Savanah's Swan Song (Part 12)

Chad had a field day with Savanah’s new curves.  Like the rest of humanity, he’d always found her attractive, but now her body was new and improved.  She was like a remodeled rollercoaster, replete with tighter turns, steeper slopes, and deeper drops.  And just like when he was a kid riding the coasters at Six Flags Over Georgia, as soon as he got off, he wanted to get back on again.  It was thrilling! 

Savanah’s improved attitude played a large part in Chad’s renewed passions (at least as much as her other larger parts).  Sex with the superstar had become a war of attrition, a series of tentative actions that eventually led to one party giving up rather than a mutually satisfying conclusion, but now that her ‘let’s-get-this-over-with-so-I-can-do-something-else’ vibe was gone, Chad felt free to explore her body thoroughly and, in response to his VIP treatment, Savanah had granted him an all-access pass.

For her part, Savanah enjoyed the attention and the validation that the pounds she’d accumulated hadn’t turned her fat-and-frumpy.  At least not in the mind of her eager-for-beaver boyfriend.  Although she’d never admit it, she was equally captivated by her curves.  After years of primping in the mirror for photo shoots and performances, a different person was staring back now.  Someone who wasn’t fashionably thin but was still pretty.  More than pretty.  Hot.  Sexy even. 

Sexy.  That was a word she’d never associated with herself.  It helped that Chad couldn’t keep his hands off her, but she couldn’t keep her hands off herself either. She looked like the girls in the magazines her father used to hide under his mattress.  Those girls didn’t have her nascent potbelly, of course, but that didn’t really bother her.  Its protuberance, and the sudden emergence of child-bearing hips, alluded to what might have been and what could still be.

It was everyone else that was the problem.  It seemed whenever she and Chad were being amorous or dining on some rich post-coitus cuisine, she’d receive a call or text from her agent, a record exec, or one of the dozen members of her management team, to remind her of upcoming obligations that immediately pulled her back down to earth and onto the treadmill. 

Of course, there was no bigger obligation than her movie.  Savanah was confident she could drop 15-20 pounds before principal photography began.  It wasn’t ideal, as she’d still be packing at least ten extra pounds, but she figured most of that could be concealed…assuming they didn’t shoot the beach scenes first.  While she was OK with her plumpened condition in private, the thought of appearing in a bikini next to Angelina Jolie, who was set to play her mother in the film, or any of her nubile college-age co-stars for that matter, made her shudder. 

However, removing the pounds proved much more difficult than putting them on.  After a few melted away the first week, the needle on the scale froze at 154 and refused to budge.

“Maybe this is your body’s natural weight,” Chad said in response to her frustration.

Savanah wanted to kill him.  What angered her the most was the fear that he might be right.

By the third week, Savanah’s attitude about her new pounds shifted from ‘might as well enjoy them while there here’ to ‘what if they never go away?’  The panic fueled a steady diet of kale and cardio that produced little in the way of results.  Fourteen days before the director was to call ‘action!’ for the first time, Savanah was still in the 150s.

Then a bad situation got worse.

“What the fuck?”

Chad slowly pulled down the corner of his newspaper to reveal Savanah’s angry face.  He’d seen it a thousand times.  It usually meant he was about to get an earful for something he’d done, could have done, or was possibly considering. 

Only this time, her death stare wasn’t directed at him, but at what he was reading. 

“Good morning.”  Chad quickly folded up the paper and threw it on the kitchen table as if it might explode. “I didn’t think you’d be up so early.” 

Savanah was still struggling to break the habit of oversleeping she’d developed at her mother’s, so she’d set her alarm.  It’s blaring goose honk had made for a rude awakening—one that was getting ruder as the sleepy beauty gathered up Chad’s discarded tabloid.

“When did you get this?”

“This morning at 7-11.  Hot off the press, apparently.  I thought you said you weren’t going to leave the apartment until you dropped a few more pounds?”

Savanah had left her apartment only once since she’d been home—to grab some batteries for her treadmill at a sundry shop in the building’s lobby a few days ago.  She’d been inside hundreds of times and had never been hassled by paparazzi before.  The building’s security were supposed to keep them off the premises.

“I don’t think it was paparazzi,” Chad said, as if reading her mind.  “A professional didn’t take those.”

Savanah squinted at the photos and realized Chad was right.  They were out-of-focus and poorly framed…but no less damning.  If anything, the optics were made worse by the ones inside whatever shitty camera or iPhone had been used.  The blur made her belly look even bigger, and the misplaced focus called attention to the junk food displayed behind her.  

The worst part was the betrayal.  It was one thing to be stalked by the paparazzi wolves—she was used to that—but to be thrown to them by a neighbor, the shopkeeper, or even a member of the luxury high-rise’s staff, made Savanah want to crawl back into bed. 

Before she could make a run for the covers, Savanah’s phone erupted in The Imperial March, the ringtone assigned to her intimidating agent, Madelyn MacDowell.

Savanah swallowed hard and answered in the perkiest tone she could muster, “Hi Maddy.”

“Good morning, dear.  Savanah…did you see the Enquirer?”

“I did and I can assure you I’m not pregnant.”

“That’s a relief,” Maddy sighed.  “So, the photos were doctored?”

“I wouldn’t say, ‘doctored.’  I may have enjoyed a bit too much schnitzel while I was in Germany.” 

Savanah laughed.  Her agent didn’t.

“Well, the producers want to meet with you before production begins.” 

“When?”

“Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not pregnant!”

“Savanah, movie producers don’t like food babies anymore that real ones.  Especially not on stars they’re paying $20 million.”

Savanah said nothing.

“I’ll send you the flight information.  A driver from the studio will pick you up.”

“Ok,” Savanah choked.  Then she slammed the phone down on the table.

Chad grimaced.  This wasn’t good.  Surely, he’d bare the wrath brewing inside his tumultuous girlfriend.

But she didn’t explode.  Instead, after a moment’s reflection, she locked her watery eyes on his and said flatly—

“Call Dr. Wagner.”