Fat Suit

By Jill Oliver Tannebaum

Driven and determined, Grace was on her way to being the youngest partner at a prestigious New York law firm, but at a steep price. Her health and happiness had always come second to her work. Grace was an overweight mess - even as she was on the precipice of her greatest professional triumph. Then, in a flash, everything changed. What happens when a workaholic overachiever realizes her worst fears and has to start over from the beginning? For Grace, it was a journey into self awareness that she never could have anticipated and an opportunity to reshape her life, literally and figuratively, on her own terms; and to live her life by her own rules. Set in New York City, by day and by night, Fat Suit is a novel from first time author Jill Oliver Tannebaum filled with clever characters, strange twists and an ending sure to satisfy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452093772

Jill Oliver Tannebaum

Jill Oliver Tannebaum completed her first novel in 2010. A graduate of Cornell University and the mother of two precocious children, William and Madeline, Jill spent time in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Hawaii and the mean streets of Baltimore producing movies, writing stories, appearing in television shows, running restaurants and raising a family. A devout fan of good movies, good food and Baltimore sports teams, she lived her life doing things she loved with the people she loved. Jill was diagnosed with cancer in 2005. Undeterred, she continued running her family's business, raising a family and writing; and if that was not enough, she also underwent intensive cancer treatment on and off. Jill spent her days living life on her terms. She passed away on April 29, 2010 but not before leaving a last gift for her family and a loving reminder of the spirited person whose life and work will be remembered long after she has gone.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I woke, like I always did, before my alarm went off. Habit kept me setting it every night. Fortunately for my neighbors, it had been years since I had forgotten to turn it off before leaving for work, forcing everyone sleeping in the adjacent apartments awake at 5:45 a.m.

I hoisted myself out of bed, not even remotely tempted to languish for a few minutes. I peeled the sweaty sheets off my legs and lumbered toward the bathroom. The coolness of my apartment felt good against my perspiration soaked back. I considered opening a window but quickly dismissed this thought. While the frigid January air might feel good to me, my cleaning lady would freeze. She would turn up the heat leaving my apartment stifling.

Getting out of the shower, I tried not to notice that my generous cut luxury bath sheet did not quite cover my body. Without looking in the mirror, I dried my hair for five minutes, twisted my damp hair into a bun and fastened it with the leather clasp and stick I’d worn every day since college.

I took a deep breath gathering myself for what I considered my greatest challenge, pantyhose. When I was a young girl my first pair of hose had come in a plastic egg. The company had long ago phased out what I considered the only appealing part of their product. Although the package now only had a picture of an egg on it, I still considered opening it breaking eggs.

I cracked and went to work. I bunched the fabric up and inserted my toe sliding it over my foot. With the easy part over, I took a deep breath and slid the nylons over my ankle and calf straining the stitches. Then, I pulled the nylon over my jiggling knee and finally to the middle of my thigh. I repeated these steps with my other leg trying not to think, as I did every morning, that I was stuffing sausage into casing.

With the waist band in the middle of both thighs, I gave a final heave and landed it somewhere around my hips inadvertently partitioning my tummy into two rolls. This morning, a good morning, it only took one pair; bad mornings required opening three or four new ‘eggs’. I couldn’t reuse stockings. They were so stretched out at the day’s end that they were useless. Sundays I bought a dozen ‘eggs’ and hoped they would last the week.

I was vaguely aware that pantyhose were out of style and that it might be acceptable to go without them; but the thought of my cankles jiggling around the office uncontained by something was horrifying.

With the worst part of my day over, I continued getting dressed. I put on my b-cup bra, my boobs being the only part of me that weren’t fat. I applied a turbo strength antiperspirant which I would sweat through before eight am. I then grabbed a blouse without looking, they were all exactly the same, and slid my dress shields into the arm pits. After months of searching I had finally found the shields on the internet.

I chose a black suit for today’s meetings. I owned ten suits all the same style with only slight variations in color, black, brown, and blue. Pretending not to notice that the size in the skirt began with a two or the difficulty in zipping the zipper, I dressed. A dim promise to not let myself get above size eighteen floated through my mind, but that promise has long since been broken.

I refused to dress in front of a mirror preferring instead to believe that the closet door with the full length mirror hanging inside didn’t exist. I checked a bathroom mirror only to verify that all my hair was up, and I didn’t have anything in my teeth.

Sadness washed over me this morning as I looked at the fat face staring back at me. The chubby cheeks, triple chin, and squinty eyes; no point in makeup for me, my face held no feature that needed enhancing.

I stopped the pity party right there. I was a great lawyer I reminded myself. Looking at my watch I saw that I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself in ninety seconds. That was down from two minutes yesterday. My billing rate was $600 per hour, $100 more per hour than any other associate. The thirty seconds I’d saved meant that I could bill some client an additional five dollars today.

I grabbed my trench coat off the hook by the door. Although it was still dark and probably only ten degrees outside, the winter coat was a prop I didn’t need. I was amply insulated.

I was out the door before I remembered to grab my trash so I let myself back in to grab the garbage from the kitchen. My cleaning lady would empty the kitchen bin, but I was too embarrassed for her to see it. Last night had been a particularly bad night. I worked on a motion late into the night, so I ordered take out three times. I winced at the evidence of my crime: empty pizza box, Chinese take-out containers, and a greasy deli sandwich wrapper.

I tied the bag closed and dumped it down the trash chute as I walked to the elevators. I lived on the third floor of my apartment building, but never took the stairs, certain that the elevator was much faster. I had never tested my theory as I abhorred stairs. I emerged onto Sixth Avenue and huffed a block to the F train. Panting from exertion, I swiped my Metrocard and squeezed through the turnstile. Thankfully, the train arrived on the platform just as I did. I hated waiting for the subway and wasting billable time. Worse than the lost time, was the unwanted attention. I hated the piercing stares of the metro system clientele. When waiting, I felt as if a spotlight were trained on me, and other commuters gawked thinking ‘she’ll spill over into my seat’.

I could afford to take a cab to work everyday but I couldn’t stand getting caught in traffic. Almost nothing angered me more that when a cabbie’s meter was running and mine wasn’t.

I exited the train four stops later and walked up the stairs to the street thinking, as I did every morning, that an elevator here would be helpful. I glanced at my watch, pleased to see that I would be at my desk a few minutes after six am. Good days started when I billed two to three hours before anyone else showed up.

Exiting, I got my usual thrill walking by the Harvard Club décor, expensive oak paneling, lush carpeting, and founding partners’ portraits. I delighted not in the décor which wasn’t exquisite or even unique, it resembled the old boy’s club that it was. My thrills came from being a woman, a fat one at that, and gaining access.

The elevator opened on the sixth floor where my law office Spencer, Whiteworth, and Purcell was located. I walked into my office and plugged my laptop computer into the docking station. Looking around my office, I thought anew that maybe I should personalize it in some way. The art on the beige walls had been here when I was assigned this space as had the furniture. Even the spider plant on the credenza was a rental like the ones in the foyer and fortunately, someone else’s responsibility. Only the bottom desk drawer evidenced my occupation. No, I thought, I would not personalize this room. While I liked my office, it said that I had almost made it. I would wait for the next move to make it my own.

This was the second office I’d had since joining the firm. I had quickly ascended from the co-office that I had inhabited when I joined the firm. The other lawyer, Tom Brown, with whom I shared the space, was now sharing it with a new hire. He remained a junior associate although he had been in the recruiting class prior to mine.

This was unusual. When Spencer, Whiteworth, and Purcell recruited junior associates, they only skimmed off the top of the class in the top law schools, young lawyers who were willing to devote several years to lawyering and nothing else. But Tom had taken time to get married and take a honeymoon, so he remained in a shared office. Usually, senior management would have cut someone like Tom loose, but he was charming and personable, not to mention cheap, and clients seemed to like him. So he stayed, rarely working more than sixty hours a week. I also suspected that his father might golf with one of the higher-ups, but I had no proof.

After my computer booted up, I checked my e-mail inbox. Smiling, I noted that once again I had an empty inbox for the seventeenth day in a row, my record being thirty-four days. I logged on before and off after everyone else in the office everyday. Emptying my e-mail was my last task. Others in the firm could have e-mail waiting for them, but not me. The only exceptions were e-mails from overseas clients sent during the four or five hours that I slept at night.

I checked my calendar for the day, groaning when I realized there was an eleven-thirty staff meeting. I abhorred staff meetings, not only were they a huge waste of time, perishable, billable hours, they were catered. I had a hard time concentrating when there were danishes in the room. Dismissing the thought, I got to work on a motion that I planned to have ready at least a week in advance of the filing date.

Excuse me?

I looked up from what I was doing to see my assistant in the doorway.

Good morning Ms. Grey I answered.

Would you like your messages now? she asked. I checked the clock on my computer, knowing that it was exactly 8:15. Ms. Grey checked in at 8:15 every morning. The last two plus hours had flown by.

My assistant was the model of efficiency and beautiful to look at. I often wondered if she were designed by Germans. She arrived every morning before 8A.M. She checked my e-mail and voicemail messages sorting out anything that could be ignored or she could handle herself. She had complete access to all my information. As I had no life outside work, I had nothing to hide from her. I didn’t even have a personal e-mail account outside the office; I had no use for one.

Anything that can’t wait? I asked her. I’m in a good groove.

No, not for the moment, she said tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. Do you want the case files that I pulled for you?

We’ll get to them this afternoon, I said, Let’s do messages ten minutes before the staff meeting.

I’ll have them ready. She turned and walked out of my office. I admired her elegant figure in a well-cut celery green suit and what I could only assume were expensive designer pumps, Jimmy Choo’s maybe, he is a hot designer, right? Ms. Grey was the looks on our team and was sent to handle face to face contact with the clients whenever possible.

Ms. Grey had been a ‘stationary’s’, my term for guys with their names on the door and the letterhead, assistant. After I had burned through six assistants in the first nine months of my tenure, she accepted the demotion. This step down came with a sizeable raise and bonus. But in Ms. Grey, I found the competence that I required and the rest of the office found peace. A win-win situation, so rare in my profession, where one side was usually required to lose.

When I looked up again, Ms. Grey was standing in my doorway.

Already? I asked

The staff meeting’s in ten minutes.

Okay, what have we got? I asked

I’ve pruned your e-mail down to four messages that require your attention. She handed me a sheet of paper, Your summary of e-mails that I answered. I looked at the spreadsheet she created with the issue, how she resolved it, time resolved, and where she filed the e-mail. The paper copy was just for my immediate perusal, the file already was on my desktop. She handed me another page with today’s phone messages, just a summary.

You will have to return two client calls. I told them that you’re unavailable until one o’clock.

Does that mean…

Yes, I believe the staff meeting will last the entire ninety minutes. Here’s the agenda, she said and handed me a third piece of paper.

I glanced over the bullet points. My case was listed as update only.

What a waste of $900, I mumbled.

Excuse me? she asked.

Nothing, I said, I might as well get in there. I heaved myself out of my chair. Grabbing my laptop, I waddled to the conference room.

I set up with my back facing the food. I grabbed a Diet Coke and tried to work on my motion while everyone else filed in. I knew that I should have shoved in a candy bar from the stash in my desk, but it was too late, the room was almost full.

The rest of the office liked the weekly meeting. They liked getting feedback on their cases and finding out what everyone else was working on. Above all, they liked the one day a week that they wouldn’t miss lunch.

My colleagues grabbed sandwiches, donuts, chips and drinks and found places around the table. I kept my eyes on my keyboard, and tried to focus. The smell overwhelmed me. A first year associate, Joe, John, Jim, some J name sat next to me, and I waged an internal battle not to grab his bag of Cheetos. I had seniority I reasoned to myself. He should have to turn them over.

I knew that I was being ridiculous. There were a dozen snack bags of Cheetos three feet behind me, as well as chips, Doritos, and pretzels. I didn’t know if people would even notice if I grabbed lunch, but I refused to eat in front of them. Like a lot of fat people, I preferred to eat alone.

The meeting dragged on. I tried to work, but I could not concentrate. I was consumed with thoughts of food. During non-catered meetings, I could usually squeeze in a few billable minutes, but the staff meetings were a wash. I would have to add an hour and a half to my already long day. Oh well, I thought, it’s not like I had anything else to do.

Grace.

I heard my name being called, snapping me out of my food trance.

Grace? called H. Sloane Spencer –the top stationary lawyer.

Yes, Mr. Spencer. I answered.

We’re ready for your case update. Are you ready?

Of course, sir. I have prepared a motion for the Allmetro Insurance case to allow the two former employees to testify even though they left the firm before the conflict arose. They were integral to writing and selling the policy to the reinsurance firm. There are many precedents for this motion… In The people V….

That okay, Grace H. Sloane cut me off, I’m sure that you have chosen the correct precedents.

And the telecommunications case? he continued.

The initial brief is due in ten days. I submitted it to editing yesterday.

Of course you did, remarked H. Sloane, his tone testy.

Usually, a brief finished so far ahead of the submission date was a good situation. Perhaps I had spoiled him. Perhaps he wanted the brief a full fortnight early. I felt panicky.

As you are in good shape on your cases, H. Sloane continued, You could help Mr. Whiteworth with his case. He is slightly behind after his golfing tournament. He had not planned on making the amateur cut.

H. Sloane spoke with the pride of a little league father. Another stationary had chucked little white balls at holes in the ground for four days at a cost of at least $22,000 to the firm, and H. Sloane was beaming.

Of course, I said, my jaws clenched, I have some time at two o’clock.

I’m meeting with the client at two o’clock, said Andrew Whiteworth.

Shall I sit in? I asked.

Nooo! he said. Why don’t we sit down around three-thirty?

I was familiar with that kind of ‘no’. I couldn’t really blame him for not wanting me to meet with his clients. I usually had several phone conversations, reeling in clients with my smarts before scheduling a face to face appointment. I had trouble looking my clients in the eye. Their eyes betrayed the same unspoken reaction every time, how could someone so competent be so huge?

Fine, I managed, I’ll rearrange my entire day for you. The last part was only to myself.

How shall I bill this case? I asked H. Sloane. He deferred to the office manager.

You’ll have to bill this one as a second as Mr. Whiteworth will be billing as the lead attorney, she said.

Fine. My jaws ached.

My day and probably my week were ruined. I would never get to $50,000 in billings this week. I probably wouldn’t get to $40,000 now. I was a team player, but this was like asking a starter to warm the bench, I thought, grasping for an appropriate sports related analogy. When necessary, I didn’t mind billing myself at a lower rate. I often did my own paralegal work. The paralegals in our office were too slow for me. But this could stretch into twenty to thirty hours at $150 below my rate. For golf? I seethed. I looked around the table. No one else seemed to notice the stinging indignity.

The meeting dragged on for a few more minutes and adjourned. I was livid as I got up from my seat.

I need ice, I said to no one in particular. I walked over to the catered spread. I grabbed a tray of donuts.

I’ll just take these to the kitchen while I’m headed that way, again my statement directed at the general audience. I didn’t care if anyone heard me as I headed out of the conference room toward the kitchen. Was the office manager snickering behind my back? I thought so but I couldn’t be sure. In that moment it didn’t seem to matter. I exited the conference room while the other lawyers were still chatting.

I turned the corner and headed down the hall toward the galley kitchen. When I was almost there I checked behind me, and saw that I was alone. I pushed my back against the lady’s room door and went into the well appointed bathroom. I didn’t look at the tasteful wallpaper or fresh cut flowers as I raced to the last stall and slammed the door behind me.

The final bathroom was the handicapped stall so I was able to turn around. In one motion, I sat on the toilet and shoved a Boston Crème in my mouth. I finished it in one bite, and followed it up with a chocolate éclair. Two bites later, I started in on a jelly-filled, and was only able to catch my breath when I got to the honey-dipped. As I slowed down to actually chew the glazed donut, my eyes began to water. I was mortified. My face burned with humiliation. I had ruined everything.

Or had I? No one saw me go in the ladies room, had they? How much time had elapsed? Three or four minutes tops. I stopped crying, and once again was glad I didn’t wear make-up. No telltale black mascara streaks under my eyes. I reasoned that if I got myself under control now my eyes wouldn’t be red after such a short cry. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

I looked down at the tray of donuts. I could rearrange the remaining pastries to make it look fuller. I had been doing that my whole life. I checked at my blouse for damage. No chocolate or jelly stains. How had I managed that? I stood up and brushed the powdered sugar off my skirt.

Calmer now, I carefully re-assorted the tray and came up with a plan. If I only slept two or three hours tonight, I could work on the new case and have my motion to the editing department by tomorrow giving me several days to amend their useless changes.

I would turn this setback to my advantage. I would make the golfing stationary look good at a crucial time. While my gross billings would take a beating this week, my total billable hours could more than compensate. And I would get some one-on-one face time with a decision maker before performance reviews were due. No one else in this firm was leading two cases and assisting on a third.

I opened the stall and tiptoed, or as close as I could get, to the ladies room door. I cracked the door and looked down the hall. I caught another break, it was empty. I snuck into to the kitchen and set down the rearranged tray, pleased that it looked surprisingly full.

I made as much noise as possible getting ice from the freezer. I grabbed a fresh Diet Coke and my cup of ice and started to leave the kitchen. The hallway was still empty. So I did a quick about face grabbed one donut leaving a conspicuous gap. I folded it into a paper towel and stuck it in my pocket. Anyone looking at the tray would think I only had one if any at all.

I returned toward my office at a more normal pace stopping at Ms. Grey’s desk.

We’ll have to move our case meeting until tomorrow morning. I have a three thirty with Mr. Whiteworth. I’ll be assisting on his case.

Of course, I’ll be ready whenever you need me.

Thank you, I’ll be in my office.

Um, she hesitated.

Yes, what is it?

You have something on your cheek, she said pointing to a spot to the left of her mouth.

Oh. I reached up to touch my cheek in the same place and felt a big, soft blob. I pulled my finger down to see it was covered in jelly. I turned and raced in my office feeling my face turn bright red in shame. I opened my desk drawer and grabbed a tiny mirror, the one I used to check for poppy seeds in my teeth, and held it up. With a tissue, I removed the remaining jelly and dropped the soiled tissue in the trash.

I picked up my telephone, too embarrassed to face her, I pushed the intercom button.

Yes, Ms. Murphy.

I left my laptop in the conference room. I wonder if you could get it for me.

Certainly, and clicked off the line.

I cracked open my Diet Coke and took a long pull. All this wasted time; I worried that I might have to pull another all nighter. Moments later when Ms. Grey handed me my laptop I was unable to meet her eyes. She slipped out of my office. I furtively gobbled the donut that was in my pocket and dove into my motion because I couldn’t stand to think about anything else.

Chapter 2

At 6:30 P.M. that evening Ms. Grey stuck her head in my office.

I have your evening messages and e-mails, she handed me summary sheets exactly like this morning’s. What time would you like your car?

The firm’s policy was that employees who work past 8P.M. could be driven home. I took a car home every night. It wasn’t just the subway stairs; I really liked being the last person in the office every night.

Let me think, I said. I would eat dinner at my desk in one hour. That would get me to nine or nine-thirty. I could call take-out from the car and meet it in the lobby of my building at 9:45. I would be logged on back in at apartment by 9:50 with a delicious pepperoni double cheese at my side.

Nine-thirty, I said, glad that she didn’t know how I arrived at this time.

When it was finally time to leave, I packed up my laptop and called building security to lock the office door. The last hour had been very tough. I couldn’t concentrate thinking only of cheese and sauce. I climbed into the back of a black Lincoln town car for the short ride home. I dialed the local pizza place. The owners of the pizza shop spoke minimal English, so my order sounded like a locker combination: street address, apartment number, and menu item number with one for small or two for large. I always chose two, large. I recited the same thing so often; I think that they had my combination memorized too.

Knowing that goodies were on the way, I was able to relax. I thought back over my afternoon meeting with the stationary. I was somewhat familiar with the case from the staff meetings, but Whiteworth brought me up to date. One ridiculously rich guy suing another ridiculously rich guy over a non-compete agreement when the partnership went south. I knew the precedent cases like the back of my hand. It wasn’t even fun.

What was fun was when I got to really show off. In law school I realized that I had a knack for remembering specific cases. I cultivated my knack with hours in the law library memorizing cases, the more esoteric the better. I would study my courses’ syllabuses over the summers and have all upcoming cases memorized before the semester started. It’s not like I spent my summers sunning by the pool. My forte was cases used only once during a semester. I never got those wrong. I loved to impress my professors and