Willow's Size Normal

By Zada Green

Bitchy models. Ostrich boots. Gastric bypass. This is Willow's Size Normal. Former model Willow is old and fat. No wonder she's a has-been in the fashion industry! But she's got a plan, and it starts with a new look. Weight loss surgery to the rescue! The fat melts away and lost fans love her again. Then her hair falls out. There's worse to come. Now she'll find out surgery wasn't a miracle cure. It won't save her. It might kill her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amaria & Sariel
• Release date: Jul 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501420139

Zada Green

When Zada Green was born, the world didn't stand still. It continued on as normal. Only her parents and older sister really cared, but when she cried too much, even they got a bit fed up. Fast forward only twenty plus years, Zada decided to self-publish. This is her work, one of many to come. Shakespeare rolls in his grave knowing he could never write something so amazing. Alas, he couldn't. Ha ha, hater! Anyway, Zada writes non-fiction and humorous works because she likes to have fun and help others (only nice people) and...Wait. Why am I talking about myself in the third person?

Book preview

The Beginning

Willow slipped into the hall and sat at the back. A chubby, black man beside her handed over a register so she signed her name. She glossed over the hundred names on the list and sighed. When she looked up, all eyes were on her.

Good evening, Willow said, sucking in her stomach. I'm Willow and I'm a fat.

The others nodded.

That's it.

Willow sank into her chair and winced, her stomach throbbing. She exhaled slightly before inhaling again. Pain shot through her torso, so she loosened her black shirt.

A slender brunette in a white jump suit strolled to the back and stood over Willow. She took Willow by the hand and pulled gently until she stood up. The woman led Willow to the front and passed her a microphone. Willow thrust into the woman's hands and the attendees laughed.

I'm your healthy living life coach, the brunette said, flashing brilliant white teeth. It'd be nice to hear your story.

Why me? Willow's eyes shifted from woman to woman, their eyes moving away. There are other people...I just arrived!

The brunette offered her hand. I'm Cathy!

I am Willow Rockefeller.

As in, an actual Rockefeller?

There were hushed whispers in the hall.

Willow grinned and winked, the whispers erupting again. Cathy raised her hand and there was silence. She offered the microphone again, but Willow shook her head.

I would prefer not to, she said, tidying her silver bun. I did not come here to tell the world about my personal life.

Then why did you come?

I... Willow fidgeted before cursing at the creases in her black trousers. I came to warn people. This year has been absolute hell, and I want to make sure others do not suffer the same fate.

Willow blushed when she realised Cathy was holding the microphone to her mouth. She took it and stepped closer to the attendees. The ninety-nine women and one man leaned in, their eyes glued to her. She gulped and rubbed the lump in her throat. A warm hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

Willow—

Please, call me Miss Rockefeller.

Miss Rockefeller, you're so brave for coming here tonight. Just think of how many people you'll help by telling your story. Cathy dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Your pearls of wisdom are much appreciated.

Willow clutched the red pearls round her wrinkled neck and squeezed. She blinked back the tears and took several deep breaths before shaking off Cathy's hand. The group leader sat at the front and gave Willow a thumbs up.

Twelve months ago today, my life changed forever. After forty years in the modelling industry, I was discarded like trash. The day started the same as any other, but little did I know that all hell was about to break loose...

––––––––

The last model strutted off the runway and Willow stepped into the light.

Ladies and gentlemen, a sultry voice boomed through the speakers. Put your hands together for Miss Willow Rockefeller. Willow waved at the crowd, making sure the camera caught her best angle. Rockefeller is rocking a fabulous ostrich-chipmunk hybrid leotard with detachable glittery knee-length trousers. On her sexy feet are two-inch heels dressed in grey squirrel from the finest English countryside...The squirrel died before her arrival. God bless it.

Willow struck another pose, wincing slightly. She looked down and her chubby feet were spilling out the shoes. She subtly pulled down the trousers until the ends hid her ankles. Besides a few snorts and finger pointing, the five hundred partygoers kept applauding.

The beam followed her down the catwalk to riotous applause. She kept her dark eyes ahead, only glancing at the crowd when she reached the end. The attendees were on their feet, whooping and calling her name. Tears in her eyes, she slipped on her sunglasses and flowed up the runway. At the top, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed a winning smile.

More, someone cried. Give us more!

Beautiful clothes, a woman shouted. Gorgeous colour and design!

We love you, Willow, a young man shouted. Please don't go!

Willow slipped off the stage and four assistants undressed her. She slipped into a black trouser suit and waved over a scrawny man with a clipboard. He stood before her, head down, with pen to paper. When she tapped her foot, he trembled.

Who was that man? she screeched. Did I not ban all retirement talk? How dare he shame me like this?

He'll never work in this town again, the man said softly.

And neither will you. You're fired.

Willow pushed past her former assistant and strolled through the sea of models. The women bowed their heads as she passed. When she reached her dressing room, the women whispered amongst themselves. She spun round to silence, all eyes shifting away.

I am not and never will retire, Willow said. I will die on the catwalk. There is, and never will be, a designer like me, understand?

The models, hairdressers, and make-up artists nodded in unison.

If anyone disturbs me, they will be fired. Willow threw open her dressing room door. If you think I am bluffing, try me!

Willow stepped into the room and slammed the door. She flipped the light switch and screamed at the clash of purple and pink decor. Clutching her chest, she stumbled out the dressing room and fell against a dresser. A make-up artist dabbed her forehead with a tissue while another wiped off her smudged, black lipstick.

I wanted a rose pink futon, not baby pink! Willow screamed. And who on earth put a bean bag in there? How dare you!

Actually, I did, a gruff voice said.

The crew helped Willow to her feet and quickly stepped away. She looked the stranger up and down, his dark skin and suit blending with the shadows. He stepped closer, his shiny, leather shoes poking out from the darkness. The models close to him edged away, looking from Willow to the stranger and back.

And who may I ask are you? she asked.

Afram, but call me Babu.

Baboon?

He chuckled.

Afram, Babu, whoever....What do you want?

I'm an investor in your label, he said. I want my money back.

The models and crew whispered to each other, some sniggering at Willow. Willow straightened out her black trouser suit and stood tall. She strolled over to the man and turned her nose up at him. He edged further from the shadows and crossed his arms. Two other pairs of eyes appeared behind him, neither recognisable to her.

You brought your wives, I see. Willow laughed. Can they speak or do you speak on their behalf?

These are your other investors, he said. They want their money back too.

Clearly you fail to understand how business works. Willow snapped her fingers and an assistant hurried over with a chair. Before she could sit down, Babu pulled over the chair and tossed it aside. He stepped closer, towering over her. She laughed nervously.

You don't respond, Miss...Rockefeller?

I do. If I do not respond within twenty-fours, I am not interested. She motioned to the make-up artist, who rushed over and dabbed the beads of sweat on her brow. Of course, investors are always of the utmost importance to me. I must have missed your call. I just fired my incompetent assistant. He must have misplaced your message or simply forgotten. I should have let him go sooner, but I pitied the youngster. He grew up in a terrible neighbourhood, a ghetto, you know.

Babu raised an eyebrow.

I mean, you wouldn't know, of course not!

My father works for the President of Ghana. I grew up with kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers. I do not know about the ghetto in any way, shape or form, thank you very much! Babu snapped his fingers and the women each passed him a briefcase. He opened them and slammed them down on the dresser. The crew and models backed away, eyes shifting to the exits.

I want my money back, he snapped. I'm fed up with your games. You talk too much!

You invest, I spend, I generate money, I pay you back. This is business in Great Britain. If you do not like it then go back to...

There were several loud gasps. Willow threw her hands up and shook her head.

I did not mean it like that, she said, loosening her shirt collar. I meant to say, return to your homeland...No. Relax at home until I am ready to pay you. You will get your money back after this show, I promise you. Did you not to see the critical acclaim? The people love me, I mean, my designs. Babo, can't you hear the tills ringing? This line will be a massive seller. The world will stand still when they see my latest line.

Why? he asked. They didn't care about the last one.

Willow stood, hands on hips, and tapped her foot. She breathed deeply, her face turning red. Babu chuckled to the women, who glared at Willow. She skimmed over their faded suits and laughed.

So last century, she mumbled.

Who else works at your company? Babu asked. Where is your inferior?

Which one? Willow looked over the crowd, who were glaring at her.

Pick one, Babu said. Pick your replacement.

Willow loosened more shirt buttons, her bra peeking through. Her eyes motioned to the sweat trickling down her face, so the make-up artist thrust the tissue into her hand and stepped into the crowd. The tissue slipped from Willow's clammy grasp. She rested a hand on the dresser, propping herself up. Her legs wobbly, she sat down and stared at Babu, a smirk on his face.

Find your replacement or shut the place down, he said. I'm not wasting my children's inheritance on you anymore!

You witch! Willow cried. You can't do this to me!

You broke your promises, so I'm breaking mine.

Babu crossed the room and dragged over the bags of clothes. He tore open the first and flung it over to Willow. He stepped on an owl dress and wiped his feet all over it. Then he took another dress and gripped it so hard it tore. His bulging eyes looked from one piece to the other.

You said this would be an African fashion line! he snapped. You promised my people jobs. Ghana invested in your brand and you blew every penny!

This is an African line, she said. It was created with African money.

There you go again, talkin' rubbish. He threw the torn dress down and kicked it away. What's African about a Jeans dress, Scottish kilt designs, and Sari shoes? Answer me, you old bag!

Willow's mouth gaped open.

Typical, you westerners always taking advantage of us...We trusted you.

Willow looked over the angry faces staring back. The models were shaking their heads at her, and some of the crew packed their equipment and walked out. Willow rushed over and grabbed a make-up artist by the arm. The woman slowly turned to face her.

Alison, do not listen to him. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what this was all about.

You lied to all of us, Alison said, her blue eyes filling with tears. Oh, by the way, my name's Patricia. You fired Alison a year ago.

Are you sure? You look just like her...

Patricia stormed off, ignoring Willow's pleas.

I was joking, Willow said. Patricia, darling, wait!

Babu starting packing the make-up sets away. He shoved them into black bags and passed them to the women. He motioned to four models, who rushed over to help. Willow grabbed a black bag and pulled, but the women yanked it back. It slipped from Willow's grasp, sending her crashing into the models behind. The women pushed her off and marched out, muttering under their breaths.

Okay, I'll write you a cheque. Willow hurried back to her dressing room and brought out her purse. She pulled out a cheque and signed over ten thousand pounds. Babu snatched the cheque and screwed it into a ball. He dropped the ball on the floor and kicked it away.

Why would I bring two briefcases for one cheque? he asked. I want cash. Go to the bank and get it.

"I cannot withdraw ten thousand pounds from my bank account. If we...When we sell out this line, I will withdraw a hundred thousand and personally deliver it to you."

How many orders?

An assistant ducked behind the models, so Willow went over and dragged him out. She snatched the clipboard from his hands and flicked through, her heart pounding at the blank pages. She handed the clipboard back and smiled at Babu, whose eyes slit.

See? she cried.

No, I don't see!

We are out of stock.

Prove it.

How?

Who bought what? He grabbed a clothes bag and unzipped it. Inside was a rainbow coloured fur coat with glitter on the seams. Who the hell bought this?

Willow glanced at the blank clipboard and said, Missus Helena Andrews. She has always loved my wackiest designs.

...This is normal to you?

This is the fashion world, darling. Normal sinks, average swims, and wacky sails. You would be surprised, shocked, astonished, gobsmacked, flabbergasted to see how quickly wacky sells out. People just loathe dressing like peasants. You would understand, being an African prince.

Babu sighed.

Babo, you must leave us in peace. We have attire to distribute, and we cannot keep our adoring public waiting. Willow turned to the few models left. You put on a good performance tonight. In a few years, you could be great. A little more practice, some fine tuning here or there, and we will sell out even faster.

Babu snatched the clipboard and his eyes bulged as he flicked through. He showed the blank pages to the women, who shook their heads. They motioned to the darkness and six bulky, black men in dark suits appeared. The men grabbed the bags and carried them out. Meanwhile the women and four models packed more bags with make-up, hairdressing equipment, clothes, and shoes.

Willow returned to her dressing room and sank into the bean bag. Suddenly the door flew open and two models appeared. The bony one's eyes scanned the room and stopped on the fluffy bedspread. She snatched the spread and carted it out, sniggering at Willow.

He said we can take whatever we want, the chubbier girl said. Too bad, Miss...Rockefeller.

Willow watched the models loot her room. Clothes, shoes, a mirror, make-up sets, and perfumes. Someone helped her off the bean bag and took it with them, leaving her in the near-empty dressing room. She sat on the futon and buried her face in her hands.

The door was ajar.

What's she doing? a young woman whispered. Aw gosh. I think Rockefeller's crying!

The women sniggered.

Deserves it for putting us in those ugly things.

Ssh! She'll hear you!

So? She's nobody...Hasn't been somebody for decades!

Willow peered through her fingers at the scrawny women watching through the doorway.

Lucky she's lasted this long, the first model said. Should've been kicked out thirty years ago!

Was she a model? The woman snorted. How? No way!

Way way!

Plus, plus size, obviously.

Obviously.

The door closed.

––––––––

A nurse opened the door and ushered Willow inside the bedroom. At the window was an old woman with binoculars. Before her was a desk with stacks of bulky folders. She peered through the binoculars and scanned the back garden before scrawling notes in her folder. The nurse cleared her throat and the woman dropped the binoculars, cursing at the cracked lens.

Better be good, you broke my gear! the woman screeched.

Hello, Mother.

...Damn.

Willow's mother shuffled to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She rummaged around the bottom and pulled out a red, pearl necklace. She fastened it around her neck and sat down, pulling the peach dressing gown against her body.

How are you? Willow asked.

Bloody cold! Willow's mother shivered. "They're cheap with the heating 'round here. I