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“Andrea；” called her friend； a girl I didn’t know very well who
worked in accessories； “please tell Hope she’s not fat。”
“You’re not fat；” I said； my mouth on autopilot。 It would’ve saved
me many； many hours to have a shirt printed up that said as much； or
perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed directly on my forehead。 I
was constantly called on to assure variousRunway employees that they
weren’t fat。
“Ohmigod； have you seen my gut lately？ I’m like the fucking
Firestone store； spare tires everywhere。 I’m huge！” Fat was on
everyone’s minds； if not actually their bodies。 Emily swore that her
thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia。” Jessica
believed that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s。
Even James plained that his ass had looked so big that morning
when he got out of the shower that he’d “contemplated calling in fat
to work。”
In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am…I…fat questions with
what I thought to be an exceedingly rational reply。 “If you’re fat；
Hope； what does that make me？ I’m two inches shorter than you and I
weigh more。”
“Oh； Andy； be serious。I am fat。You’re thin and gorgeous！”
Naturally I thought she was lying； but I soon came to realize that
Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office；
and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people’s
weight。 It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that
everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back。
Of course； as much as I tried to keep it at bay； to remind myself
over and over that I was normal and they weren’t； the constant fat
ments had made an impression。 It’d only been four months I’d been
working； but my mind was now skewed enough—not to mention
paranoid—that I sometimes thought these ments were directed
intentionally to me。 As in： I； the tall； gorgeous； svelte fashion
assistant； am pretending to think I’m fat just so you； the lumpy；
stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat
one。 At five…ten and 115 pounds （the same weight as when my body was
racked with parasites）； I’d always considered myself on the thinner
side of girls my age。 I’d also spent my life until then feeling
taller than ninety percent of the women I met； and at least half the
guys。 Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know
what it was like to feel short and fat； all day； every day。 I was
easily the troll of the group； the squattest and the widest； and I
wore a size six。 And just in case I failed to consider this for a
moment； the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me。
“Dr。 Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit；
too； you know；” Jessica added； joining the conversation by plucking
a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez rack。 Newly engaged to one of
the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs； Jessica was feeling
the pressures of her uping society wedding。 “And she’s right。
I’ve lost at least another ten pounds since my last fitting。” I
forgave her for starving herself when she barely had enough body fat
to function normally； but I just couldn’t forgive her fortalking
about it。 I could not； no matter how impressive the doctors’ names
were or how many success stories she prattled on about； bring myself
tocare 。
At around one the office really picked up pace； because everyone
began getting ready for lunch。 Not that there was any eating
associated with the lunch hour； but it was the prime time of day for
guests。 I watched lazily as the usual array of stylists；
contributors； freelancers； friends； and lovers stopped by to revel
in and generally soak up the glamour that naturally acpanied
hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes； dozens of
gorgeous faces； and what felt like an unlimited amount of really；
really； really long legs。
Jeffy made his way over to me as soon as he could confirm that both
Miranda and Emily had left for lunch and handed me two enormous
shopping bags。
“Here； check this stuff out。 This should be a pretty good start。”
I dumped the contents of one bag onto the floor beside my desk and
began sorting。 There were Joseph pants in camel and charcoal gray；
both long and lean and low…waisted； made from an incredibly soft
wool。 A pair of brown suede Gucci pants looked as though they could
turn any schlub into a supermodel； while two pairs of perfectly
faded Marc Jacobs jeans looked like they were custom cut for my
body。 There were eight or nine options for tops； ranging from a
skintight ribbed turtleneck sweater by Calvin Klein to a teeny；
pletely sheer peasant blouse by Donna Karan。 A dynamite graphic
Diane Von Furstenburg wrap…dress was folded neatly over a navy；
velvet Tahari pantsuit。 I spotted and immediately fell in love with
an all…around pleated Habitual denim skirt that would fall just
above my knees and look perfect with the decidedly funky
floral…printed Katayone Adelie blazer。
“These clothes 。 。 。 this is all for me？” I asked； hoping I sounded
excited and not offended。
“Yeah； it’s nothing。 Just some things that have been lying around
the Closet forever。 We might have used some of it in shoots； but
none of it ever got returned to the panies。 Every few months or
so I clean out the Closet and give this stuff away； and I figured
you； uh； might be interested。 You’re a size six； right？”
I nodded； still dumbfounded。
“Yeah； I could tell。 Most everyone else is a two or smaller； so
you’re wele to all of it。”
Ouch。 “Great。 This is just great。 Jeffy； I can’t thank you enough。
It’s all amazing！”
“Check out the second bag；” he said； motioning to where it sat on
the floor。 “You don’t think you can pull off that velvet suit with
that shitty messenger bag you’re always dragging around； do you？”
The second； even more bulging bag spilled forth a stunning array of
shoes； bags； and a couple of coats。 There were two pairs of
high…heeled Jimmy Choo boots—one ankle… and one knee…length—two
pairs of open…toe Manolo stiletto sandals； a pair of classic black
Prada pumps； and one pair of Tod loafers； which Jeffy immediately
reminded me to never wear to the office。 I slung a slouchy red suede
bag over my shoulder and immediately saw the two intersecting “C”s
carved in the front； but that wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the deep
chocolate leather from the Celine tote that I threw on my other arm。
A long military…style trench with the signature oversize Marc Jacobs
buttons topped it all off。
“You’re joking；” I said softly； fondling a pair of Dior sunglasses
he’d apparently thrown in as an afterthought。 “You’ve got to be
kidding。”
He looked pleased with my reaction and ducked his head。 “Just do me
a favor and wear it； OK？ And don’t tell anyone that I gave you first
pick on all this stuff； because they live for the Closet clean…outs；
you hear？” He bolted from the suite when we heard Emily’s voice call
out to someone down the hall； and I shoved my new clothes under my
desk。
Emily came back from the dining room with her usual lunch： an
all…natural fruit smoothie and a small to…go container of iceberg
lettuce topped with broccoli and balsamic vinegar。 Not vinaigrette。
Vinegar。 Miranda would be in any minute—Uri had just called to say
he was dropping her off—so I didn’t have my usually luxurious seven
minutes to beeline to the soup table and gulp it down back at my
desk。 The minutes ticked by and I was starving； but I just didn’t
have the energy to weave through the Clackers and get examined by
the cashier and wonder if I was doing permanent damage by swallowing
piping hot （and fattening！） soup so fast that I could feel the heat
coursing down my esophagus。Not worth it； I thought。Skipping a single
meal won’t kill you； I told myself。In fact； according to every
single one of your sane and stable coworkers； it’ll just make you
stronger。 And besides； 2；000 pants don’t look so hot on girls who
gorge themselves； I rationalized。 I slumped down in my chair and
thought of how well I had just representedRunway magazine。
11
The Cell Phone shrilled from somewhere deep in my dream； but
consciousness took over long enough for me to wonder if it was her。
After a stunningly fast orientation process—Where am I？ Who is
“she”？ What day is it？—I realized that having the phone ring at
eight on a Saturday morning was not a good omen。 None of my friends
would be awake for hours； and after years of getting screened out；
my parents had grudgingly acc