Cruella’s tapping gets more insistent, and she adds a click of her pen against her clipboard. Now I’mcertainI’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…exclusivityof 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’smarryingthat 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 onlythick and thinhe understands is a thick wallet lined withmymoney, 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 sayscrew the NDA! and airallhis dirty laundry. I’m halfway through reading him for filth when another text message pops up.
