Who’s That Girl?

by Celia Hayes

  I hope that the whole thing is at least of some use. And I wonder: how much use has it been for me?

  Yesterday I had a job, an identity, a boyfriend. Yes, okay, an imaginary boyfriend, but even that was, in its way, a kind of security. And now? I’m unemployed, my wardrobe has developed a split personality and if we’re being totally honest, not even Samson looks at me the way he used to.

  “Pfffff…” I hate waiting.

  “And as I told you before, now that all of the contestants have walked the catwalk we can start the televoting.”

  I go back to staring at T. J. Steel, and listen to him distractedly while I wait for our big moment to come.

  “Now let’s bring our finalists over here.” He gestures with his microphone to a girl who, followed by the camera, leads us over to him without ever stopping smiling. I’d much rather not be compelled to follow her, but I promised myself that this time I would go through with it, so even though there is a part of me scoping out the emergency exits, I wait for them to give T.J. the envelope containing the name of the winner.

  “God…” whispers a panicky Angelina, visibly agitated. I glance over at her. “Take it easy,” I say, acting as though all this was just a walk in the park for me. It’s a shame my knees are knocking, because I’d really like to be able to say that I’m just standing here pretending to be interested for the sake of the public, but as soon as that envelope arrives I start panicking too. It feels like I’m getting palpitations: my hands start sweating, my heart is beating madly. I didn’t think it could happen to me, but apparently it has: I have finally discovered that deep down I’m just the same as all the others – if I see a sceptre I start drooling, and I want the crown for myself and my subjects to applaud admiringly. Finally, I’m normal!

  “So let’s find out the names of the three winners of the Beautiful Curvy Contest!”

  My attention is totally focused on the presenter as, with mounting adrenaline, I watch the first two eliminations: Dorothy’s out, Madison’s out. That leaves three of us: Me, Angelina and Sienna.

  Third envelope.

  “In third place at the first running of the Beautiful Curvy Contest is…”

  Moment of panic. “Number 72, Sienna Moore.” Oh my God. I don’t believe it. Blood is going to flow. I turn to Sienna, hoping that she’s not going to pull a hatchet out of her bustier, but no: she smiles, weeping with emotion and looking like the image of happiness. She takes the flowers, goes over to the microphone and thanks the jury, wishing all of us the success we deserve, because as far as she’s concerned this is already a great achievement for her and blah, blah, blah… does anyone actually believe all this guff they come out with?

  Wait a minute, but… if Sienna’s out, does that mean only Angelina and me are left? I mean, that means… that I actually have a chance of being this year’s Face of Curvy?

  Okay, don’t faint. It doesn’t matter, it’s just a competition. A stupid beauty contest that’s not going to change your life in any way. No.

  “And the winner… a moment of silence, please. The winner, the next Face of Curvy, the testimonial of the Beautiful Curvy collection is…”

  I can’t breathe, I feel sick. This can’t be happening, it can’t be. I don’t believe it. Wait until I tell my mother…” Number 304, Angelina Johnson.”

  Woah. Okay.

  My excitement vanishes instantly.

  The audience starts to applaud and the orchestra starts to play the theme music, and I’m overcome with a powerful urge to cry. But why? Wasn’t it just a stupid beauty contest?

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” shrieks Angelina, while a cascade of celebratory confetti pours down onto the whole studio. Everyone hugs, everyone seems happy, everyone loves each other. We’ll see if they’re still being so affectionate in the changing rooms in five minutes. Oh, stop being a sourpuss just because you didn’t win, Sam! Honestly, you’re amazing – you’ve spent the last three weeks saying you don’t care and look at you now! You don’t deserve the crown any more than Sienna Moore – there, I said it!

  “Sam, Sam, I won!” The winner comes over to me and, to my complete surprise, takes me in her arms and squeezes me tight, dripping mascara on my shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d ever do it. I was sure you would win,” she confesses between sobs. “You’re so beautiful… I… I can’t believe it,” and at that point I burst into tears too, and I couldn’t say if it’s for Dave or for the contest or for Al. Right now, I don’t understand anything, but there’s one thing I do know: I’m happy for her, because this was her dream, not mine and at the end of the day, this is how it was supposed to go. At least one of us has achieved her goal. It might take me a while, but… I’m not going to give up, no. If with all her hard work Angelina has managed it, that means we all can. Perhaps that’s the real reason for Curvy – to give us the illusion that if you really want it, everything is possible. And perhaps from the illusion comes the desire to try for real – and who can say where you’ll get to if you actually stand up and start walking?

  Chapter 37

  Let’s Keep in Touch

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not great.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “It was hard for her.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Locked in the restroom. Tim’s trying to convince him to come out. He’s already told him that Mary’s left, but he doesn’t believe him. He’s terrified of running into her in the corridor.”

  “I would be too. Just try and imagine what she’d say to him now that she’s won.”

  “She’ll find a way to in the end anyway, so it’d be better to face her right now.”

  “Poor Lou, it’s all my fault,” I sigh, slipping on my coat.

  “No it isn’t, you did what you could. Angelina had her own sponsor, Mary played dirty and, unfortunately, I didn’t have any say in the final decision.”

  “Al…”

  “If I had, I’d have made you win, you know.”

  “Yes, but that wouldn’t have been right. I’m not the face of Curvy.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is. I’m just Sam, a temporarily unemployed journalist who now has a closet crammed full of clothes that I’ll never wear.”

  “They all look great on you.”

  “I don’t think Mister Donut’s dress code allows zebra pattern tube tops at the counter.”

  “You’re not going to end up at Mister Donut,” he says, trying to cheer me up.

  It’s past midnight and we are the only two left in the dressing rooms apart from a cameraman, a sound engineer, and a couple of cleaners. There is a strange silence and I can’t help feeling sad. It’s a bit like saying goodbye to a piece of myself as I put the last of my things in my bag. He looks at me without saying anything, but I know he wants to talk. Maybe he doesn’t feel brave enough to, and I understand him, because suddenly I don’t either.

  “So what are you going to do now?” I ask him elliptically.

  “I’ve got some things to do in town, then I’m going back to Los Angeles. We’re thinking about starting up a reality show. How about taking part?” he asks, as if he had suddenly come up with a brilliant idea.

  “Al, no!” I answer firmly. “Let’s not start all that again. No reality shows.”

  “But why not?”

  “No shows, no showbiz, no photos, no videos – I don’t want any more of that stuff!”

  “But you could be a star!”

  “I don’t want to be a star!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure, yeah,” I say categorically.

  “You just can’t imagine the possibility that I might be right, can you?” he says, trying to charm me with a breathtaking smile.

  “I’ve already accepted the possibility that you might be right once, I’ve got no intention of doing it twice.”

  “Okay then…” he says, “whatever you want.”

  Feeling calmer I sigh and while
I look into his face I keep saying to myself ‘this can’t be happening’. This guy, the one who always has a smile always on his face and is always dressed in baggy clothes, is a millionaire. And he wanted me. A millionaire wanted me. And I said no.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “So? What are you going to do, then?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I think I’ll take a week to get my head together, and in the meantime I have to clear out my desk at The Chronicle.”

  “Are you seriously not going to consider going back?”

  “No. Not after everything that’s happened.”

  “I know he wrote to you in the paper.”

  “News travels fast, I see.”

  He smiles. “What did you expect? You’ve met Tim, right?”

  “Yeah, I should have imagined it,” I murmur, resignedly raising my eyes to the ceiling, “but he can’t have read you the whole thing. Do you know what he wrote? That everybody’s waiting for me. Not him. Everybody. What’s the point of writing me a message like that if you don’t have the guts to say that you miss me? And I have to get it through my head once and for all that he doesn’t need me, he needs someone to dump all his worries and his research and his backlogged work onto. That’s the truth. He doesn’t want me.”

  “I want you,” Al whispers, stroking my hip.

  “I know…” I say, leaning against him, I hide my face in his sweatshirt and hold him tight – so tight I’m worried I might hurt him, but he doesn’t protest. He embraces me with his eyes closed and his fingers in my hair. “Why aren’t you an asshole, Al? Can you explain it to me? Why are you like this? It would be so much easier if you weren’t.”

  “Why? Because if I was an asshole, I’d be the one you’d want to be with?”

  “Maybe…” I admit, letting go of him.

  “Sam, promise me something…”

  “What?”

  “If you should ever realise that you’re actually in love with me, call me.”

  “I promise.”

  “So… I guess I’ll see you around, then?” he says with a forced smile, holding my hand.

  “See you around, Al.”

  “Hey, my real name is Adam. So now you know.”

  “No way – Adam Graham is a stuck-up snob. You’re just Al.”

  “Okay, Al’s fine.”

  “So see you around, Al.”

  “Bye, Sam.”

  And we say goodbye, promising to call each other soon, even though we both know that we won’t. Some relationships are like that – made to disappear, leaving you with just a handful of memories that now and again, maybe when you’re sad, reappear to make your heart ache. You spend a night with them, holding them tight while you ask yourself what it would have been like, and then you wake up in the morning and they’re already far away.

  With a sigh, I collect my things and leave the building, but before I go home I stop on the pavement, turn round and look at the Beautiful Curvy venue for one last time. I imagine the people on the other side of those closed windows with stories more or less like my own and I seem to hear again the noise, the chaos of the corridors, the spotlights. But then the horn of a taxi cuts through my thoughts and I put them aside and head for home.

  The journey is over.

  Chapter 38

  Stupid, Impossible Dave

  “Hey, Sam…”

  “Sorry, not now, I’ve got stuff to do. I’ll drop by later, I promise,” I say, shooting off between the desks. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m not feeling particularly comfortable and I know that everyone is dying of curiosity to find out whether I’m actually going to go and set off on a different career path now that I’ve become a bit of a celebrity. Yes, I know, I didn’t win, but even second place has given me a small army of supporters: at home the phone has started ringing so much that my mother is seriously thinking about having the line disconnected and going back to using telegrams. I can’t really blame her, but I’m hoping that all the attention the contest has generated will soon die down and they will all forget about me.

  I pass by Nicholas and get to my cubicle. I’ve brought an old box to put my things in, but I don’t know if it’s big enough. I haven’t got the faintest idea of how much stuff there is on all these shelves. I’d imagined that this was going to be my desk for a long time – it never occurred to me that it might all disappear from one moment to the next.

  Feeling a bit sad and as though there’s a small millstone sitting in my stomach, I sit down for the last time in my chair, turn on my computer and delete all my personal documents. I open the drawers and empty them. Photos. Diaries. That’s it, nothing left. Three years to build it, a quarter of an hour to destroy it: a short but intense career.

  “Okay, I guess I can go now,” I murmur, checking the empty shelves for one last time. I don’t want to risk bumping into Dave by accident, I just want to get out of here as soon as possible. I pick up the box, leave the keys to my filing cabinet next to the keyboard and go back to the hallway, saying goodbye for the last time to the people I pass.

  “Oh, hey, Jane,” I say when I encounter her near the elevator.

  “Sam, how nice to see you,” she greets me cheerfully. “We really miss you around here.”

  “I miss you guys too.”

  “Before you leave, there are those two documents to sign. I sent you an email about them?”

  “Ah, sure… yes, I read it. Agatha has them, right?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Dave took them. You’ll find them in his office.”

  “What?” I say, squinting at her. “Look, you couldn’t go and get them for me, could you? I don’t want to see him,” I confess.

  “Don’t worry.” She moves closer, a conspiratorial expression on her face. “He won’t be back before one. Meeting with the top brass. Important stuff. Looks like there are going to be changes,” she says. “And I don’t know if Margaret’s going to get that raise she was hoping for so much.”

  “Come on, she deserves it.”

  “Yeah, well, Dave doesn’t feel the same way. It looks as though… oh, there’s that Ralph from accounting. He’s always sticking that nose of his in other people’s business. I just can’t stand people like that. Well, I still have to deliver these,” she says, gesturing to a yellow envelope. “Listen, Sam – don’t disappear.”

  “No, don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll still manage to meet up occasionally,” I say before turning round to go and pick up those damn forms before Dave gets back.

  But when I enter his office, I find him right there, in the last place in the world where I would have wanted to meet him. He is sitting on a corner of the desk, holding yesterday’s edition in his hands. I don’t know what he’s reading but he must be very focused because he only notices me, with my box in my arms and guilty expression on my face, when I whisper, “Sorry, I didn’t think you were in here.”

  He looks up, raises an eyebrow and studies me. He doesn’t look particularly happy to see me. “What is it? Already sick of the spotlight?” he asks sarcastically.

  “I just came by to pick up my stuff.”

  “Are you looking for it in here?”

  “No, actually it was Jane who told me… I was looking for the documents, the ones I have to sign. Aren’t they in here?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Good. I’ll go and ask Agatha then, she must have got it wrong.”

  “Fine,” he says, turning the pages of the newspaper noisily. My instinct tells me to let him cool down and I’m walking back out of his office when I suddenly change my mind, go back in and slam the box down on the table with all my might. “Do you know what I think?” I ask him, almost making him fall off the desk with shock. “I think you’re a real asshole, Dave.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Because this was your last chance to tell me that you care about me, but you’re too proud to do it and you’d rather let me leave you than admit that you made a mistake.”

&nbs
p; “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says defensively.

  “Ah, really? Then what was that message yesterday in the personal ads?”

  “It was pretty clear, wasn’t it?” he says, pretending not to understand.

  “Why did you write it?”

  “Because you’re so absurdly stubborn and I hoped that it might be enough to stop you from doing something stupid,” he explains with an indignant expression on his face.

  “Ah, that’s why?”

  “Yeah, that’s why.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “What other reason would there be?”

  “You said that I was your Sam, though,” I remind him.

  “I was trying to be nice,” he snaps, as though I’d accused him of multiple homicide.

  “What for, if you didn’t care anyway?”

  “Who said I…” he stammers, before going quiet. He clenches his jaw and stands there glaring at me, but he doesn’t say anything. When you try to get to the bottom of something, when you try and get past the surface, this is the only reaction that you ever get from Dave. With no exceptions. He sits there in his little bubble which nobody else is allowed to enter. And to avoid a scene, he goes round his desk and sits down in front of his PC. I suppose that’s supposed to tell me that the matter is closed.

  “Ok, sorry”. I raise a hand. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, but this is the last time I’m going to see you and… I don’t know what I was thinking. Whatever it was, it’s over now. Bye, Dave. Good luck,” I say, and pick up my box, all set to leave for once and for all. I don’t know if his reaction or the fact that he doesn’t even try to stop me is more hurtful – all I know is that I leave his office with my heart torn to pieces.

  I walk past Albert. “Hey, Albert.” I walk past Nicholas: “Nice tie, is it new?” I walk past each one of them, cubicle by cubicle. Some of them nod to me, others force a smile, but they are all there with their ears straining and their eyes at the slits between the panels of their cubicles watching me leave. Everyone is waiting for the two elevator doors to close so they can start swapping coffee break gossip with the next cubicle.