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VICTORIA MAFFINI

The last straw was at the 7-Eleven. With an already opened bag of Doritos in the crook of my arm, I flipped to the “Do’s and Don’ts” on the back page of Glamour magazine. I was snickering at the too-short skirts and noticeable panty lines when a chubby figure under the caption “Anyone for a sausage roll?” sent a flicker of recognition through my brain. I have a skirt like that, but it looks much better on…the little black strip over the face had served its purpose until that point. My stomach dropped into my shoes. The chunky girl billowing out over the waistband of her skirt, squeezed into a tank top, was me walking in Soho with my uncle. I’d gone to visit him in New York for a week. He looked fabulous. I, however, seemed to be both bending and twisting, creating a sea of fat waves and three extra chins.

Panic.

I scrambled to snatch up all the copies left in the 7-Eleven. Sweat stung my forehead. I tried to keep my voice from quavering. “I’ll take these.” I plunked down the half-eaten bag of chips and twelve magazines.

“These are all the same, you know,” the petite blonde girl behind the counter chirped.

I swiped at the sweat on my face with a grungy sleeve. She knows it’s me. She’s read the magazine. I became acutely aware of the fact her thighs and my upper arms were the same size.

“Yeah, my friend is in one of the fashion shoots.” Any attempt at flippancy was sabotaged by the three-octave hike in my voice.

For what seemed an eternity, the girl, whose nametag labelled her Cheri, snapped her gum and stared at me. “Whatever.”

Half an hour later I slumped onto my couch, exhausted. The sheer terror of anyone seeing this magazine had led me to buy up all the copies at every store in my neighborhood. I examined my trembling fingers. They were fatter than before. When did that happen?

I reopened the glossy back cover. Did they use a wide-angle lens on the camera? Were there support groups for the people who have appeared in “Glamour Don’ts”? Could I sue for mental anguish and get enough money to hire a personal trainer?

I crawled to my bed with a pair of scissors, a pint of ice cream, a two-litre bottle of Pepsi and a pack of cigarettes. I wept into my Häagen-Dazs, chain-smoking and cutting the rolls off my hideous magazine debut.

Two days later, I discovered that when you have prescriptions delivered, the pharmacy will also send smokes and chocolate. Before the delivery arrived, I’d begun to glue my fat cuttings onto my uncle. I envied the lady wearing too many animal prints; at least she only looked genetically spliced. I looked like Jabba the Hut in platform sandals.

The door chimed. Usually, I change several times before finding the perfect outfit in which to answer the door. At that moment, I only cared that there were no M & M’s stuck in my teeth.

The lanky, greasy-haired delivery guy, wearing a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt, stifled a gasp when I opened the door. I was unable to find the energy to be insulted. It had been days since I’d changed my clothes. I envisioned stink lines rising from me.

“That’ll be, uh, $38.98.” He looked at the small bag quizzically and checked the receipt. “Whoa, I didn’t realize they could sell you that much Valium at once.”

He made my change, slowly. It was at this point that I noticed the commotion outside. A moving van was emptying its contents into the condo across the street. The relative silence of our upscale Toronto condo-complex was shattered by a very thin woman yelling orders. Under her arm was a Dachshund wearing a mauve sweater. In her hand she held the largest martini glass I’d ever seen.

The woman seemed concerned the movers might ding the Mercedes that was parked at a jaunty angle on the sidewalk.

I retreated inside and watched her from my sofa. She spent most of the morning motioning wildly with her drink and sloshing gin on the grass. I fell asleep watching her dog poop in my parking spot.

Monday held nothing in the way of joy. My answering machine blinked incessantly. I feared messages regarding my sausage attire and chose to ignore it. Instead I submerged myself in work: decorating for the aesthetically challenged.

After an hour of staring at the snapshots I’d taken of my latest client’s home, I was thoroughly disgusted. They should have decorating Do’s and Don’ts. My client’s bedroom was whorehouse pink. Her comforter looked as though it had been caught in a tornado in Las Vegas. A rose-smattered valance with lilac sheers accosted the window, and her wallpaper had stripes and paisley and kittens. My sugar-ravaged body suppressed a retch at the sight of the gold-smoked mirrors in the hall. The task at hand began to overwhelm me. She loved the work I’d done with warm neutrals and stark minimalist furnishings in a mutual friend’s apartment. How did someone who could appreciate the sleek lines of Corbusier go so drastically wrong when left to her own devices? Where the hell was her husband when these atrocities were being purchased? I studied the pictures further. He could have been in the shots. Had his wife dressed him he would have blended right in with the rest of the chaos. Perhaps my client was afflicted with the same illness that allowed me to walk through one of the most stylish areas of New York looking like a small water mammal in drag.

Frustrated with the enormity of the project, I gave up and headed for the shower. Green tea shower gel soothed my bruised spirit. I had nearly relaxed when the doorbell started ringing with frightening repetition. By the time I flung open the door, I’d assumed it was stuck or someone was on fire.

The martini lady and her dog greeted me. “Hello, Chloë dear.” She looked me up and down, carefully.

“Ah…” I managed, while cinching my towel and raising my hand self-consciously to my suds-covered head.

“I am Ms. Leopold. This is Mr. Oodles. We are your new neighbours.” Leading with her martini glass, she pushed past me into my living room.

I stood frozen in my empty doorway. The Mercedes was now nestled against the mailbox.

Hearing tuts and hmms from the living room, I closed the door and joined Ms. Leopold.

“I must say you do have quite an interesting touch, darling.”

“This really isn’t a good time, I…”

“Go put on a robe, darling.” She swivelled, leaving an arc of gin on my footstool. “We must chat about what can be done with my condo. You wouldn’t believe what they did with the bathroom, dear. I know you were just fabulous with Bunny, and let’s face it, it couldn’t have been easy with Edgar, the pompous old goat, breathing down your neck.”

Bunny Birk had been a client the previous year. A woman with more money than God, Bunny also possessed the same surgically enhanced ageless quality I saw on Ms. Leopold’s tight face.

“Well, I…I…” Then the shopaholic deep inside me remembered Bolt Grenfrew was opening a new store, and I was almost entirely broke. “I’ll be right back.”

I returned in a robe with a towel for my hair. Mr. Oodles hopped effortlessly onto my leather love seat. He was wearing a pastel blue Pashmina wrap.

“You’re a friend of Mrs. Birk?” Opening my portfolio, I tried to seem professional. “I hope she’s well.”

Ms. Leopold’s eyebrow arched impossibly, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “I should say so. Her new pool boy is named Miguel, and he’s an aspiring gymnast.” A sly, crimson smile followed. “I’d say Bunny is behaving quite like her namesake these days.”

Pushing Bunny and her flexible Latino lover from my mind took some effort. I felt another shower was in order. “Would you like to see my other work, Ms. Leopold? I have a variety of…”

“No, no, no. I like what I’ve seen already. Bunny simply raves on and on about you. And, although you could obviously use a maid, your home speaks for itself.”

I’d almost missed the last part, being more concerned about Mr. Oodles, who was licking himself on my Calvin Klein throw.

“We’ll have lunch together at the Château Poivre.” Ms. Leopold scooped her dog up, anointing him with martini. “Here you are, dear.” A cheque was pressed into my hand. $5,000.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I hadn’t even shown her a fabric swatch.

“Working for me, darling, is a package deal. My men must be rich and foreign, my dog must be purebred, my hair stylist must be gay and my decorator must be well dressed.”

As I’d only been wearing bath linens during her entire visit, I began to protest. “Tut, tut.” She silenced me with a gloved finger to my lips. “I’m a faithful reader of Glamour, dear.”

I struggled through the rest of the afternoon. Why hadn’t I ripped up the cheque and thrown it in her pickled face? The sad realization that I could be bought was only softened by the idea of a spree at Emporio Armani. Besides, how much of a pain in the ass could a stewed prune like Ms. Leopold be?

You have to dress like a runway-model when you go to haute-couture stores, otherwise nobody will look at you except the security guards. I brought out the big guns today and was horrified at how snug my cream Jones New York ankle-length blazer had become. I left it open with a simple white tee and yellow silk trousers. I put on my grandmother’s diamond studs and pulled back my fire-red hair. Armed with my Fendi bag, a gift from Bunny upon completion of her en suite bath, I made a bee-line to town.

Fearing recognition, I chose my largest tortoise shell sunglasses to disguise myself until I was safely in Damon’s Department Store.

I fondled the butter-soft Gucci shoes before skipping to Women’s Wear. A pair of hot pink capris caught my eye.

“Hello.” The sales woman crept up stealthily behind me.

“Hi.” I said, polite but dismissive. I like to see everything before I commit to a change room.

“Pink is this year’s black.”

“Ah.” What the hell does that mean?

Noting I was ignoring her, she began to retreat. “You may want to rethink the colour, though.”

I turned to her quizzically.

“Lighter colors can make you seem…” her eyes focussed in on my yellow-clad thighs, “bottom-heavy.” She was wearing white linen pants. She had been born without thighs.

I was speechless.

In a singsong voice she added, “Well, you just let me know if I can help you find anything in a larger size.”

“Larger than what?”

“We mostly only carry up to a 10 in-store, but we can order as high as 14 in most of these lines. Of course, the prices can go a bit higher, because they use so much more fabric.” Her face wore a condescending smirk. It clashed with the frown lines etched into her chin. “We here at Damon’s are sensitive to our ‘plus-sized’ customers’ needs.”

Black dots swam into my line of vision. A knot tightened in my throat. I rifled through the contents of my purse, produced my Damon’s Preferred Customer card and thrust it up to her face. “There is a special place in hell for people like you,” I managed and ran from the store.

When did sizes 12 and 14 become “plus sizes”? I was so shocked I couldn’t drive. I was a 16. What did they categorize that under? “Jumbo-size”? “Manatee-size”? “I’m sorry we have nothing but tents in your size”, size? Not much can divert me from shopping, especially with $5,000 of someone else’s money, but the waspish sales bitch did it. I headed for cheesecake.

I’m not proud of this, but when pushed hard enough, I can eat cheesecake, smoke and drive a stick shift simultaneously. Arriving home, I was less than thrilled to see Ms. Leopold. I contemplated speeding off but hadn’t the energy. I’d tell Ms. Leopold to stick her martini up her butt and head for my bed.

Instead, I broke down on my doorstep. My story about the evil sales hag at Damon’s, the Glamour magazine fiasco and my too-tight jacket came blubbering out of my cake-covered lips. Mr. Oodles licked icing off my pant leg sympathetically. All the while Ms. Leopold sipped her drink with a face of stone. I finished with a whimper. There was a long silence.

“Come, darling.” She tentatively patted my elbow.

“Where are we going?” I sniveled.

“You need a spa.” She expertly rolled the olive around the rim of her empty glass. “And I need a drink.”

“Fatso.”

The call had awakened me from a fitful sleep. “What?”

“Heifer,” a raspy voice taunted. “Tub of lard.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Bitch.”

Click.

Before I could pry my fingernails from my mattress, it rang again.

“Buffalo-butt. Cow.”

“I’ve got *69. I can find out who you are!” Nothing.

I listened to the even breathing on the line.

“What are you going to do, come sit on me?”

“No! I’m going to send my boyfriend over there to kick your ass!” Juvenile, yes, but what do you want at three a.m.?

“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Colonel Sanders.”

Click.

*69 informed me the calls came from a phone booth. Usually, I am not bothered by crank-calls, but this one left me feeling uneasy. The Glamour magazine fiasco was still fresh in my mind. I sat up the rest of the night watching Richard Simmons info-mercials. By five I’d ordered the Deluxe Deal a Meal Plan and a Pocket Fisherman.

I used my sleepless night as an excuse to keep the spa at bay for two days. At first the thought of a pampering appealed, then I realized I would have to be naked with strangers.

I caved on Thursday morning. Ms. Leopold summoned me at ten-thirty. Mr. Oodles, sporting a leather vest with fur trim, was basking in the morning sun on my welcome mat. My neighbor, Mr. Balducci, was swearing at Mr. Oodles and waving a plastic bag with dubious contents.

“Cara Chloë, please-a tell me that is not-a your dog.”

“No, he belongs to Ms. Leopold. She moved in this week.”

Dino Balducci began to swear in Italian. “Where I come-a from, that-a sausage would be make into a nice-a stew, not dressed up-a like a Barbie doll!” He stormed away muttering about dog-based recipes.

“So glad you found him, darling. He just slips out sometimes, heaven knows how.”

We pulled up to the River Grand Country Club and Spa and were whisked inside. Three people fawned over Ms. Leopold, and by virtue of having arrived in the same car, I was at the receiving end of some strange attention as well.

“Wheat grass juice?”

“Do you need a kelp wrap?”

“Our sugar detox advisor can fit you in at noon, is that okay?”

“Would you prefer endurance or strength spinning?”

My day was spent being poked, rubbed, stretched, steamed, waxed and tortured on various machines that insisted on knowing my weight before they would work. Ms. Leopold watched from behind soundproof glass in an indoor tropical paradise with drink service.

My nap on the ride home came to a screeching halt. Mr. Balducci’s garbage can was wedged neatly into the rear wheel-well of the Mercedes.

“Shall we go to Damon’s tomorrow?” Ms. Leopold inquired.

I scrunched my face with displeasure.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I think you’ll find the situation has been rectified.”

Too tired to ask for clarification, I said goodnight, then limped to my door. I nearly missed the envelope peeking out from my mail-slot. It wasn’t labelled. I tore into it while flopping onto my bed. Inside was a photocopy of my last grocery bill. I’d been in the clutches of a bingeing spree and purchased more than a few items containing double-chocolate fudge. Underneath was a simple sentence. “This little piggy went to market.” Nausea washed over me. I came to the creepy realization that it had not been a crank phone call the other night. I ran through my house, closing blinds and locking windows.

How did someone get my grocery bill? And why? It must have been left in one of the numerous plastic bags I’d put out for recycling. I struggled with the strange events.

My sleep was littered with nightmares of being chased by the “Fat Police”. I barely managed to settle my nerves with several cups of camomile tea. When I went for the paper, any internal calm was sucked out of me by Ms. Leopold’s shrieking. She was standing on her doorstep, wrapped in plum chiffon and feathers, waving at me desperately.

“They’ve snatched my Oodles!”

Mr. Oodles had escaped the night before. He was inclined to do so after a stressful day. Ms. Leopold assumed he’d be back by morning. But instead she’d found his ascot with a note.

“Kiss your wiener goodbye.” It was penned in smeared red lipstick.

Mr. Balducci watched from his balcony. He wore an apron proclaiming him to be a “naughty gnocchi”.

I settled Ms. Leopold into her bed with a box of Kleenex, camomile tea and a 40-ounce bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Then I phoned the police.

In fifteen minutes three cruisers arrived, lights and sirens on. Apparently, Ms. Leopold played bridge with the chief of police.

That evening I was posting “Missing Oodles” fliers after visiting the liquor store for Ms. Leopold. I slipped into Low-Mart for new workout attire. I didn’t want to spend a bundle on clothes. I knew from experience they would not get much wear. I was led to the fitting-room by a pinched-faced woman in a blue smock. She must have overheard my grunts as I forced the waistband of the medium stretch pants.

“Another size, perhaps?” She called from just outside the stall. “Maybe a large would be more comfortable.”

Moments later, the loudspeaker announced the store would be closing. A flowered housedress was flung over my stall door. I eyed the 28XXXL tag.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s for me.”

“I think it will do perfectly.”

The store lights dimmed.

“The men will be swooning over you. You see, spandex is not your friend. It shows off all your rolls and dimples.”

That condescending, nasal voice! I’d been thrown off by the smock, but it was the sales lady from Damon’s. That bitch! Wanting nothing more than to throttle the snotty woman, I stuffed myself into my clothes, but found the change room door was locked.

“Hey!” I banged hard against the door. “Let me out!”

“Perhaps Colonel Sanders will come to your rescue. Although he may be hurt to find you’re having an intimate relationship with Mr. Christie and Joe Louis as well.”

The lights were completely out in the store. I strained to listen for signs of life over my pounding heart. A Muzak version of “La Bamba” accompanied my cries for help.

I slumped to the floor to ponder my predicament. It was hard to believe someone with such a high calibre of snobbery would be caught dead in Low-Mart. Why would she have traded her Donna Karan suits for a blue smock and grey polyester slacks? She had obviously been going through my recycle bin. The references to the Colonel were no coincidence. I’d perched a greasy red and white cardboard tub on top of my green box.

In the hours I had to think, I figured out where Mr. Oodles was being held. The threatening note was written in the same shade of Revlon Red that coated the thin lips of my captor. I’d never thought to connect my harassment with the disappearance of Ms. Leopold’s treasured pooch. I replayed the conversation I’d had with Ms. Leopold about the situation at Damon’s being “rectified” and shuddered to think what she’d done to defend my chubby honour.

The security guard found me in the morning asleep under the muu muu. The police had been searching all night. Ms. Leopold had contacted them when I hadn’t returned home with her vermouth.

Two hours later they arrested Mrs. Bretton, aka sales bitch, on one count of unlawful confinement and one count of dognapping. Mrs. Bretton was fired from Low-Mart, just as she had been from Damon’s. As I suspected, Ms. Leopold had called the manager at Damon’s to air her disgust over my shabby treatment. Being a member of the pleasantly plump club himself, the manager had dismissed Mrs. Bretton immediately.

We were returned safely to our homes, Mr. Oodles swaddled in a police blanket and myself with a $700 gift certificate from Low-Mart.

I sipped my Pina Colada poolside at the River Grand Country Club. Ms. Leopold was holding a chintz fabric swatch to Mr. Oodles.

“I do enjoy the red, dear, but it’s just not his colour.” A couple in the hot tub caught her eye. “Well, well.”

“Who are they?” I knew they must be important for Ms. Leopold to have stopped putting zinc on Mr. Oodles’ nose.

“She is Dana Swan, the world’s highest paid plus-sized model. She’s on the cover of Mode and In-Style this month.”

I peered around Ms. Leopolds’s hat-cum-golf umbrella. “And him?” I asked of the handsome silver-haired man fawning over his curvy companion.

“That, my dear, is Mr. Bretton.”

I blinked at her. “As in married to Mrs. Bretton, psycho sales cow from hell?”

“The same.” She fanned Mr. Oodles. “From what I understand, Dana worked at Dairy Dream before her modelling career took off. He always stopped in after his afternoon walk. Then one night, he went out for a scoop of butterscotch swirl, and never came back.”

Dana Swan emerged from the hot tub. Her string bikini clung to her glistening size 16 frame. Mr. Bretton panted after her.

“Rumour has it the article in Mode is rather racy.”

Later that week, I took great pleasure using my $700 Low-Mart certificate to buy 100 copies of Mode magazine. I sent them to Mrs. Bretton in care of the womens’ correctional facility. I was careful to dog-ear the feature article: “Sizzling Sex with your Sixty-Something Sweetheart” by Dana Swan.

VICTORIA MAFFINI Long known to customers at Prime Crime Books as Vic the Chic, Madame Maffini-Dirnberger now inhabits the dangerous world of educational publishing. She lives in Hull, Quebec, with her husband, her dachshund, a pair of squirrels, two lovebirds and a flock of cockatiels. “Down in the Plumps” is her first published short story.