Dancing Queen

By Charlotte Roth

All her life, Fiona Madsen has dreamed of becoming a dancer—a dream that was shattered on her seventh birthday when her mom told her that dancing was not for “fat girls” like her. Now, at age thirty-five, Fiona is again confronted with her weight issues when the HR department at work kindly encourages her to attend a support group for people with health problems. Here, she connects with Skinny Stu from accounting and realizes the two of them have more in common than she could ever imagine.

To address their issues, Stu suggests the two sign up for a Dancing With the Local Stars competition. After much deliberation and soul searching, Fiona says yes and together they—Fat Fiona and Skinny Stu—embark on a journey that will change their lives forever. But they must overcome one major obstacle first... Fiona’s sister, who’s running for mayor, finds out about the competition and threatens to have Fiona disqualified.Will Fiona withdraw from the competition to protect her sister’s reputation or will she follow her childhood dream of becoming the ultimate Dancing Queen?

Dancing Queen--set in everyday life in Seattle—is a story of hope and finding the courage to be happy with who you are instead of who others think you are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlotte Roth
• Release date: Feb 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370857296

Charlotte Roth

Charlotte is a mom, a wife, and an author—in that order. She’s originally from Denmark but moved to Seattle in 2005 with her husband, baby Alfred, and lots of hopes and dreams. The family has since added the twincesses, Emma and Olivia. When she’s not ‘mom’ (read= doing laundry, making lunches, and solving kids’ world crisis), she spends every second of her free time writing what readers call compelling, fun, and loving stories. Her fiction is often inspired by real life and at times highly personal. Her novels are filled with endearingly flawed (mostly female) characters and emotional complexity. You are what you write. You write what you are.

Book preview

Dancing Queen

By

Charlotte Roth

Copyright 2016 Charlotte Roth

Cover design by Jackie Hicken

Illustration by Daniel Kombakov-Kokomba

Edited by Traci Sanders

This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons is unintentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the author.

To connect with or learn more about the author and her books go to: www.charlotterothbooks.com

Thanks to my sweet husband.

To my precious kids.

To my supportive friends.

To my encouraging family.

Thanks to the ones who keep dreaming—the ones who dare…

Table of Contents

FAT EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

CARROTS AND CARROT CAKE

HEXAGONITIS

THE OBSCURE FLYER

THE LIST

COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET

THE MOTHER SHIP OF IMPROMPTU

THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT

RUNNING FOR IDIOT

THE OTHER RIGHT

CENTER STAGE FALL

GINGER ROGERS

HELLO

MONDAY NIGHT FIRST FIGHT

THE TAP SHOES

THE ADVERTISING PRODIGY

NUMBER FIVE GOES LIVE

SUCCESS IS THE BEST REVENGE

THE BAGELS AND BEE BEE

GROUCHO MARX

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

LOST AND FOUND

STU

THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL

Other books by Charlotte Roth

FAT EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

I might get sacked today. Great! To take my mind off it, I casually look at the guy who is sitting two chairs down from me. I know his name is Stu. He sits either right next to Diane or in the cubicle next to hers. I’ve often seen him in the cafeteria wearing one of his colorful scarves and stylish, black designer eyeglasses, meticulously stirring his tea, or broth, or whatever it is all these skinny people eat to stay skinny. My guess is he’s around thirty-five, like me, but then again, skinny people always look older with their hollow cheeks. At least fat people don’t have to worry about fillers. He looks nervous, frantically flipping through a magazine. Our eyes meet for a moment and then I look away, afraid he’ll see how nervous I am. Even at thirty-five, being called to the manager’s office still makes my stomach hurt and my palms all sweaty. Moreover, I can’t help thinking about the twenty-seven people over in sales who were laid off last week.

I take in a deep breath and look down at my feet. Maybe I should have painted my toenails bright green—the color of hope—instead of gloomy gray. It’s not that I’m superstitious or anything, but I do believe a person can dress for success. But how does one dress for a potential firing? I pick up a magazine from the coffee table to occupy my hands. Jennifer Aniston is gracing the front cover wearing a black, snug-fitting dress and red, killer heels. DRESS THE PART, it says in big bold letters. Of course, it would be a hellavu lot easier to dress any part if you’re freaking Jennifer Aniston. Her eyes seem to mock me for being fat, insecure, and not her. In attempt to suppress a humph, I turn the page and find a grainy paparazzo photo of Tori Spelling leaving a rehab facility with the caption, "Down to Only 95 Pounds." The article goes on to explain how her marital problems are causing her weight loss. I look at her face, the hollow cheeks and oversized sweatshirt, and stifle an inside chuckle as I realize that both skinny and fat girls hide in the same way.

I place the magazine facedown and look up as the door opens and the short, stumpy secretary returns to her seat. She picks up a yellow folder from her desk and tries to hide a big yawn behind it.

Stuart Presley and….um… The secretary looks down at her paper.

Great, she can’t even remember my name. To her, I’m just another employee with a yellow badge.

And, um, Fiona Madsen. She looks at me, one of her painted brows raised.

I nod. We both do—the skinny guy Stu, and me.

Follow me. She points at the two of us and we get up at the exact same time. I’m Hollie, by the way. The one who sent you the e-mail, she informs us as we follow her loud and determined footsteps down a long, narrow hall. She stops in front of heavy oak double door and opens it without even knocking. Come on now, she says, annoyance painting her voice, as Stu and I stand there dumfounded. Trying to keep as much distance between me and a possible pink slip, I slowly step inside the elegant and extremely air-conditioned room. Breathe, Fiona.

I don’t see him at first. He’s sitting in one of the dark-green, leather swivel chairs with his back to us, looking out on the parking lot below. At last, the chair moves and a loud, rattling cough fills the air.

Sir, Hollie says, a slight lift in her voice. I have your support group people with me.

Support group people? What the hell is she talking about? I look at Skinny Stu. From the way he’s staring back at me, he has no clue either. I give him a half-hearted shrug. Well, at least she didn’t say, Sir, I have the people you’re about to sack, with me. Maybe there’s still hope.

Sir? Hollie tries again, elevating her voice even more. This time the swivel chair turns around and Mr. Timmons looks up at us with a set of deep-blue eyes.

What? he shouts, confusion flickering across his face.

Impatiently, Hollie points at the white rubber stoppers lodged inside the man’s big floppy ears.

Oh. He pulls the ear buds out and looks at them like they are some kind of foreign objects, like he’s wondering how the hell they got into his ears in the first place. He looks up at Hollie. What? he asks again, running both hands through his tousled gray hair.

The support group, sir.

He looks at Stu and me as if we’re even stranger objects than the white ear buds. The what?

The… the … maybe I should just tell Bill to get in here?

Mr. Timmons squints his eyes at her, but then, as it dawns on him, his entire face lights up. Yes, get Bill. Now. And coffee. Plenty. You want some coffee? He gets up and looks at Stu. Mr.—? He stops to scratch his beard before he looks at me. Or you, Miss or Mrs.—

Miss Fiona Madsen and Mr. Stuart Presley, Hollie interrupts. And no, I already asked them. They declined.

We did? I did? Maybe I did. My mind is a scrambled mess. I was really nervous when I first arrived at the office, stuttering my entire name to Hollie. I am still nervous. Coffee sure wouldn’t help. Irish coffee, yes. Strong black Latino coffee, no.

I would love some, Stu says, a little too chipper. Either he didn’t remember being asked or maybe he’s changed his mind. We both look at Hollie, who’s clearly annoyed with Stu. Maybe she didn’t ask at all?

"All right then. I’ll get coffee. For two," she adds as she slams the heavy oak doors behind her. I look at Stu and he smiles at me, and my best guess is that she didn’t ask after all. So, Stu has balls, or maybe he’s just reasoning that if we indeed are getting the boot, he might as well squeeze in a few cups of freebee coffee before we hit the asphalt.

Sit, sit. Mr. Timmons motions to the long mahogany table taking up half the conference room. A dozen dark-green, leather, Arne Jacobsen chairs are lined neatly around it. I only know this because of Violet, my sister. The first thing she did when she got her new office was send me an e-mail with the name Arne Jacobsen in the subject line, with a photo of the exact same chair attached.

Who the hell is Arne Jacobsen? I had replied reluctantly. (Violet will call you up if you don’t answer her e-mails within two hours. She thinks she’s that important).

The chair, you moron, she had replied, which I thought didn’t make any sense at all. I mean, how could he be a chair? I replied to her—after exactly two hours and three minutes just to tick her off—that given her new position as communication and campaign manager, I expected her to be a little more articulate.

Oh, you really don’t know anything, huh? Yet another articulate answer. Of course, I was the stupid one. As always.

Sit, sit, Mr. Timmons says again, pulling me back from my ridiculous thoughts. He offers us each a chair and sits back down in his own. Stu and I both sit—side by side—opposite him.

So… Mr. Timmons drums his fingers on the nice polished mahogany table and smiles. You know, we always try to do our best for our, um, employees, and we try to offer the best support and... His voice trails off and he looks up at the wall above us. You know, when I started this company, I swore we would be different, that I would treat my people differently. Better. Give them more security. He gets up and stands behind his Arne Jacobsen chair, both hands resting on the fine, expensive leather. My old man, rest his soul, was a man of the union. He believed that people, as in you, should get all the help and benefits necessary to achieve a better life, and that’s basically why I hired Bill eight years ago.

As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door, and a tall tanned guy in his late forties with dark-brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, steps in. Coffee’s here, he says in a singsong voice, like this is all part of a Disney musical. He looks happy, too happy.

And there he is … and he brought coffee. Bill, take over. Mr. Timmons sounds relieved and I can’t figure out whether it’s because his coffee or Bill is here.

Sure. Bill sits down next to Mr. Timmons and pats the old man’s hand. Still smoking, old man? he says with a smile in his eyes.

Mr. Timmons nods. Still getting your gray hair colored? he jokes back. They both laugh the way only friends who have known each other for a long time can do.

Bill runs a hand through his thick brown hair and looks at Stu and me. Let me introduce myself. You’re probably dying to know why I’m here.

I look at Stu—apparently my new partner in crime—and shrug. He returns the gesture, adding an impressive arched eyebrow. If I didn’t know better, I would guess he was a former Broadway actor. There’s just something about the way he gesticulates and presents himself. It all screams actor: the scarves, the glasses, the way he puts his outfits together, the way he styles his hair, probably applying more product in one use than I do in a month. And now the theatrical arch. Maybe he’s just gay?

It’s all good news, Bill quickly adds when he sees the look on both our faces. We’re here to help, he assures us. He cracks his knuckles and smiles. "I’ve been with the company for … eight years now. You might not know my name, but I work in HR. I’m the Bill that writes the company newsletter that probably no one reads. He chuckles before continuing. Anyway … blah blah blah. I have a degree in psychology and five years of experience working with sex addicts at a facility in Mountlake Terrace. He pauses to take a sip of coffee, and I look at Stu only to find him staring at me. Hell no, I mouth when I see the look on his face. Hell no, too," he mouths back, discreetly pointing a finger at himself. Okay, so skinny Stu is not a pervert. Just suspiciously skinny. And maybe gay.

Recently, I’ve been in charge of the various support groups, Bill continues, and offers an almost-arrogant nod. The company encourages employees, like you two, to join support groups that we think they can benefit from. He points at Stu and me and nods, a wide smile on his happy tanned face.

I look at Stu again. There are those words again: support group. What exactly are we supporting or not supporting? As if he reads my thoughts, Stu shrugs again, this time revealing the pointiest collarbone I’ve ever seen on a person from an industrial country.

Mr. Timmons clears his throat and reaches for the coffeepot. It’s come to my attention that some people in accounting have, how should I put it … expressed concern about … the health of their colleagues and, well… He looks to Bill for help.

The thing is, just like you can nominate an employee of the month, you can nominate or, to be more accurate, refer an employee if he or she needs help, Bill chimes in.

Help with what? Stu inquires with a firm voice.

With certain emotional or mental issues, like drinking problems, weight issues, stress, ADHD, et cetera. Bill looks at Mr. Timmons, who looks down at the pile of papers lying on the big mahogany table in front of him.

Weight issues? Stu asks, his big blue eyes darting between Bill and Mr. Timmons.

Yes, it’s not like an intervention or anything, just company policy that if we think we can help people with, um, certain problems, we’re here to help. Mr. Timmons opens up his arms and offers a fatherly smile.

And you obviously brought us here because you or someone else believes that we have some of these problems? Stu shifts in his chair, examining Mr. Timmons carefully.

Bill and Mr. Timmons look at each other and nod.

Nonchalantly, Stu reaches over, grabs a spoon from the tray, and starts stirring his cup. I see. He nods with a face I can’t read.

Bill and Mr. Timmons both look at me as if waiting for me to say something.

Great, I say mostly to myself. So someone nominated me as the Fat Employee of the Month? I push myself back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest. I know, I’m doing the typical woman-offended pose, but I don’t know how else to sit or react right now. I’ve been summoned to the conference room because I’m fat. Frankly, at this point, I don’t know which is worse: being sacked or being called out as a fatty. I look at Stu, who seems to be quite amused by my comment.

We don’t use words like…. that, of course, but, basically you’re right, Mr. Timmons says rather bluntly. Bill agrees with me because out of the corner of my eye I see him give Mr. Timmons a watch-what-you-say glare. I mean, as Bill said, we offer counseling to all kinds of people: people with drinking problems, people with stress, with post-post-post. He stops and looks at Bill for help.

Postpartum depression, Bill helps.

Yes, and people with other health problems like, like—

Smoking, Bill adds, giving Mr. Timmons a knowing smile.

Yes, that too, he says, not able to hide the irritation in his voice. We all try to do our best.

I’m not sure whether he’s talking about the support groups or his apparent inability to quit smoking. He looks at me and nods as if to say, We all got problems. Suddenly, I can’t help liking this peculiar little man even though he basically just called me fat. I nod back and look at Stu.

So, what is this exactly? Stu looks at Bill.

It’s rather straight forward. It’s purely math, so to speak. Since Jefferson quit four months ago, you two have been facing a lot of extra work. Also, none of you—as in the only two in the entire department—have spent any of your vacation the last two years. This provides a dangerous combo. It’s one of the first indicators of stress. And with stress comes all kinds of mental and physical challenges. Do you mind me asking why you haven’t spent one single vacation day? He leans back in his chair and looks at Stu.

I guess I just never got around to making any real vacation plans. Stu stares down into his cup and gives it an extra stir. He looks uncomfortable, as if someone just asked him about his innermost private fantasies rather than unspent vacation days. But I recognize the feeling right away. It’s embarrassment. Not having any vacation time or plans is not, contrary to what Bill thinks, an indication of stress. It’s an indication of pure loneliness. Lonely people over thirty-five don’t go on vacation.

Ms. Madsen? Bill looks at me. Not able to come up with a good lie right away, I just echo what Stu just said.

So what are we supposed to do now? Go to Hawaii? Stu asks, which puts a big smile on both Bill’s and Mr. Timmons’s faces.

Well, you could do that, too. But what we offer is weekly counseling and group therapy where we focus on techniques on how to reduce stress and ways to improve your life with eating healthier, simple exercise routines, breathing exercises, and so on. It’s all on a volunteer basis and everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, if you know what I mean. He throws his head back and laughs at his joke, in isolation. Seriously, he continues when he sees the looks on our faces. We also have Jen attached. Jen is a nutritionist who has helped a great many people over the years. He leans back in the $10,000 designer chair and looks at Stu and me. So, what do you say?

It’s not like he’s forcing you or anything, right? Diane looks over the cubicle wall, cradling her phone between her shoulder and ear. It’s like, all on a volunteer basis, right?

I look up at her and shrug. I guess. Kinda. I’m not sure what to say. No, it’s not mandatory. I won’t get the boot if I don’t go but, on the other hand, my recent numbers talk for themselves. If I don’t lose weight now, I’m probably looking at a heart attack before fifty. So, in a way, it is mandatory. It’s been mandatory for a while.

Hold on, honey, she says into phone. Diane calls everyone honey—clients, her husband, me, the cleaning ladies. She even calls Mr. Timmons honey, which I think is rather bold. But then again, Diane seems to get away with everything, even the blinding, bright-orange hair color she’s been sporting lately. I guess it’s true when they say that kind people are beautiful people because even though Diane is not exactly Heidi Klum, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, and I’m so proud to call her my best friend.

She covers the phone with her hand and whispers: I say just go. Check it out. Stu isn’t that weird once you get to know him. He’s actually quite funny.

I never said Stu was weird.

Well, you don’t have to. I know people find him weird. Also, everyone thinks he’s gay, but he’s not. He’s just skinny. She cranes her neck and looks over in the direction of Stu’s desk.

I don’t mind gay people. It’s the skinny people I don’t like. It’s true: I can’t stand the way they look at a piece of bread like it’ll come right at them and bite their fingers off, or how you can almost see how their brains are working overtime to calculate the calorie count of each and every bite of a piece of birthday cake. And the way they can talk—on and on—about Fitbits, steps, no carb, low carb, good carb. Apparently, there is a carb that’s okay to eat now. What the hell? Last time we had a company meeting, people were actually complaining about cake being served, as if it were the dessert from hell.

I swear, I’ll have to do an extra three miles on the treadmill tonight, I overheard a tall, skinny woman say in the bathroom while she powdered her nose.

I know, her even skinnier friend responded with a big sigh. Half a piece and I have to make an extra trip to the gym.

I had three pieces. What can I say? Contrary to these people—the skinny, food-frightened people—eating gives me comfort; not eating makes me anxious. I would have made the perfect medieval woman back when being fat and bulgy was a status symbol, as in proclaiming one was strong and wealthy because they had an abundance of food at their disposal. Today, being overweight is for poor people. Weak people. Me.

So?

I look up at Diane and shrug again. Okay, okay, I’ll go.

Great. She claps her tiny hands together. Stu, she yells over the cubicles in her best nasal voice. Fi is going, too. To the fat meeting, she blurts out. She looks at me and bites on her lip. Sorry. That came out wrong.

I smile. It’s okay. Why pretend otherwise? I’m going because I’m fat. Stu is going because he’s skinny. They call it stress, but regardless of the wording, I think that’s what it comes down to. We’re like the oddball couple from accounting. I lean back in my office chair and puff out my sweatshirt, catching a reflection of myself on my computer screen as I’m doing so. I can’t help it. It’s become a part of my daily routine, like people picking their noses, cracking their knuckles, or twisting their hair. I think I got it from studying Mom constantly adjusting and puffing out her blouses in front of the hallway mirror all those years. We even did it together in sync sometimes. It’s not like I think I can actually hide what’s underneath. I just don’t like it when the fabric gets clingy, exposing too much of the wobbly flesh underneath it. Diane calls me big, bold, and beautiful and swears she would do anything to swap her long pale face, grayish eyes, tiny teeth, and dishwater-colored hair—her own words— for my big blue eyes, thick chocolate-brown long hair, big gap-toothed smile, and freckles generously sprinkled across my round face. I do like my face; it’s anything from the waist down that I try to hide. All two hundred and eighty pounds.

You’re not fat, Fi, just plain beautiful. I glance up and see her looking at me in the reflection of the screen. She smiles and cups her bright-orange hair. You think, she says, lowering her voice this time, there’s a support group for people with a weird Vidal Sassoon addiction?

I doubt it. But if there were, you would, for sure, be summoned to become the freaking president. I smile. Diane changes her hair color every four to six weeks. So far, orange is my least favorite.

She cups her hair again and mouths the word thanks as her phone starts ringing off the hook again. She sighs loudly before she reluctantly ducks to answer another phone call.

I sit up straight, turn on the screen, and run the cursor over my incoming mailbox. I have two new e-mails, both from Violet and both with the same subject line: Derek Johnson’s b-day. I look at the time. The first one was sent almost an hour ago, the second ten minutes ago marked high-priority mail. It must be very important. I open the e-mail and find a highly important message about suggestions for suitable birthday gifts for someone named Derek whose upcoming sixtieth birthday is in two months. I hit reply and write. Who’s Derek? Is he another famous chair?

CARROTS AND CARROT CAKE

D-Day has arrived or, as Stu calls it, Health 101. He sent me an email yesterday to inform me that he had decided to go tonight’s meeting. I’ll be there, flaunting my stressed-out skinny ass, he wrote, followed by a smiley. I hope the fat employee of the month will be there for support. He had then added half a page of famous quotes about courage and looking the tiger in the eye, obviously