Chapter 6

"Wait, so he doesn't realise that you know he bet on getting you into bed, or he knows you know and he doesn't think it was a big deal?"

I sipped my glass of scarlet wine while I formulated an answer. Heather and I were sitting in the hotel bar, having a quick drink after dinner before turning in. We'd had a great night: the Vietnamese food had been light and delicious, exactly what I didn't know I needed, and my new companion was turning out to be a lovely new friend, one I'd quickly confided in about the whole Matt situation.

She'd gasped and clicked her tongue in all the right places, but her last question made me pause. "I don't know. I'm not sure. I don't think he knows, but he seems so genuine. I've worked alongside Matt for the last year; I just have so much trouble believing that he'd be capable of trying to screw me just for shits and giggles."

"How much do you know about Matt?" Heather chugged her bottle of cider, her amber eyes narrow. "Sometimes we don't know people as well as we think we do. What's his family like? Where did he grow up? How many past relationships has he had?"

I went to answer, then realised I couldn't. "I... I don't know." I'd obsessed over Matt since meeting him, but I knew nothing more about him than surface stuff; his love of comic book movies, his cologne, his favourite lunch spot. "Oh God, I don't know any of that! What kind of person does that make me?"

"It doesn't make you any kind of person," she said. "Most of the time, we just don't go deep with people; when we talk to someone, we're normally just waiting for our turn to speak, rather than really listening."

"I don't know who he is at all," I said, barely registering her words. "He could run a dog-fighting ring, or smuggle parrot eggs in his butt and I wouldn't have a clue."

I drained my glass, feeling very sorry for myself and wishing the wine would have more of an effect. It normally took at least three standard drinks for me to feel anything; I imagined the alcohol absorbing straight into my fat cells rather than floating around in my brain the way it was meant to.

Heather finished her drink. "Don't worry about it tonight; you've had a big enough day. Let's talk about it tomorrow if you like?"

"Yes, please." I smiled at my new friend.

"I gotta bounce; my Andie will be waiting up. See you tomorrow!"

"Okay." She gathered her bag and burgundy coat, and I felt a surge of desperation pushing me to say, "Hey, Heather? Thanks for today."

She beamed. "My pleasure, lovely. Good night!"

I sat for a few more minutes in the bar, observing the city folk around me. As usual, I started sorting the people I saw into groups; single men, and everyone else. The bachelors stood out, with their bare ring fingers and eyes hunting for the next lady in their lives. Those eyes never seemed to land on me though, so I stood and made my way upstairs to my lonely bed.

***

The second day was so much better than my first; it was as though someone had plotted them to be deliberately opposite.

I woke up feeling as sunny as the bright spring day outside. Heather met me in the lobby again, but there was no sign of her Mini as we stepped out the front.

"Uh... Car?"

"We're on foot today," she said, looping her arm through mine. "It's only about twenty minutes away."

I groaned. "But... But, walking?"

Heather laughed. "Melbourne is the best city in the world to walk in! You never know what new little nook or shop you'll discover! The other day, I walked down a random narrow staircase and found an epic comic book store hidden in a basement."

At her mention of comics, my mind returned to Matt, and how much he'd gushed over the last Marvel movie, prompting me to head to the flicks on my own just so I could feel closer to him. I'm pathetic...

Once Heather had escorted me to the city square, bantering merrily the entire way, I met my new bosses for the day, the designers behind the Amazing Shapes label. They were both women in their forties, and although they weren't what I would term plus-sized themselves, they certainly understood and catered for a tricky market.

"Body size is such a huge issue," said Nicci, the effervescent half of the team. "I'd always been a size eight, but after the birth of my second, it took months to get back to my pre-baby shape. I hated the way it felt to fit nothing in my wardrobe, and I'd go into the shops I'd always purchased from, and they'd say, 'sorry, we don't have that in your size.'"

Her co-designer nodded. "Bust size has always been my biggest hurdle. I'm an E-cup, and I struggled so much to find tailored, quality clothes to fit me. That's why we've just released our swimwear range this year, specially designed for all bust sizes, and we do our damndest to ensure that all our garments work for every kind of cleavage."

I felt like hugging Maria, clasping her gigantic boosies to my own. "You're both inspirational."

I felt much more at ease during their show, watching the models walk with their heads held high. None of them were over a size twelve, but the atmosphere was so different; no screaming, a buffet with salad and fruit in the corner, and a general feeling of acceptance.

Maria and Nicci introduced me to everyone, and once I was recognised, I was plied with autograph requests. One gorgeous model, with wavy blonde hair down to her backside and a voluptuous figure told me, "You're the reason I went into modelling! I never thought anyone would want to watch a big girl, but when I saw you on screen, I said to myself, 'Everyone loves Evi! They'll love you too!' So, thank you!"

We hugged and I said, "You're welcome," wishing that the confidence I'd instilled in her actually existed inside me too.

I was put in charge of model moral support, which I was fairly certain was a made-up position, but I loved roaming around backstage, complimenting the girls and high-fiving them as they returned from the catwalk.

As the day drew to a close, I was plied with two giant bags of freebies, stuffed with so many colourful and beautiful samples, I blushed. "You don't have to do this," I told the designers.

"Come out to dinner with us tonight and we'll call it even," said Nicci.

And that was how, a few hours later I found myself wearing a brand new Amazing Curves wrap dress in a peacock blue, and giggling with the designers and Heather over florescent cocktails at a salsa club in the city.

Quiet married Maria was actually a little spitfire on the dance floor; she selected the hottest guy in the club, nodded to him, dragged him to the dance floor and didn't let him go for almost two hours. I watched the buxom woman twirl with fire in her eyes, the confidence she exuded coming from somewhere deep inside. It had nothing to do with her waist measurement or the cellulite on her thighs and everything to do with her utter belief in herself. I was transfixed – along with the rest of the male population in attendance.

Nicci and Heather jumped up too, asked to dance by a pair of guys who looked more Greek than Latino, but were still very attractive. "Come with us!" yelled Heather.

I shook my head and waved them away. "My feet are sore. I'll mind the bags; you go!"

She gave me a look of frustration, but left me to it. Alone at the round booth, I tuned out the music and excitement, trying desperately not to feel sorry for my self-imposed soliloquy. Attempting to appear busy, I checked my emails on my phone, hoping for another Matt message and coming up empty.

With three strong cocktails inside me, I felt the voice of logic washed away by the romantic inside me, the one who still believed that Matt was a good guy, that occasionally the hot guy did ask the loner to dance, that sometimes the big girl did get the happy ending. I wrote him a five word email and hit send before I could regret it.

"Excuse me," said a voice from the low wall behind my booth.

I squeaked in fright, dropping the phone. Thankfully, it landed in my bag and I turned to see a pair of glorious hazel eyes staring at me.

He was older than me by a few years, looking to be in his mid-thirties, but carried himself with a dignity that smacked of royalty. With his sleek hair and sculpted figure, he was positively delectable. "Will you dance with me, pretty lady?"

I barked in laugher. "Me? Right. Who put you up to this? Heather? You really don't have to."

His olive skin creased in confusion. "I don't know any Heather. I see a beautiful lady in blue, and I wish to dance with her." He crossed around to the front of the booth and extended his hands to me. "And I don't take no for an answer."

A million excuses sprang into my head: the bags, I don't know you, I don't dance, salsa is too sexy and I have as much sensual appeal as a rhino in a negligee...

But the same urge that had driven me to email Matt compelled me to my feet. "What the hell?" I said, taking his hand.

I had never felt as blissfully free as the time I spent spinning around in the arm of my dance partner that evening. He led me with the dexterity of a pro, and we danced for hours, the entire world nothing but a long steady salsa beat. Not once did I worry about outweighing him; the force of his dance moves held enough mass for me to let go. In his arms, I was weightless and as sultry as an erotic fan dancer.

I never found out his name; it didn't matter. We danced until the wee hours, until Heather dragged me panting from the dance floor, yelling goodbyes to the designers and hailing us a taxi.

"That! Was! Brilliant!" I yelled inside the cab, my nightclub-conditioned ears unaware that my volume was a smooch too loud for a small car interior. "I'm gonna learn to salsa!"

"Not tonight, you're not," said Heather, grinning at my new-found enthusiasm for all things Latina. "You need to sleep. Lucky you have a late start tomorrow."

It was lucky; the next day, I crammed my dance-weary feet into my comfiest boots and readied myself to work under So, the renowned Icelandic designer. Most famous for working only in colours found on the Northern tundras – mostly white and grey – and his proclivity for never speaking above a whisper, I was curious about meeting him, in a hung-over kind of way.

My excitement was misplaced. I was intercepted by a huddle of assistants before I even made it within twenty feet of the strange little man, garbed entirely in silver. I was given the task of shoe-sorter, sitting quietly in the corner of the backstage area, observing the bizarre antics of the crew trying to get the show up and running while observing So's strict rule of a silent backstage.

Elliot made me grin, waving hand-written signs at me from across the room, saying things like, "I just farted!" and "I can hear the model's bones rubbing together!"

After the show was finally over, he waved me over. "Immy said to give you this for tomorrow."

Eagerly, I dipped into the bag and pulled out a stunning outfit out. The maxi skirt was fitted in a glorious shade of yellow. It was paired with a white sleeveless shirt, long enough to cover all my wobbly bits without riding up, and a sheer overlay in a white and yellow pattern, embroidered with beading. It was elegant, thoughtful and perfect.

"Do you like it?" asked Elliot, mistaking my silence for disapproval.

"I don't like it," I told him. "I love it."

I wore it with pride the next morning, teaming the ensemble with my white wedges, feeling very spring. The small crew of familiar faces sent by Robbo did a double-take.

"Wow, Evi!" said the boom operator. "You look bloody unreal, mate!"

"Thanks, Ray."

With my handwritten notes from the first three days, I gave my frank report to camera.

"Fashion Week. What an experience. There's something about fashion that is simultaneously inclusive and isolating for the general public, and I've seen the best and the worst of this world in the past few days.

"There are designers working incredibly hard to create clothes for real women, with a focus on wearabilty and beauty, like Nicci and Maria from Amazing Curves. Any viewer who doesn't fit the size six mould and wants to feel special would be wise to invest in one of their pieces.

"There are others who create art, like So. Don't get me wrong, the man is a total nut-job, and nothing he designs could actually be worn in the real world, but the man does make incredible pieces, clothing with so much design, you have to stand in awe.

"Then, there's designers like Jordy Green. Let the word go forth, people; this woman is literally representative of everything wrong with fashion. She is single-handedly responsible for raising the national rate of anorexia and bulimia - not to mention, she's just a total raving bitch. Do me a favour, Australia; put this woman out of business. She doesn't deserve your custom.

"On the other end of the success spectrum, there are the designers just trying to catch a foothold in this industry, people like Imogen Saks here."

I drew Immy into shot and smiled encouragingly at her. "Imogen, I'm wearing an original outfit from your collection today, and at the risk of sounding up myself, I think you've done a beautiful job. Can you please give our viewers your top tips for looking fabulous at any size?"

Immy was a natural on camera; she launched straight into her prepared spiel. "First of all, ladies – and gents – get your size right. The label is only a number, and you'll look and feel better in a well-fitted size 18 than a tight, uncomfortable 16.

"Second, don't be afraid of colour! Be bold and own what you wear – life is too short for all black and grey.

"Finally, know the cuts that work for you. Being plus-sized doesn't mean only wearing mumus, but understand that some styles will look better than others. Classic lines and great style never go out of fashion."

If there was any doubt that Imogen knew what she was talking about, it was blown out of the water as we filmed her models during the emerging designer's show. Not only did she have a genuine plus-sized girl hit the catwalk, she also showcased a petite girl who came up to my shoulder, and a model with such broad-shoulders, she looked like an Olympic swimmer. They all looked spectacular.

After all the filming was wrapped and Immy had hugged me for the umpteenth time, hyperventilating with joy, I headed back to the hotel with Heather. We were on a mission to get into Sing Sing, the Asian fusion restaurant with a no-booking policy.

"We need to get there when the doors open at six," Heather informed me, "otherwise we'll never get seated."

I dashed up to my room, feeling buoyant. As I dug through my bag of Amazing Shapes pieces, a text message pinged on my phone.

Check your emails, Moo! Yr tix for next week are in your inbox. Robbo.

For once, his bovine reference didn't sting. I'd had a great couple of days, the drama of the studio almost forgotten. Nonetheless, I reached for my laptop and refreshed my inbox.

A few dozen emails blinked up, but the one that caught my eye bore Matt's name. "Oh, bugger... That's right..." I recalled my drunken reply to him a few days before, which I'd either plain forgotten or blocked in denial from my mind.

What the hell did I send you anyway? I scanned the email, looking for my response first.

Tell me about your family.

"Okay..." As drunk responses went, it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever sent.

His reply was posted below.

My family? Hmm... I'm not sure what this question is about, Evianna, but since you've asked, I'll tell you. Unless you meant that message for someone else, in which case, please disregard the rest of this email :)

I come from a single-parent family. Mum raised my brothers and me on her own after Dad died when I was eight. I have a few memories of him; a big guy, always reading, but he still made time to play with us whenever he could. He was a brilliant man, a scientist, and mum was his research partner. He was a pioneer in his time; there was always some award ceremony to go to. One day, he flew away and never came home – he had a massive stroke in his hotel room and died a day later in the hospital.

I love my brothers – they're super-smart too. Liam is the oldest; he's working in Geneva now on some project I can't even begin to understand, and Mal, my baby bro, he's in a lab in Melbourne studying degenerative diseases.

And then, there's me – middle child, on morning TV, conducting advanced research into local news, celebrity hairstyles and the ten ways to tell if your boss hates you. Don't get me wrong – I love my job, it's just really hard to get a word in at the dinner table over Christmas.

I'd love to bring you over to meet them sometime, Evianna. They'd love your quick mind and sassy ways, just as I do.

Miss you,

Matt

I have to say, I love the debates raging in the comments about Matt and whether or not he's a dirtbag - it reminds me of sitting around with my girlfriends, endlessly discussing guys and their motives :)  Feel free to join the conversation!  And as always, if you're enjoying the tale, please click that star!  xxoo Kate