Open Your Eyes and Dream
I wouldn’t know how to describe the sensation, it all happens so fast. One moment I’m hidden away in the shadows of the wings, the next I’m standing on a catwalk surrounded by photographers, stylists and journalists. And the awareness that if the world made any sense at all, I’d be down there with them and not up here
One question keeps popping into my head: is this a dream? I feel as though I’m fluttering away into the sky right up until the moment I arrive in front of the jury. Behind me there are only the lights, a white backdrop, and, in blue, the name of the contest. Beautiful Curvy, lit up by a row of spotlights. And at that moment it’s as if I suddenly wake up. With my eyes on the stretch of stage I still have to cover, I find a line of girls waiting for me, clad in swimsuits, modelling the latest styles of one of the sponsors. They’re so… perfect. So different from me, with different life stories and, I imagine, and different goals. I follow them, wondering if I’m the only one who feels like she doesn’t belong here, whether to the outside world I look, or will ever look, like that. Meanwhile, they reach the edge of the stage, where they pause for a few seconds in front of the photographers – just long enough for them to snap a couple of pictures of the swimsuits, and then they turn round and go back, walking past me and heading off in opposite directions, vanishing through the side exits. And I find myself standing by myself in front of a distracted looking jury with a pop song playing in the background that gradually fades into a jazz track. Just a saxophone, bass and some occasional piano riffs.
And at that moment, hidden away where no one can see it apart from me, a light comes on behind the wings warning me that it’s time to start…
Another little trick to make the fiction almost seem real. It took me a while to catch on – you always have to know where to look, because none of it is actually spontaneous or off the cuff: everything is being organised by technicians and soundmen and floor managers: the chaotic reality behind the camera of which the world outside knows nothing.
The light starts flashing again, this time even more hysterically: “Get a move on, Sam!” I can’t make it wait any longer and so at the umpteenth flash I nod to myself and force myself to go out onto the platform, pretending to ignore the spotlights, the critics and all those people looking at me and wondering who the heck I am.
I’m wearing a gorgeous dress tonight. Emerald green. God alone knows what expression must have appeared on my face when I first saw it! It’s certainly a big step forward from the anonymous baggy black sweaters that make up most of my wardrobe. The more I looked at it, the more I said, “This isn’t me.” And yet here I am in front of them all, and I think to myself that what they’re seeing isn’t some insecure journalist but a girl in a gorgeous silk dress covered with sparkling jewels. Not Sam, but someone closer to Sienna Miller, maybe. At least, I hope so, because I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’ve rehearsed it a thousand times, but it’s one thing to pretend to know how to walk in these shoes when there are only Lou, Tim and Al watching, and something else entirely to do it in front of more than two hundred strangers. So I smile and, in the interest of survival, try and stop thinking for two seconds. When I find myself near the jury’s table, I have no idea how I got there or if I’ve already messed everything up.
I once heard Margaret say there were almost two hundred thousand requests to enter Beautiful Curvy. Did you hear that? Almost two hundred thousand! There are two hundred thousand people out there who would do anything to be in my place now, wearing this dress. And instead, here I am. And what’s the first thing I do when I stop? I pray.
Please God, help me, stop me from being a total disaster!
“Contestant number 204, Sam Preston. Twenty-six years old, animal lover and professional journalist…”
Well, I had to write something on the presentation card, didn’t I?
“Sam, do you want to tell us something about yourself?” It’s the voice of the presenter, I recognise it straight away. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but he must be here somewhere.
I freeze.
“So, Sam.” He comes closer still and I can finally make him out. He’s a good looking guy, though a little too tanned for my taste – like most of the people here, he looks as if he’s made of plastic and his manners are too smooth. He puts a hand on my back and pushes me gently towards the jury, doing what he can to help me out when he realises that I’ve been temporarily struck dumb. I doubt it’s out of altruism, though – it’s because I’m slowing down the pace of the show. “So why do you think you should be the new face of Curvy?”
Ah, right, the speech…
“Erm… I…”
Oh God, what was it?!
“I…”
I knew I would forget it. I knew it!
“First of all…” I say, trying to wing it and desperately attempting to come up with something that will take me back to the speech Lou wrote. “First of all I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to have come this far…” Where the hell did that come from? I’ll be a laughing stock, Dave was right. “I have a normal job, I do normal things.” He was right and I didn’t listen to him – I’m not a model, I’m a journalist. “I decided to take part because I’ve always dreamed of feeling free to be myself…” and at that point I can’t think of anything else to say. Again.
The jury stare at me uncomprehendingly, unsure about the reasons for my silence. And in the meantime I think, what was it that Lou said? You have to believe it?
I stand there staring into the audience. Dozens of people who aren’t even listening to me. I mean, come on, when have I ever done ‘normal’ stuff? Like skipping school to hang out with guys, smoking in the bathroom, stealing my parents’ credit card to buy that cool top that I can’t live without. Never, and I know it very well – and they know it too. You can tell just by looking at me. So I decide to do the only sensible thing: confess, but at least with a bit of healthy intellectual honesty. If I have to go home, I’m going home as Sam Preston and not as… well, whatever they want to make everyone believe I’ve turned into.
“That’s not actually true,” I admit with a sigh, causing perplexed expressions to appear on the faces of more than a few of those watching me. “I’m sorry, but it’s not true, I was lying. I should have told you I love what I am, but to be honest, I don’t. I should have tried to convince you that I’m absolutely convinced that I’m normal, but that’s not true either. The thing is that I don’t feel normal at all – I feel different. And not special, just… well, wrong. Because I’m not the right size and I don’t have the right hair cut or the right personality. There’s absolutely nothing about me that I wouldn’t change without thinking twice about it.
“I didn’t sign up for this competition because I wanted other people to believe that you can be incredibly happy simply by accepting yourself but because I was hoping that sooner or later I would start believing it myself. And when you ask why I think I should be this year’s ‘face of Curvy’, the only thing that comes to mind is that I don’t know. I really don’t know.” I turn to face the jury. “The truth is that I don’t feel like the face of Curvy, and I don’t really know why all those people out there should identify with me, but I do know that since all this… all this craziness began, my life has changed. I’ve changed. And I don’t feel like I’m willing to settle for less than what I really want any more. I can’t give you a reason to vote for me, I can’t think of anything that makes me better than any one of the many girls here with me this evening. I’m not even sure there is anything, because they all look beautiful to me. I’m not still here because I want to win, I’m still here because I don’t want to give up, not any more. And I don’t know where my feet will end up taking me tomorrow, but this time I want to decide on the itinerary with my real self. This time, I want to give the real me a small chance, so the only thing that I can say is that if I did happen to win and become the face of Beautiful Curvy, we’d discover what it meant together, one step at a time.”
When I finally stop talking, everyone around me remains silent, but then in the back row of the audience someone starts to applaud. I don’t know who it is, but whoever they are is soon joined by another, and another still and yet another, until they’re all applauding. I don’t think it’s because of what I said, but because maybe Tim was right. They needed a bit of sincerity and now they know who I am, they can see a bit of themselves in me and are they no longer feel alone. And neither do I.
“That’s great, Sam,” says the presenter, pointing to the jury behind the microphones. “That was a beautiful speech, but now it’s up to the jury. For candidate number 204, the votes are…”
Drumroll.
“Ten. Ten. Nine. Ten. Eight”.
It’s incredible but true – I’m in the final.
But what a meany that last juror was!