Fit to Die (4 page)

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.