Last Second Offers
“This way…”
We walk through a small antechamber and arrive in what is presumably a room usually reserved for meetings and video conferences. At the moment all the equipment is set to one side and the space is being used as a waiting room for all the contestants waiting in turn to have their photographs taken for the official catalogue. There are no tables or chairs, I can only see sets, blue backgrounds and brightly coloured spotlights. Dozens of professionals – cameramen, make-up artists and light technicians – are working on the sets.
We enter the backstage and see two technicians standing chatting by a couple of small blue sofas. We join them and Al introduces me. One of them is called Todd and the other Jack. They both work on the event’s website. Apparently, each contestant will have a personal page on the website containing her picture, bio and a number people can use to vote from home. Visitors will be able to leave their comments and there will be a recap of the results obtained during each selection step. It all sounds so interesting that I’m almost sorry that I won’t be participating in it…
“So what do you think, then?” Al asks them.
“I’m not sure we can, it all depends on Phil,” explains Todd while Jack throws up his arms in admission that he really doesn’t know how they’re going to be able to let me jump the queue.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to talk to Phil,” Al reassures him. “How much time do you need?”
“At least ten minutes for the close ups and I reckon about twenty more for the full body ones.”
Al checks the time on his Swatch one more time and asks me, “What time can you stay until?”
“No, wait,” I realise I have to stop him immediately. “That’s exactly the reason why I came here as quickly as I could.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get it all done, all we need to do is organise our time properly,” he reassures me.
“No, Al, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that I can’t stay at all.”
“It won’t take long, it’s only a couple of photographs. If you like you can even have a look at them before we publish them on the website.”
“Al, it’s not about the pictures – I can’t take part in the contest.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to participate. I don’t want to be one of the Curvy entrants, that’s all,” I say, and for a moment, silence falls.
“But you said…”
“I know, but I only said it because I was sure that it was already too late to take part…” I sigh. “I have no idea why I said all those stupid things yesterday.”
Al realises the two technicians are somewhat embarrassed by witnessing our conversation and so he decides to continue it somewhere else.
“Come with me,” he says, walking me out of the room.
We quickly find a quiet corner in a second floor corridor. If I were better dressed I’d look like some real model who’d been paid to smile invitingly to the camera in an attempt to make the hotel look like the quintessence of high society.
“So what’s the matter?” says Al, interrupting my thoughts. “Have you just got a touch of stage fright or are you actually being serious?”
“Honestly, both,” I admit. “Al, I really didn’t think you would sign me up for it. When I got your message I practically passed out from the shock.”
“Look, taking part in this is not easy,” he points out. “Do you have any idea of how many people tried to enrol and couldn’t?”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that already, but that isn’t the point,” I mumble. “I am truly very grateful for the opportunity you’re giving me, but it’s… it’s really not for me.”
“So why did you tell me you were interested? It took me a hell of a lot of work to get you on the list, you know.”
“I can imagine, but you really shouldn’t have.”
“Well, you said you’d have liked to.”
“Yes, but…”
“It wasn’t true, was it?”
“No… yes… I mean…” I mumble. I’m so confused. “It was just one of those things I sometimes like to imagine, but I never thought it could really happen. Who wouldn’t want to be an overpaid cover girl? But these things are supposed to stay as daydreams – something to fantasise about when you can’t sleep.”
“Why, if you can turn them into reality?”
“Because maybe I don’t want them to become reality. Because I know that none of this can actually become my reality and I have no intention of trying and failing.”
“So the problem is that you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I reply, “I’m being rational.”
“Nah,” he disagrees, “you’re afraid.”
“Al, I am a journalist,” I say, probably as much for my own benefit as his. “I’ve worked hard to become one and I never wanted to live my life in the spotlight. I don’t want my legacy to be… I don’t know, some commercial for toothpaste or something.”
“What commercial are you talking about?”
“Forget it, it was just an example,” I reply before he gets any more confused. “I want people to remember me for my commitment to social issues, for my political activism, and for my reporting. This whole Curvy thing was only supposed to be a way to make my colleagues notice me and to finally have my name printed in the newspaper.”
“That’s all it was for you then…” he says, sounding disappointed.
“Yes.” I decide it’s better to be brutally honest. “But apparently it’s turned against me, because since I started working on it I’m always ending up in trouble. I was this far away from losing my job today, can you imagine? I was so tired that I didn’t hear the alarm go off, and I went to work wearing the same dress I had on yesterday. My boss was seriously angry with me. You have no idea of the way he was glaring at me when he saw me dressed up like that.” My anxiety is getting the better of me and I relive those moments as though in a trance, feeling the same way I was feeling only a few hours earlier when all I wanted to do was to hide away somewhere and cry.
“So it’s him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday you said that you were in love with someone else,” he says, his face suddenly turning very gloomy. “Is it him? The one you’re in love with?”
“What… that’s not the point.”
“Does he know about it?”
“About what?”
“Have you told him?” he insists, looking very determined.
“No, he doesn’t know, and no, I don’t think I will ever tell him.”
“Why not?”
“What… what do you mean ‘why not’? Because these things either happen or they don’t… That’s all there is to it.”
“And nothing has happened with him.”
“I’m afraid not,” I confess, my shoulders drooping.
“So you decided to go on a diet hoping that he would eventually notice you, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Yesterday I asked you why you were drinking vodka and you answered that you were on a diet.”
How come he’s so intuitive? Aren’t men supposed to be the less gifted sex, only able to react to stimuli when they’re totally unambiguous? I mean, I know some women who have to get in touch with their husband’s secretary if they want him to remember their anniversary, but this guy seems to be able to deduce my entire life from a simple question.
“Yes, exactly,” I say, seeing no use in lying any more. “But that has nothing to do with the pageant. I can’t participate in it because I am a professional, and as a professional I have responsibilities. I have to focus on being a good journalist. What would my colleagues do if they found out that I’m competing in a beauty contest?” I ask him, not expecting an answer. “I’ll tell you what they would do: they would kick me out, Al. They would fire me immediately.”
“And why would they do that? You wouldn’t have committed any crime.”
“But I would have made a fool of myself and of the whole newsroom.”
“You would make a fool of yourself and of the whole newsroom just by participating in a beauty contest? Are you saying that my job is stupid?” he asks, probably offended by what must sound like the low opinion I have of his job.
“No, Al,” I say, trying to correct myself,” I don’t think the contest is ridiculous at all, but my participation in it would be, very much so. I’m not a model and I’m totally lacking in all the qualities that you need to be one.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy making fun of me or whether you are just incapable of being objective about me. Al, I can’t go up on a stage wearing a swimsuit,” I say, underlining the truth of my statement by stretching my tracksuit to make my ‘curves’ more visible. “Look at me and try to imagine what a jury would think if they saw me in a bikini.”
“I know very well what they would think, because it’s exactly what I’m thinking now and it was the first thing I thought when I saw you yesterday.” He takes a step towards me and takes my hand. “They would think that you’re incredibly well put together and that you have beautiful hazel eyes and lips that would make any man lose his mind…” He caresses my cheek and continues in a hoarse voice, “They would think that it would be wonderful to dive into your arms, touch you and hold you tight. And they would think that your neckline is terribly sexy.”
“But…”
“I swear, Sam, I can’t stop thinking about it,” he confesses, sounding resigned. “I seriously think there are certain types of dresses that you just shouldn’t be allowed to wear… You could easily cause a traffic accident.”
I would like to remain serious, but seeing him acting like that makes me laugh. I don’t know how it happens, but that hilarity transforms my day in a moment. “I give up, you’re a total idiot.”
He laughs too.
“I’m not kidding.”
“I know.”
“I can’t participate.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What the hell do you care, anyway?” I ask, throwing my arms wide open.
Al looks like he’s about to say something, but he changes his mind, bites his lip and turns to look somewhere else. He only replies when he’s confident enough of what he’s about to say. “I want you to participate because I am sure that you’re the one.”
“I’m the one for what?”
“You must be the face of Beautiful Curvy. I am sure of it, and the jury will agree with me the moment they see you.”
“But I’m not…”
“Thin? This contest isn’t meant for thin girls. You don’t have to be a size zero to participate.”
“You don’t understand – a size twelve wouldn’t fit me and even some fourteens aren’t roomy enough to contain all of my ‘enthusiasm’, if you know what I mean.”
“So what?”
“So I’m fat!”
“You’re not fat at all, you’re just incapable of seeing yourself for what you really are, and you’re used to letting some idiot’s indifference condition the opinion you have of yourself and make you lose the ability to fight for what you really want,” he says, with a certainty that I have no idea where he’s getting. Why should someone like him, a man who has everything – beauty, money and charm – be so interested in someone like me?
“I am not as special as you think.”
“And what if I’m right instead?” he challenges me. “I’m only asking you to give me the opportunity to prove to you that I’m right. In the worst case scenario you just go back to your usual life, with a boss who ignores you, an impossible diet and all your eternal dissatisfaction.”
“And what would the best possible scenario be?” I snap back, just as sarcastically.
Al ponders for some time, then replies. “Wouldn’t it be great to find out that you already are the wonderful person you’d like to be? And that the only thing you need to do to blossom is to stop hiding?”
“That’s just pretty words, Al – if I started believing in all this, I would soon find myself alone and miserable when it all eventually went wrong, and that would destroy me.”
“Well then, don’t believe in all this – I can believe enough for both of us. You can spend the whole time griping and sulking, and that way, if things go badly, you can always say ‘I told you so’. But please take part in this contest. I promise that if you don’t get through the first round I won’t bother you about it any more.”
It sounds so inviting, and for no reason at all. Maybe I’ve built up so much insecurity that the simple idea that I could actually shut up all those voices in my head that prevent me from having a normal life makes me feel nuts. Because it’s all completely crazy and none of it makes any sense. I am going to lose my dignity and reputation, but it sure would be a unique occasion to tell everyone that they can go to hell, something I should have told them all a long time ago. For once I could feel free to be myself, simply myself, with no ‘ifs’ and no ‘buts’.
Al must somehow have realised that I am fighting with myself and he knows how to take advantage of it. He reaches a hand out to me and, showing even more confidence than before, he whispers, “It’s only for twenty days, and you will only have to take a few pictures and give some interviews. The first rounds aren’t even public – the exposure will only come when we start shooting for the TV. But if you’re really not worth it, like you say, you won’t even get through the first round. Plus, you can use a stage name, so nobody will ever find out about it.”
“Al…”
“What’s three weeks against a whole lifetime?” he says, encouragingly.
I do some quick calculations and… Well, in the end, three weeks is also the duration of my other project, which was something I had almost forgotten about. What a weird coincidence.
“Al…”
“Come on, Sam, trust me.”
I don’t know – maybe deep down this was exactly what I had been hoping for, but in the end, I accept his proposal.