Chapter 8


My stomach was grumbling so incessantly that I was sure that Andy could hear it over the sound of his engine. He made no mention of it, however as we pulled away from my house. I could see Jess in the side view mirror, getting smaller and smaller as we headed down the street. Was she upset, I wondered? Would she be depressed, the two of us having been so close for the past two days, suddenly being alone, suddenly having to deal with the fact that she'd gained quite a few pounds in a very short time? Would she be jealous? Did she still like men at all? Enough to be jealous of me for going out with Andrew Sansome, male model, number one on all the international hunks lists, now owner of his own modeling agency? Jealous of Andy Sansome for going out with me, her best friend, now her lover? Jealous of the way I'd decided to become fat, while she'd never really thought of it as a choice?

Andy was talking about his car, and I suddenly realized that I'd missed some of what he'd been saying. "-- I loved that car, so, I was going to bring the old tin can over here -- but the EPA wanted me to put 10,000 dollars into emissions modifications! That's when I bumped into a chap in the city who was from Dunedin who knew someone who knew someone who was selling a Rover --this one -- which was practically the same as my old one." I looked around the interior -- totally functional and spare, clean but old. I don't know too much about cars, but this one seemed rugged and well-used. "Of course," he said, "you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road..." The perspective shift took me by surprise and I laughed, suddenly back in the flow of the conversation, "I never realized that you look at it differently. I mean, I didn't even think that you British people probably talk about 'American accents', like we talk about English accents."

"Well," he said, "I don't know if English people talk about that, but in New Zealand, it was always one of our favorite games." I felt myself blushing, "I -- I didn't realize that you were a New Zealander. I hope it's not an insult..." "No, not really. We've pretty much decided that the Brits are okay -- we just won't let them lead our troops if there's ever a war again. Now, if you'd called me an Aussie, I'd've been honor-bound to give you the whole speech about them being convicts and us being traders and merchants. Now, aren't you glad you didn't touch that nerve?"

He laughed and looked over at me; seeing his face, so golden and perfect, suddenly made me realize that I -- Melanie Nobody -- was going out with one of the most desirable men in the world. The things I'd been sure of for the past few days -- my newfound sexual attraction to my girlfriend Jess, my conviction that he was a feeder and determined to make me fat, the incredible number of calories I'd consumed in what was really only a few hours, the snugness of my clothes against the new fullness of my waist and hips -- seemed in danger of collapsing in a spectacular cloud of dust.

Then, he said, "Well, talking about New Zealand, that's where Zake is from. You've heard of Zake's?" "Who hasn't?" I answered. "Anyone who loves food -- good food... I mean, I've never been there, but..." "I know," he said. "People have to phone months ahead for a table. It really fries Zake that the place is always filled with models and movie stars with these tiny little appetites, who barely touch the food -- they're just there to be seen. He loves people who love his food -- loves someone with a great appetite. I told him about your appetite -- told him you'd appreciate him."

Maybe, I thought. Maybe I was right. "Sounds like you know Zake well," I said. "Rightly so," he said. "I AM his partner, after all. We were roommates -- came over here together in '82. He busted his butt, waiting tables, bussing tables, coming in on his own time to watch the sous-chefs start the sauces, place the orders. Meanwhile, I go from nobody to the cover of HQ about 15 minutes after we stepped off the plane." He pulled up to the restaurant, and we waited while the chauffeur of the limo ahead of us opened the door and held the door open for the passengers -- that movie star with the violet eyes who'd gone from child star to divorcee screen goddess to alcoholic to fat and happy do-gooder for AIDS. "Now Zake won't mind seeing HER," Andy said. She appreciates his cooking -- and it shows!" "But, don't you think she's too fat?" I asked, testing. "Only if she thinks she is," he answered. "If she's happy, then she's beautiful. If she's free to do as she pleases, then she's even more beautiful." He pulled up to the valet, and said, "Now watch out for the paparazzi. They'll get up right in your face with their bloody cameras. Just chin up, smile and walk straight in with me."

We ran the gauntlet of flashbulbs, and by the time we got inside, all I could see were spots of electric blue and orange. Andy's arm was around my waist, his hand resting on the soft flesh of my love handle, his fingers just reaching the side of my belly. "Mr. Sansome," the maitre d' was saying, "Mr. Zinn has asked me to seat you and your friend in the Red Room. If you'd care to follow me..." As we walked through the restaurant, I could feel eyes all over me -- eyes which I'd seen millions of times on TV, in movies, on CD covers, in the tabloids; It felt exceedingly strange to be on the other side of the scrutiny. I thought about what they must've seen: Andrew Sansome, looking like a long-haired god in a black linen suit, accompanied by a chubby little girl in a wraparound skirt and spandex blouse. What a strange couple!

We were shown to a private room in the back of the restaurant. At first glance, it looked like something you'd see in an old British movie, where the men go to "The Club." It was paneled in dark wood, books covered the walls, there were three over-stuffed leather chairs, and a red velvet-covered chaise longue. What changed the initial impression was that, in the center of the room was a table, adequate for four, but set for two, with delicate floral-patterned Limoge china, silver service and a silver candelabra, crystal goblets, and a spray of flowers in a Chinese vase. Andrew held my chair out for me, and pushed it in as I sat down. As soon as he was seated, there was a knock at the door; Andy said, "Come," and a girl about my age walked in. She was wearing a long skirt and a white, frilly blouse; her curly, strawberry-blonde hair was piled up in a loose bun; her blue eyes sparkled above plump cheeks. She said, "Hello, Andy," then turned to me and said, "You must be Melanie. Zake said Andy's been talking about you all week. I'm Mara, the head waitress and your waitress tonight. Zake's made some choices for you, unless there's something specific..." Andy turned to me and said, "Do you mind if we leave it in his hands?" "No," I answered, "not at all. Trying to decide is always such a pain." "Great," Mara said, "then I'll be right back with your appetizers."

She turned and walked out a door between two bookcases, which seemed to lead right to the kitchen. Andy followed her with his eyes, watching appreciatively the sway of her extra-wide hips; I couldn't help but watch, too. "She's really pretty," I said. "When she came here to work," Andy said, "she was this little waif-type thingie, barely a girl, barely 43 kilos -- 95 pounds. We're still not sure if she was anorectic or if she was just too broke to eat. Well, Zake got a hold of her, sat her down at the table -- married her last fall -- and now she's looking healthy and womanly. More beautiful all the time." "You don't think she's a little too heavy?" I asked. "Not even close," he said.

Mara came back with a couple of beers and a plateful -- almost a tray-full -- of Bluff Oysters, a New Zealand variety. They were large and plump, some battered and fried, some in the shell, some broiled with bacon. Andy doused his oysters with malt vinegar, so I followed suit, slurping and talking, and pretty soon, the plateful was reduced to just a pile of empty shells. My stomach's rumbling only seemed to get more insistent upon encountering the first food I'd had all day. Next came a green salad, garnished with kiwifruit and drowning in a sweet dressing, accompanied by another round of beer. I was pretty pleased that Andy was keeping up with me, finishing quite a few oysters and his entire salad. Mara brought the soup next, a delicious chowder of orange roughy, vegetables and cream, along with a hunk of crusty bread. I finished that quickly, as did Andy, and felt -- finally -- a respite from the incredible hunger; I wasn't full yet -- not by a long shot -- but I wasn't painfully hungry anymore.

Andy was finishing up telling a story about a friend of his named Jake, and how I would meet him later on. I was a little confused -- and a little buzzed -- so I asked if Jake was from New Zealand, too. His expression was confused, for a moment, then it dawned on him. "Oh! Zake and Jake -- they're the same person. His name's Jake Zinn. There were two Jakes in our primer class, so the teacher called them Jake B. and Jake Z. Well, Jake Z. became Z-Jake, then Zake -- kids' thing and it stuck. Sorry about that." I asked him a million questions about New Zealand, all of which he was happy to answer. He told me about the mountains and the Maori, the flightless kiwi and kakapo, the giant Tuatura lizard -- older than the dinosaurs -- and the 2000 year-old kauri trees. He sounded like he loved his country so much, I asked him why he came here.

He smiled wryly and said, "No one loves his country more than an expatriate. I left there because at 19 years old I thought it was too boring -- to provincial. I thought I was stifled by the country and that I needed to get to America, the center of the world. I was going to be a photographer -- photograph cities and the faces of the people who inhabited them. I had a camera and some cash I'd saved, I had Zake for company. We landed in New York, found a small flat -- Zake started waitering and I hauled my portfolio down Madison Avenue -- hoping to get some assignment work from an ad agency. First place I'm at, the bird at reception is staring at me like crazy, calls in her boss another woman who grabs me by the arm and takes me into her private, and asks if I've got an agent. Five minutes later She's taking me by taxi to a place on Fashion Avenue, where all these painted women and gay men are pushing me, poking me, prodding me, photographing me. The rest is history, I guess." He laughed a quiet kind of laugh, then said, "I never even got to open my portfolio."

At that moment, the kitchen door opened and Mara came in, with a large serving bowl of spaghetti and two plates. The pasta was in a pink cream sauce and was well-populated with deep red crayfish; she served me a heaping serving and Andy a somewhat smaller portion. The sauce was excellent and the crayfish tender, and although my stomach was feeling pretty full, I had no problem accepting when Andy offered me another helping. I could feel my belly pressing against the waistband of the skirt, so I deftly reached under the table, untied the knot and tied it again looser. When Mara came to clear the plates away a few minutes later, she nodded appreciatively, saying, "Zake will be so happy. Andy told him you appreciated good food." She leaned over and whispered in my ear, "And, by the way, the bathroom for this room is right through that door to the kitchen -- in case you need to... adjust anything. I know I've usually got to remove my girdle before the main course!" She giggled and gave my shoulder a little squeeze, then said, "Zake'll be right out with the roast. He wants to carve it himself -- but if you've eaten your fill..." They both looked at me -- I was ready -- So, I said, "Of course not. The food is great and I can never get enough good food! I'm looking forward to this!"

Andy seemed pleased with my answer, and when Mara's big butt had disappeared through the door, Andy asked me, "So, how come you've got no beau? A beautiful girl like you?" "Thanks for the compliment," I said, "but I'm really not that beautiful -- at least maybe not to Americans. In high school I had plenty of boyfriends, but -- college was pretty tough: lots of work, late-night studying, drawing, sewing -- not much time for romance. And, I put on about 25 pounds my senior year -- the few guys around seemed to disappear." "Well," he said, "they were bloody fools, then. I walked into Robin's party -- saw you right away -- and asked Robin who you were." He reached across the table and touched my hand. "I don't think I can recall another face from that day to this." I felt my face flush and a little tingle start its way up my spine. I knew that if I'd read that line in a story, I'd've never believed it, but somehow...

I didn't get a chance to reply at all, because just then, the kitchen door swung open, propelled by sudden contact with Mara's rear as she wheeled in a cart topped with an enormous black and pink roast leg of lamb. At the other end of the cart was a huge man -- at least 6'2" and easily 400 pounds -- who was wearing a toque and blabbing my name before he even entered the room: "Melanie, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie, all week long, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie. She'll be too frightened. She's so beautiful. She won't believe I'm serious. She's so beautiful..." He was fully in the room, then, and he stopped, took a long look at me, motioned me to stand up -- I did, and performed a little pirouette; Andy and Mara were both shaking their heads in mock embarrassment. When I sat down, he bowed from where his waist would have been if he'd still had one, then said, "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Melanie. I'm Zake -- which you've probably figured out by now -- and because I'm an honest bloke, I must tell Andy right now those words I most hate to say: You were right! She is quite a heavenly creature!"

As he turned to me, the verbal torrent seemed in no danger of abating. "Now, I notice you taking in my bulk -- admiringly, I must surmise -- because surely you know the old adage: 'Never trust a thin chef or a fat doctor.' And by those words -- and the preceding courses -- you have come to the proper conclusion that I, Zake, am a master chef! Which I am, but only for those who really appreciate it. The hoity-toity starlets and starlocks out there get McZealand cuisine and they rave about it and pay my rent many times over and keep my beautiful Mara here in the jewels and fancy clothes she has so recently and so completely become accustomed to."

He gave Mara a little hug and kiss, then walked over to the cart and picked up his knives. "Now," he said, "before the main attraction becomes cold, let me just tell you that this is the leg -- the right rear leg -- of my uncle's prize sheep -- winner of the First Place ribbon at the South Island Agricultural Fair. I had him ship it over, telling him that it'd be eaten by Hollywood stars and business tycoons -- who I wouldn't waste it on -- except for that violet-eyed beauty out there. Poor thing, she's going in for hip surgery -- she'll be convalescing in bed for a month or two and all she'll be able to do is eat, eat ,eat until she's as big as a house again. Shame, isn't it?" He didn't give anyone time to agree or disagree, just kept his monologue going as his knives went snickety-snick and carefully, exactingly carved slice after slice -- each one containing the perfect proportions of carbon and caramel crust, tender and pinkish meat, and red and juicy flesh. There were garlicked potatoes, drowned in the pan juices and seared peppers to finish off the plate.

As soon as Mara set the plate with the first large slice in front of me, I dug in and realized that it tasted as good as it looked -- even as good as Zake's boasting had claimed it to be. The lamb was warm and cut like butter, the potatoes melted on my tongue, the peppers released their fragrance in my mouth. I must've been eating with my eyes closed, because I barely noticed Mara and Zake refilling my plate. Andy was eating his first serving slowly, and I felt his eyes studying my face even before I saw him watching. I could feel my belly swelling with each swallow, the skirt becoming tighter and tighter, a familiar warm tingling becoming more pronounced between my legs.

Andy asked if I wanted another helping; "One second," I said as I reached under the table and again loosened my skirt. I brushed my hand against my pussy, and the chill ran quickly up my back; my neck tipped back and I let out a tiny little gasp. My shoulders shook for a second, I regained control of my muscles, looked around to see if anyone had noticed, then said, "Yes, I'll have another helping, please." Zake clapped his pudgy hands together, saying, "Bravo!" and cut me another large slice. I ate the potatoes first, then stated in on the meat. I realized then that my arms were very tired, my belly seemed to be almost touching the table, and I was taking a long time between forkfuls; suddenly, Andy was next to me, cutting the meat, feeding me the last few forkfuls. I didn't protest, just surrendered, dutifully chewing and swallowing, feeling Zake's warm hand on my shoulder and Mara's soft touch brushing through my hair.