Greta stuffed the dress, alongside her hidden pain, into her small case with a stifled sob. She zipped it closed, took a deep breath and exited the cubicle. She walked to the mirror and reapplied another layer of translucent powder, erasing the shine of sweat from her face. She couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself.
As she passed by WHSmith, a display of books stopped her in her tracks. A large cardboard poster hung from the ceiling at the front of the store, in bright red, saying DOCTOR GRETA GALE, THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER! Underneath it was a display of hardback books, dozens of them, piled high in stacks, side by side. Her book, What’s In Your Cupboard, had been in the Irish bestseller charts for over a year and showed no signs of leaving it any time soon. There was a giant photograph of her namesake on the poster – a triumph of shining platinum-blonde hair, Hollywood smile and translucent, porcelain skin. Her familiar brown eyes twinkled and seemed to say,
Greta, you’ve got this!
‘I know what I have to do. I’m gonna fake it till I make it,’ she whispered to the poster, then forced a smile onto her face. And with every step Greta took as she made her way to the departure gate, her smile grew wider.
By the time Greta inched her way down the aisle of the aeroplane towards her seat, she had successfully managed to bury her feelings about how she had looked in that mirror. Until she sat down and realized that her seatbelt would not clasp shut. She felt her body tense in shock and took several deep breaths to try and calm herself down, not quite believing the situation that was unfolding.
She checked to make sure her belt was not tangled. It wasn’t.
She then pulled the lever to extend the belt to its full length, getting an extra millimetre by doing so. But no matter how hard she tugged and pulled, the two ends never met. A glob of acidic bile made its way into the back of her throat, as the enormity of this discovery hit her. The unimaginable had happened. She was too fat to fly.
In silent loathing, she went through her options. She could call the attendant and ask for a seatbelt extender. This she eliminated immediately, because she couldn’t bear the shame of saying the words out loud, feeling the judgemental side-eye of her fellow passengers as they took in the fat girl. There was only one other choice. Deception. Greta took her jacket off and placed it over her lap hiding her unclasped belt. With a bit of luck, the stewardess would only glance in her direction and not insist on double-checking that all was buckled under her jacket. Then her mind jumped to a movie she’d seen a few years ago. What was it? Not that it mattered. All that mattered was the fact that in the film an aeroplane took a sudden drop in altitude and a guy who’d undone his seatbelt had catapulted to the roof of the plane, where his head proceeded to split open. Touching her head, which she happened to like, Greta knew something for sure.
A scenario that included possible death was still preferable to admitting publicly that she was too fat to fly.
Greta glanced at the man who sat to her left. He had pushed himself closer to the window, as if touching her would contaminate him. She looked to her right at the woman who was reading a book, oblivious to her predicament. Maybe she was being polite, who knew? Greta closed her eyes for a moment and silently asked Dr Gale what would she do in this situation. She imagined her idol taking her hands between her own, saying, ‘Honey child, there are a lot of problems in this world, but this sure as hell isn’t one of them. Now you need to use your weight as your strength. Reclaim your power, be a grown-ass woman, and ask for that extender.’
Feck it. Taking a deep breath, Greta pushed the call button, and when the stewardess walked over to her, with a big pearly-white smile, Greta mustered every bit of the kind of dignity and defiance she believed Dr Gale would adopt in the situation.
‘My New Year’s resolution was to lose twenty pounds. Only twenty-five to go …’ Greta pointed to her tummy, smiling ruefully at the stewardess.
‘Oh I hear you!’ The stewardess smiled. ‘The struggle is real.’
‘For sure.’ Greta lowered her voice a fraction and asked, ‘Could I have a seatbelt extender, please?’
The stewardess smiled even more brightly and said, ‘With pleasure, I often use one myself, it’s far more comfortable.’ Then she trotted away to fetch it.
The man in the suit had contempt written over every chiselled part of his face as Greta added the extra section to the seatbelt and tightened it. She had only needed an inch, but that was all it had taken to shame her. The woman on her right had sympathy written all over her face. And there was something else there too. Relief. She knew what she was thinking. She’d seen it reflected in the eyes of many other women too. While that woman might be carrying a few extra pounds, she wasn’t as fat as Greta was.
Greta closed her mind to them all and concentrated on today’s audition. This month alone she’d read parts for two adverts, a play in The Gaeity and a new character in Fair City, Ireland’s longest-running soap opera. The odds should have been in her favour for at least one call-back. But each time she was told that while they’d enjoyed her audition, they’d decided to go in a different direction.
Greta wished someone would tell her what direction all these roles went in, so she could set it as a favourite in Google maps on her phone. The last time her agent Michelle had rung with bad news, Greta had joked, ‘If at first, you don’t succeed … it’s probably never going to happen.’ They’d both laughed for a moment, before awkwardly falling into silence.
But the audition today felt different. Even Michelle had said so when she’d emailed her the main characteristics of Clara: This role has your name on it! It could have been written for you. Clara, in her thirties, fat, unattractive, funny, wisecracker.
While Greta had long since given up on the dream of ever being cast as the good-looking lead, the fact that her agent had emphasized the words fat and unattractive still stung. Unfortunately she knew her agent was right: it did sound like a great part for her.
But Greta was a trouper and she shoved the hurt deep inside her and focused on the words funny and wisecracker. She’d been playing that role her whole life.
She arrived at the casting studio in London fifteen minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to freshen up before her audition. As she looked around the reception hall for the ladies, a woman marched over to her holding a clipboard.
‘I’m Maria. You are?’ Maria looked down at the page in front of her, while she waited for an answer.
‘Greta Gale.’
Maria tilted her head to one side as she contemplated the puzzle that was in front of her.
‘You mean like the real Dr Greta Gale?’
‘Real as opposed to me, the fake one standing in front of you?’ Greta said.
Maria smiled, ‘You know I have a friend called Tony Hadley. He does a pretty good version of “Gold”, as it happens. Right, follow me, we’ve had a cancellation, so you’re up next.’
‘If I could just have five minutes …’ But before Greta could ask where the bathroom was, Maria had marched through a set of double doors, leaving her with no choice but to follow.
‘Greta Gale auditioning for the part of Clara,’ Maria called out, leading her into a studio.
Three sets of eyes looked up from their smartphones and scanned Greta up and down. Greta wheeled her luggage over to the side of the room, wishing that she’d had the foresight to put tissues in her trouser pocket.