Food for Love
By Laura Briggs
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Laura Briggs
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“Which do you prefer–luscious strawberry or the sensuous surrender?” Tess purred softly. “From the sound of your voice, I would say…sensuous.” Her own voice husky and warm, rolled the accent as if sampling fine chocolates.
“I don’t know,” giggled the voice on the other end. “I guess I would say sensuous, since I’m allergic to strawberries. Even when it comes to bath products.”
"Perfect." Tess made a note on the survey on her computer screen, scrolling to the next item on the list of cosmetics.
"Do you prefer features on cologne–or body wash?" She phrased the question as if it were provocative instead of merely a question of marketing. As she shifted her position in her oversized rolling chair, careful to conceal the squeak from its gears.
The person on the other end, she knew, was probably picturing someone sexy and sophisticated, clad in a leopard-print dress instead of zebra-sized pajamas –extra large ones, that is. But Tess Gellar didn’t fit the bill of requirements for your typical fashion magazine consultant. At five foot five and a hundred and eighty pounds, her wardrobe consisted of oversized peasant blouses and sweaters, loud colors and patterns that catalogs swore reduced her figure by at least twenty pounds, especially when paired with wide flats and clunky sneakers.
A natural wave saved her auburn hair from being unremarkable, but Tess seldom got around to digging her curling iron from her cramped dresser. And as for makeup–well, a dab of lipstick and a smudge of eye shadow were all she could muster for most occasions.
None of which explains why she appealed to Accessorized, Manhattan’s up-and-coming fashion publication. Unless, of course, one considered the nature of her job, her size relegated safely to the obscurity of phone lines.
“We think you’d be perfect for our PR department.” The exact words of the personnel manager at Accessorized, when he hired Tess, nearly a year before. A middle-aged metrosexual with an orange tan, a luminous smile, and an office that resembled a cross between a ski lodge and a hair salon. Earth toned furniture and wall paper intermixed with giant runway shots that made Tess regret her fuchsia pantsuit and matching headscarf.
“Your voice has a certain professional quality,” the man had continued, with another flash of the brilliant teeth. “Just right for motivating our readers to participate in those surveys and questionnaires most find so tedious.”
“You sound thin,” a female secretary chipped in, with a smile that was no doubt meant to be reassuring. But instead made Tess’s face flare as she wondered how her long list of fashion design and fine art credentials landed her with something more on par with telemarketing.
Maybe the chunky bangle bracelets and closed-toed sandals she’d paired with the pantsuit somehow overshadowed her numerous qualifications.
Still, almost any job with a chic, best-selling magazine was better than scanning the help wanted ads. So Tess resigned herself to afternoons stretched across her apartment sofa, phoning up college students, self-employed singles, and frazzled soccer moms for their preference on everything from dating to formal dressing. With the obligatory subscription offer tacked on at the end, of course.
At the moment, she was punching in the number for a longtime subscriber and former contest winner. Who according to her notes had every reason to comply, considering her year’s worth of free shampoo.
“Mrs. Jackson?” she asked, in a smooth, confident voice, the kind one hears resonating over airport speaker systems. “This is Tess Gellar with Accessorized magazine. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for our latest customer survey…”
And then the usual spiel began. Her fingers flying across the keyboard to her laptop, documenting Mrs. Jackson’s preferences on shampoos and facial scrubs; her feelings about the latest tanning methods and makeup foundations. All while Tess stifled a yawn beneath smooth tones of flattery and longed for the donut packets in her pantry.
“Thanks so much,” she breathed, as the survey came to an end. “We’ll be sure and consult your answers as we formulate articles and features for upcoming issues of Accessorized.”
With that, she hung up and consulted her list of prospective clients. Three new subscribers and four agreements to re-subscribe from current customers. Maybe the personnel manager had been right about that professional quality.
Or maybe she did have a “thin” voice that lured customers into taking her advice. Their resistance weakening as they pictured the glamorous model on the other end of the line.
If only. She sighed and wiggled her size eight feet, currently encased in a set of fuzzy cat slippers that bore little resemblance to the sleek orange creature stretched across her coffee table. A striped tabby who showed up on her window ledge four months ago, its tiny bawling head soaked from the afternoon downpour. Now snoozing happily amidst the piles of paperback romance novels, napkins, and half-finished cups of coffee.
Exotic coffees and lattes were Tess’s special weakness, second only to the pints of ice cream stowed in her freezer.
Her gaze wandered to the TV’s flashing screen, as the phone on the other end rang unanswered. A frown tugging her mouth as she watched an advertisement for the Rapid Reducer Juicer and its super secret weight loss guide. The commercial’s caption proclaiming in bold letters, Change Your Life Forever in Just One Month! Lose Up to 40 Pounds in 30 Days! The captions giving way to before and after pictures of women who shed their shapeless sweats and humiliating spandex bodysuits for evening gowns and bikinis.
All in a mere thirty days.
“Yeah, right,” Tess murmured in a less-than-sexy voice, cradling the phone against her neck as she reached for a crumpled sack of potato chips. The crumbs dotting the ratty sweater over her pjs as she scooped a handful from the bottom. She hurriedly brushed them aside as the phone picked up on the other end. Almost as if she were afraid the other person could see her, or at least sense her general slovenliness.
The magic of her “perfect” voice rendered powerless in the face of frumpy fashion and love handles.
*****
Six o’clock meant break time, since experience taught Tess this was the hour in which working women soaked in warm bubble baths, made their social plans, or else waited for the pizza delivery man to arrive.
Rummaging in her own fridge for leftover Chinese takeout, she paused at the sound of knuckles wrapping on her door. “You there Tess?” a familiar masculine voice called.
After a vain attempt to smooth her sweater and pants, she swung the door wide open to reveal her next door neighbor, Ethan Rite. Dressed in faded jeans and a navy blue jersey, his sandy blonde hair attractively tousled. His arms cradled an oven mitt and a frozen boxed dinner.
“Hey, Tess,” he said flashing a sheepish grin. “Mind if I borrow your microwave for a sec?”
“Sure,” she said. Wishing she’d thought to stow some of the kitchen clutter under the cabinet or maybe into the oven–as she sometimes did when delivery men showed up unexpectedly.
Ethan’s own microwave had gotten fried the week before in a freak accident that involved testing a new-fangled dishware for his internet business, Rite’s Reviews. A website that tested innovative products and electronic gadgets, it had developed a cult-following of sorts with b
oth computer experts and amateur inventors. It had even gotten a feature spread in Mainframe Magazine.
“Sorry about the chaos,” she joked, as he cleared away the random cartons and takeout sacks that blocked the microwave.
“Hey, my place is twice this bad.” He pulled the bland-looking chicken and potatoes dinner from its box. “The downside of working at home, right?”
“Guess so,” she said. Biting her lip as he struggled to tuck the empty cardboard box inside her overfed trash can. “Hey, didn’t you have a date tonight?” she asked, suddenly recalling something about an online forum hookup. A girl named Angela who struck up a friendly email chat over Microsoft software bugs.
“Yeah, sort of.” He poked the plastic tray inside the microwave, selecting the TV dinner button. “It didn’t go too well. We barely made it past the first drink, actually.”
A stab of pity shot through her, along with a sense of understanding. After all, her last date had been the year before she graduated college–an impromptu fix-up by a well-meaning roommate. A nightmare scenario where she squeezed herself into a dress one size too small, only to spill chocolate sauce over it. The price she paid for ordering cheese cake, while her date fussed over a bowl of yogurt.
“So what happened?” she asked, keeping her tone casual, in case his experience involved something more embarrassing even than a dessert faux pas.
“Well, see…” Ethan cleared his throat, a pink flush creeping slowly up his neck. “You know how I mentioned that Angela wanted us to meet at a bar?”
She nodded and leaned back against the counter. Sensing this was going to be a long, colorful anecdote.
“It turns out she works there,” he said, boosting himself onto the only empty space on her counter–a gesture of familiarity that proved how often they shared these little chats. “But her job wasn’t really the problem. I mean, her leather-only look didn’t bother me, or even the tattoos. Which she had a lot of,” he added, a thoughtful expression flickering in his blue-gray eyes. “Dragons mostly.”
"Leather? Dragon tattoos?" repeated Tess, eyebrows raised. Definitely not the first style of girl who came to mind for a cute electronics dork like Ethan.
“But I could have looked past all that,” said Ethan, “if it wasn’t for her ex boyfriend, Biker Dan dropping by with a couple of friends.”
“What?” This was way beyond spilled syrup on a too-tight dress. “Don’t tell me some biker guy threatened you?”
“No, no,” he shook his head, laughing. “Nothing that wild. But he pretty much insisted we face off in a game of pool.” He drummed his fingers against the counter. “Well, you know me–I’m more of an arcade guy than a sportsman.”
An understatement, Tess knew, having witnessed his performance in the building’s ping pong tournament last spring. Where his unlucky shots dinged a series of washing machines and left his opponent with a bruised eye.
“I couldn’t exactly back down,” he reasoned, “not with Angela standing right there. So I took a shot–and ended up shattering the front glass window. Glass ended up all over this group of other tough bikers in the corner. Needless to say, I beat a quick retreat when they looked my way.”
Whoa. She stifled an escaping laugh with one hand at the thought of Ethan–a guy who still wore calculator watches and Members Only jackets–trying to impress a tough, tattooed barmaid…well, it defied all forms of self-restraint.
“Sorry,” she managed after a moment, reaching to give his arm a gentle squeeze. Then laughed and pointed at her rumpled sweater. “But hey, at least you’ve had a date for this decade. I haven’t shared a dinner for two in forever. ”
“Only because you hide in your apartment all hours of the day,” he teased, sliding off the counter to check his dinner’s progress. “How do you expect to meet someone over the phone–especially selling a women’s magazine?”
She shrugged and pretended to busy herself with clearing some empty junk food containers away. Grateful he’d avoided mentioning the more obvious obstacles in her romantic path. Like her forty or so extra pounds of flesh.
A shrill beep filled the air, signaling the frozen dinner was ready. He slipped on the oven mitt and pulled the steaming pack from the microwave. “Thanks Tess. I promise this is the last time. I really am going to replace my microwave this week.”
“Hey, you can use my microwave anytime ,” she quipped. Blushing a little at the somewhat flirtatious remark, and the boyish grin he offered in return. Silly of course. Ethan was a just a nice guy, who probably felt a little sorry for her, or at least safe from inspiring her romantic affections. After all, her careless appearance couldn’t be sending too many great signals to the male species.
“ Oh, and if you hear some loud static later on, or maybe some beeping sounds, don’t panic,” Ethan called over his shoulder. “My latest test product is a ghost-o- meter.”
“Is your apartment usually a hub for supernatural activity?” she couldn’t help asking, a playful edge in her voice.
“Maybe,” he said, shooting her a mock serious look. “After all, something has to explain my years of bad dating karma, right?”
She closed the door behind him, leaning against it as a brief, dreamy sensation drifted over her. No doubt inspired by his flirtatious yet harmless banter, the mischievous spark in his blue eyes.
More than once, she'd fantasized about cozying up to a man like Ethan, a bottle of wine and a dozen roses keeping them company for the evening as they snuggled on her sofa. In this fantasy, her extra pounds had melted away, leaving a slinky figure barely recognizable when she saw it reflected in a pair of blue eyes that were fascinatingly similar to her neighbor's.
With a sigh, she returned to the sofa, Chinese takeout in hand. Two more phone calls should round the day off nicely. Especially if the first one could be persuaded to renew the subscription she dropped two years ago.
“Hello?” a flat feminine voice answered on the other end, a sigh lurking beneath the weary tone. Perhaps an exhausted, overworked soul in need of a little beauty pampering?
“Miss Baines?” she began, double-checking the name on her list. “This is Tess Gellar with Accessorized magazine and I’m wondering if–”
“Sorry no,” the voice interrupted with a brusqueness that surprised her. “I’m not a big fan.”
“Oh…” Not a problem; she had dealt with this kind of resistance before. “I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Baines; our surveys are designed to improve reader-writer communications. So if you have a moment, I’d love to discuss your best first date fashion etiquette tips,” she purred.
A vicious snort echoed across the line. “Listen, I get my wardrobe one rack down from the plus size section. Which means my best fashion etiquette is to just stay at home.”
“Accessorized magazine would love to get to know you better, regardless of where you shop,” Tess argued, although her conviction wavered slightly. How did you argue with something you knew from personal experience to be true? Maybe telemarketing training should include a basic course in psychology.
“I know it’s your job to push this, and I’m not trying to be rude,” the voice continued “but I don’t date and I don’t dress creatively, and the last thing I need is for some fashion magazine to make me feel even worse about it. Not that a person like you could understand something like that.”
Her heart dropped, a guilty blush washing over her face. “Really, Miss Baines those of us at Access–”
“Look, I’m just not interested okay?”
A sharp click punctuated this statement, followed by the sound of the dial tone flooding the line. As Tess's own features reflected hurt and surprise as she hung up the phone.
*****
The office for the chief editor at Accessorized magazine felt like something out of a nature documentary, thanks to the addition of a large collection of tranquility fountains. Which Tess could only assume were meant to offset the life-sized portraits of “scary” models–pale, bony women with runny masca
ra and wild hair; black fingernails that reached like claws from the canvas.
More like a gallery of Batman villainesses than advertisements for makeup and hairspray.
Changing her seating angle, she focused her gaze on the editor’s sleek mahogany desk and its collection of framed photos. An eight by ten of Jack Henson at a red carpet event, his arm linked with a raven haired beauty at least twenty years his junior. Lounging on the sands at a beach resort with the same companion; celebrating together with champagne at an office birthday party.
“Ms. Gellar?”
She turned to find Jack surveying her with a toothpaste smile, his tan a deeper shade of orange than it was in the beach picture. “Nice to meet you again,” he said, offering a hand, as he settled across from her at the desk.
They had never met, but Tess had no plans to enlighten him on that front. Not if there was a chance she could finally escape the dregs of telemarketing for something better. Something more like her original aspirations on fashion and public relations.
She leaned forward, wincing as the leather cushion tore from her bare legs with a Velcro like sound. Perhaps this wasn’t the right occasion for debuting her supposedly-slimming black wrap dress. Something her mirror's reflection seemed dubious about confirming when she tried it on that morning.
“Looks like you’ve been very busy,” Jack said, flipping open a thick file labeled as property of the marketing department. “And very effective, I might add. Our number of subscriptions is at its highest in two years.”
She should have beamed under this praise, but there was something else vying for attention: the sound of the dial tone from last night’s dissatisfied customer.
“Speaking of subscribers,” she began hesitantly, “I was wondering about something. Sort of a new marketing technique. That's why I'm here today.”
“Oh?” He flipped the folder closed and smiled. “Well, let’s hear it then. I mean, you’ve certainly proven yourself, so I’m open to hearing any ideas you may have.”
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