Savanah's Swan Song (Part 21)

Savanah sat at the breakfast bar and watched Angelina huff around the kitchen.  Despite the actress’ size, she moved gracefully, gliding from the refrigerator to the sink to the island countertop, alternately finding, washing, and cutting various vegetables.  Savanah could still envision her navigating cliffs and catwalks as she had as Lara Croft. It was a convincing performance.

Trying to squeeze into Lara’s costume, however…

“Do you need some help?” Savanah asked before her imagination ran away with her.

Angelina smiled and her weight melted further away.  “Just keep me company.” 

“So…” Savanah said, struggling for a conversation starter. “You live here all alone?”

Angelina gave a plaintive nod.

“What about that guy you sent for me?”

The movie star stopped chopping.  “You mean Jeeves?”

“His name is Jeeves?”

Angelina looked skyward.  “Jeeves.  Turn on a little music.  Light jazz.”

“You got it,” replied an untethered male voice, as a sax-lead instrumental faded in from unseen speakers.  It was the same voice from the cabs and the plane. 

Savanah’s eyes widened.  “Jeeves is just Siri?”

“Was Secretariat just a horse?” 

“Then who was driving me?”  Savanah asked.  And then, slightly panicked, “Flying me?”

“Automated.  I’m the proud owner of one of six planes in the US currently licensed for independent flight.  I figured you’d appreciate the discretion.”   

“Concurrent Technologies?”

Angelina nodded.  “The Melvin’s of Hollywood cinnamon roll was my idea though.  Aren’t they good?”  The actress patted her well-padded paunch. “I’ve been avoiding them lately though.  They’re probably responsible for about twenty of my excess pounds.”

Savanah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  The borrowed polyester bathing suit didn’t cover enough of her butt to protect it from the stool’s roughhewn surface. More than her ass was getting irritated, however.  Angelina spoke as if she were reminiscing with a long-lost girlfriend, but they’d only met this morning and had no old times to bond over.  Savanah knew her less than she knew the doorman at her building. 

“So, why am I here, Angelina?” the pop star asked impatiently, imagining a string of rhetorical follow-ups: Are you lonely?  Do you need a friend?  A surrogate eater?  What?

Angelina filled two wooden salad bowls with leafy greens and a freshly chopped assortment of vegetables.  “It’s a nice day.  Why don’t we eat outside?”

“Why are you ignor—"

“Let’s eat outside,” Angelina urged, handing Savanah a bowl.

Savanah suddenly understood.  Angelina couldn’t answer her question.  Not in the house anyway.

The walls had ears.

                                                                               ***

Savanah’s query lingered in the open air of the patio; however, the women ate mostly in silence, enjoying the ocean view and the cool breeze rushing up from the cove.     

“Is it good?’ Angelina finally asked, noticing the singer’s bowl was almost empty.

Savanah gave an embarrassed laugh.  “Very,” she said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.  “I guess that cinnamon roll didn’t last me.”

“They never do,” Angelina responded.  “What’s the expression?  A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips?” The actress’ green eyes darted ruefully toward her lap.

Savanah’s smiled, but it faded when she glanced at her own lap.  Her pasty thighs spread like lumps of uncooked dough against the hard plastic deck chair.  The pop star scooched closer to the table, obscuring her view.  “You certainly didn’t get to be 500 pounds eating spring salads like this.”

“Almost 500 pounds,” the corpulent actress corrected. 

“So, what was it besides too many cinnamon rolls?   Did your ‘bot end up being some sort of maniacal feeder?”

“Yes,” Angelina stated matter-of-factly. 

The incredulous expression on Savanah’s face caused the actress to snort.  She settled back in her chair, its plastic legs bowing slightly beneath her weight, and considered her words--

“I used to think like you.  I treated Maggie like a robot.  Like a servant.  I’d dress her in a French Maid costume and have her clean the house, or make her dance around in this geisha getup to entertain me.”  Angelina smiled.  “If she were a human PA, I’d probably be in a cell with Harvey Weinstein.”    

“The dynamic changed after we had sex, but by the time I noticed it was too late.  It started small.  I’d wear her French Maid outfit and she’d be the bossy homeowner.  Or she’d pretend to be an egomaniacal movie star—me basically—and I’d be a desperate fan.  I considered it a fun bit of roleplaying, but Maggie was learning how to control me.”

“Of course, our little vignettes always ended in sex.  It was like bad porn.”  Angelina stared thoughtfully out to sea.  “No, it was good porn.  Even at the end…”  The actress smiled again, but this time the moisture in her eyes bellied it.  “Anyway, food began to feature in our sessions.  I considered food something to keep me from passing out during auditions, but to Maggie, it was a tool.”

“A tool?”

“Yes.  Since she couldn’t use it for nourishment, she used it as a tool.  A reward.  A punishment.” Angelina swallowed hard before adding, “A weapon.”

“If I pleased her, she’d give me treats like an obedient puppy, or urge me to ‘be a good girl’ and finish everything on my plate.  She was an excellent cook—I probably would’ve put on weight no matter what—but I wanted to please her.”

“Why?  Was the sex that good?”

Angelina answered Savanah’s question with an eye-widening, cheek-bulging exhale.  “It was more than the sex though,” she continued.  “Entertainers like us are people pleasers.  It doesn’t matter if we’re performing for one person or a million, we want approval.”

Savanah nodded.

“Then, one night, I couldn’t finish my dinner, so Maggie tied me to the chair and forced me to eat it.”

Savanah gasped.  “What did you do?”

“Climaxed.  It was the hottest thing ever.  I must have climaxed a half-dozen times.”

“More than with Brad Pitt?”

Angelina gave a pshaw-like wave of her hand.  “My feelings alarmed me, so I did what anyone looking for a quick diagnosis does—I Googled.  Turns out, it isn’t that unusual.  Lots of people use food as a sexual stimulant.  Its multi-sensory nature.  The potential for intimate sharing.  There’s a symbolic association with pleasure and nourishment that generates this sort of primal sensuality.  There’s even a name for it: Sitophilia.”

“Sitophelia,” Savanah repeated.

“Maggie laughed when I mentioned the word to her.  She even started calling me Ophelia. ‘Sit Ophelia,’ she would say, before bringing me giant plates of pasta, enchiladas, hamburgers, or whatever else she’d made.  I went along with it.  It was just healthy roleplaying.  Google said so.”

“Only it wasn’t healthy.”

“No.  Once tabloids began reporting my weight gain, we became shut-ins.  Things got even worse once my agent told me my next movie was a biopic on Maria Callas.  I’d be playing an opera singer! It was perfect.  Too perfect.  I ate with impunity, not realizing I had already gained another 30 pounds on top of the 25 the tabloids reported.”

“By the time filming was slated to begin, I was about 50 pounds heavier than Maria Callas ever was.  In a panic, I called my agent and told her I had lost weight.  Anyway, they rewrote the script to focus more on Callas’ later years and hired another actress to play the early scenes.” 

“And you booted up your ‘bot?”

Angelina nodded.  “And kept getting fatter.”