continue, “the jewelry woman now has a flat stomach, thin arms, no double chin and her waist is smaller. She’ll be very happy; she’ll frame the pic and send it to her friends and family the world over.”

  “Excellent,” Maia says, gnawing on a finger. “Let me ask you something,” she says. “Do you think it does send out a bad message, to women out there, us using all those super thin girls?”

  I shrug. “Do TV games cause violence in real life?” I ask. “The research, for what it’s worth, says not. The models themselves, at least all the ones I’ve met, don’t have eating disorders. They’re like jockeys: it’s a job, they keep their weight down, they do what they have to do. In terms of realism, there is none. They are the furthermost thing from being any kind of real. But surely, like those violent games, everybody knows the difference between fantasy and reality?”

  “But we promise to sell them reality,” Maia says and she tries to frown but the Botox wins. “We aren’t saying hey, in your fantasies you could look like this, no, we’re saying in reality you should look like this and if you don’t, then you’re a failure. And maybe the models don’t have eating disorders but most of them aren’t that naturally thin either, so it’s not like it’s a reality even for them.” She stares off into space. “I really do have a problem with it sometimes,” she says, and chews on a nail.

  I notice that she’s starting to get jittery. She keeps looking at her watch. “I have to go soon,” she says, “so I will tell you quickly. There’s a huge new diet thing in town, although we aren’t allowed to call it a diet. It’s a holistic nutritional experience. It’s called What Would Jesus Eat? and they are having a weekend at a spa where you go and learn to eat like them, or like Jesus if you will, and then you write an article about it. They want it to be covered in our mag and I want you to go, because you write nicely too. You deserve a rest, get a few free massages, have some nice steam baths, eat their food, it’s all totally natural, fresh fruit and veg. Talk to the office manager, tel
l her I said you’re going, and she’ll get you all sorted out and then voilá, you go and have fun. Anyway, I must dash.” She chatters at high speed and her hands shake.

  “Uh, it’s not really my thing.” I hate the idea on a thousand levels.

  “Nonsense, it’s a treat, and you’ll have fun I promise. They’ll give you lots of nice free things, and it will be interesting. The place is in the middle of nowhere, you’ll have the chance to really relax, unwind, chill out.”

  She flashes a smile that looks more like a grimace. A slight sheen of sweat is on her forehead. Her eyes are slightly glazed.

  She herds me out and locks her office door.

  You just don’t want to starve on fruit and veg, I think, miserable at being the chosen one. If it were a five-star haute cuisine thing, you’d be there in a shot.

  I trail after her, hoping to change her mind so I don’t have to go.

  “Must dash,” she cries out, and practically runs down the hall, while attention-seekers reach out for her with layouts, notepads, questions.

  They all fall quiet as she shoots out the door, then turn to each other and shrug. Her predilections are common knowledge.

  “Let’s just hope she doesn’t come back like the Wicked Witch of the West,” one of them says.

  “You can tell by her walk,” another comments. “If it’s the Gestapo stomp, then hide under your desks.”

  “I think you are all being terribly unfair,” one of the fashion editors says in his high-pitched singsong voice. He’s a tiny man with hands that flutter like small distraught birds. “She is always perfectly lovely.”

  The women in the group exchange glances.

  “She’s perfectly lovely to men, especially gay men,” one of the sub-editors comments. She is leaving soon to go to England to work for Harper’s, and can say what she likes.

  “Oh, you women are always so vicious to each other, I can never understand,” the tiny man says, pulling at his strange Spock-like bangs that are the latest fashion. “Why can’t we all just love each other?”

  The women give short brittle laughs and scatter.

  I go to find the office manager to investigate the dreadful thing I have to do.

  Wear it like it fits

  THE FIRST THING I DO when I get to the What Would Jesus Eat? Clinic, is insist on being weighed, and having my body fat ratio assessed.

  “I wish to have a body stat ASAP,” I say, signing myself in.

  The woman behind the counter isn’t helpful.

  “I thought the editor was coming,” she says, disapprovingly checking her list. “I don’t think we are doing all our usual treatments anyway, this weekend,” she adds brusquely. “We are all about the What Would Jesus Eat? Clinic, which is more about health than weight. It’s holistic nutrition, not a diet.”

  “Yes I heard,” I say, and I think that editor or not, I am still the client here. “But I must be measured and weighed. I want a full body stat.” I lean on the counter and stare at her unblinkingly, having learnt a few Maia tricks along the way.

  She looks at me and sighs.

  “Let me show you to your room, then I’ll get a nurse to come and find you,” she says, sensing she has no choice. I thank her.

  “Please don’t measure my knees,” I say to the nurse later. “I have very fat knees.”

  She ignores me and carries on measuring and pinching. The room is freezing and I am covered in goose bumps. I hug my arms to my chest.

  “You are underweight, and your body fat is very low,” the nurse tells me tonelessly. “I’ll have printouts for you tomorrow with regard to BMI and the like. I’ll come and find you.”

  She leaves and I hop happily around the freezing room and get dressed. I am underweight.

  I take my moment of happiness and head out to get a read on who else might be attending the weekend seminar. I see groups of cliquey folk chatting earnestly, all of them looking organic and dedicated. I suddenly feel miserable. I sit down on one of the easy chairs in the glass-fronted lobby and try to befriend one of the many fellow spa-attendees but it seems like they are going out of their way to ignore me.

  Two nights and two full days of this? I sigh.

  I go back to my room, which, contrary to Maia’s promises, is barren: a nun’s cell with an ugly floral coverlet and industrial grey carpet. There isn’t a free gift in sight. I pick up the phone and call Mathew who sounds irritable. I want him to come and fetch me.

  “It’s hardly started,” he says. “Hang in there little girl, you’ll have fun, you always do. Remember everybody there feels as lost as you, so take charge and it’ll all be humming along in no time.”

  I place the phone down and don’t feel much better. I am disconcerted by Mathew’s suggestion that I feel lost and I wish his unexpected reassurance had more to do with genuine kindness than a lack of desire on his part to come and fetch me. I wonder, with a feeling of uneasy embarrassment at having being exposed, how often he has noticed I feel lost and uneasy in social situations. But more than anything I just wish I hadn’t accepted his offer to drive me. Now I am here with no means of escape. I had thought it would be nice – he and I having a chat during the drive up. It seemed like all he’d been doing lately was working, although admittedly I had too.

  He had seemed tense though, not in a talkative mood at all and I wondered why he hadn’t just let me come on my own. I wouldn’t have minded. I love being in my car, flying along, music blaring, able to come and go as I please.

  So I am not a happy camper. I exit my room and bump into a tall woman. I am apologizing to a buxom set of breasts when I hear a familiar voice saying my name in delight.

  It’s Magda, from my old job, who has been sent to cover the story by Shanda.

  We cling to each other in gratitude.

  “Isn’t it horrible?” Magda asks. “Why are they all so unfriendly? I just want to go home but Butch dropped me off and so I’m stuck. And they aren’t even doing any massage therapy or anything. How are we going to survive? And they have one lecture after another. How can they possibly take up two full days?”

  I agree wholeheartedly, immensely relieved to see her. We make our way to the lecture hall and find our seats.

  The room is buzzing with excitement. It is filled with enthused Jesus acolytes punctuated with grim-faced magazine underlings who look ready to bolt.

  “Whatever it was that Jesus ate,” Magda comments, getting a good look around the lecture hall, “the editors of the world don’t seem to think it’s that interesting. Only the minions like us are here, none of the power-players. The Jesus people must be very disappointed that they rate so poorly.”

  “They don’t even seem to notice we’re here,” I say. “I’m not surprised there aren’t any editors. It’s not exactly fun, what they they’re offering. Editors want nice things, gifts and the like. I tell you now, if they were offering free Botox, liposuction, or anything like that, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Maia and Shanda and the lot of them would have trampled over us to be here.”

  Magda laughs. “You are so right,” she says. “Speaking of devilish editors, how’s it going with Maia? You’ve been there what, three or four months?

  “I’ve been there almost five months now.” I am amazed by how quickly the weeks have passed.

  “Maia is total hell on wheels,” I say. “She’s psycho. I can’t put it any other way. She can be really nice about one percent of the time but, mostly, she’s just awful. When she’s not stealing all the beauty products, she’s taking all the free trips, which means she’s out of the office for two weeks every month. Which is fine but then she comes back and changes everything, every single thing. I have no idea why we even do anything in her absence because she changes it all. So we are always behind schedule, which makes things very tense.”

  I am trying to be tactful yet honest. “And I really don’t think her chemical partying, if you can call it that, is good for her. Her moods swings are increasingly erratic. She seems to think
there are conspiracies going on, that we all want to get rid of her or something, so she stalks around and appears out of nowhere and glares with her big bulging eyes. It can be quite scary.”

  Magda laughs. “Yes, I have heard that. I do admire her for one thing though,” she says and I lean in, curious. I had yet to find anything to admire about Maia except for her skillful political game playing and her ability to hang onto her primo position.

  “Well, let’s put it this way,” Magda says, “she’s hardly shaped like a supermodel okay? And even though she’s had a lot of surgery, she’s still pretty much like she was before, with a bit less of a tummy, and a tighter-looking face. Now she’s a good height but she’s got a thick neck, sloping shoulders, immense breasts, a tiny waist, massive thick arms, a huge round butt, big thighs, thick legs and no ankles, things that not even plastic surgery can fix.”

  “And you admire her for all of that?” I ask.

  “Well, no, since she had nothing to do with her shape, she was born with it. So you can’t admire or not admire her for it, it’s just a fact of her life. The reason I admire her is because despite her limiting shape, shall we say, she wears whatever she likes. She wears haute couture like it’s nobody’s business and she struts it like she’s Linda Evangelista.”

  “Hmm,” I think about it. “Well, she insists everybody send her their latest stuff for free. She says it’s good publicity for them, which I’m really not too sure about. We are constantly getting boxes delivered to her office. And honestly, I’m not sure if I agree with you that she should wear whatever she wants. I mean, there are times I really can’t concentrate when I’m in a meeting with her because the combination of her and her clothes is just too bizarre. Most of the time, she just doesn’t fit in to them; they bulge in all the wrong places or they’re loose in the wrong places. It’s like watching Cinderella’s step-sisters try to force their feet into shoes that don’t fit and then limp around. It’s really uncomfortable to see.”