Who's that Girl?: The funny, feel-good Rom-Com

By Celia Hayes

A funny, feel-good romantic comedy. Perfect for fans of Fiona Gibson and Jo Watson.

Sam Preston appears to be living the glamorous life of a journalist at the San Francisco Chronicle...

If only that was the case... in reality, she's frustratingly single, stuck living in her parents' house, and oh yeah, in love with her boss, Dave, who barely knows that she exists...

Life seems like it will never change... until the day Sam is put on an assignment with Dave, reporting on the San Francisco Fashion Week. She hopes this might be a turning point in their relationship...

But things never go to plan and practically overnight, Sam becomes an accidental contestant in the Beautiful Curvy pageant and life suddenly becomes very complicated.

How will she manage her new rise to stardom, her job, and her sudden irresistibility to not only Dave, but a new man on the scene?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788543910

Celia Hayes

Celia Hayes works as a restorer and lives in Naples. Between one restoration and another, she loves to write. Don't Marry Thomas Clark reached #1 in the Amazon Italian Ebook chart.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Me in the Middle

Come on, damn you – fit!

If there were a world championship for clothing contortionists, I’d win it – hands down!

Come on… we’re nearly there…

It’s half past seven. I have only thirty minutes to get ready, and I still haven’t been able to do up these damn jeans. It’s always the same with jeans: when you try them on for the first time in the shop, they fit perfectly and so, obviously, you buy them. Then you wear them once and, of course, you wash them. And that’s the end of your jeans: once they’ve seen the inside of a washing machine they wouldn’t fit you again even if you covered yourself with Vaseline.

"Come on, you stupid jeans! Fit!"

I end up rolling around on my bed, desperately trying to make the button go into its buttonhole, but somehow the damn thing manages to stay out. Maybe the button and the buttonhole have decided to divorce and share joint custody of the zipper, I think, snorting in amusement at my own stupid joke.

Sam, it’s almost eight, my mother shouts up from the stairs.

I know… I’m almost ready, I shout back breathlessly. I decide to gather my energies and give myself a little motivational talk. "Girl, you passed your exam in corporate marketing so you are not going to give in to a stupid pair of denim pants even if they are low-waisted!"

Sam, you’re going to be late! Mom shouts up, as though I didn’t already know.

I’m almost ready, I lie. I know very well that I won’t be able to leave my room until I get these jeans on. For one thing, they’re the only clean pair I have at the moment and the alternative is my tracksuit bottoms, and something tells me that the world might not be ready for the sight of me clad in those just yet.

"Come on, you dumb jeans, come on… Why won’t you give a little? Just… a… little… Ha!" I shout in relief. I really don’t know how I did it, but I’ve managed to do up my jeans. I feel like I deserve to celebrate my victory.

Unbelievable, right? Even today, I’m actually going to be able to go to work. All I need now is a dark, baggy and not overly casual top to go with my jeans, and that’ll be a cinch, given what’s in my closet. Since I was a teenager, practically all the clothes I’ve bought have been dark, baggy and not overly casual. ‘Middle Earth off the rack’ is what I call it.

That’s what happens when you’re not plump enough for people to find you automatically funny but you’re still not skinny enough for pretty much everything else. You end up in a sort of limbo and become either the connection between other, much cooler people, the safety net for friends who’ve been stood up on a Saturday night and found themselves at a loose end or an opportunity for aunties who are looking to get their sons married off. Have you ever noticed that there’s no place for the square pegs in this world? If you’re really overweight, society feeds you mottos like ‘believe in yourself’, ‘because you’re worth it’, ‘you’re special’ and ‘that’s not what really counts in life’. But what if you’re like me? What if you’re just… cuddly? What if you’re just… a bit soft? I mean, what if you’re not a skinny model with your bones sticking out all over? In that case, you’re classed as one of the ones who don’t want to pick a side – the undecided ones. And does that have any serious consequences? You bet it does, and they’re all catastrophic. Nobody has enough time to appreciate difference any more. You can be either one or the other. If you don’t adapt to fit that rule, you’re out of luck. I guess it’s a question of practicalities: life is easier when you can categorise everything by a set of origins, contents, functions and weights that everyone has to comply with. Special offer, two emotions for the price of one, hurry while stocks last. It’s a bit sad, but on the other hand it does save you a lot of time.

And what do I think about all this? Erm… Let’s say I try and live a quiet life, that’s my philosophy. And to be honest, I’d happily go along with all of it if it weren’t for the fact that my metabolism is an anarchist who insists on fighting against the impositions of a society whose unhealthy rules are dictated by the fashion companies. And so here I am – a woman who is well aware that she was born in the wrong decade and who is resigned to spending the rest of her life eating diet bars. I’ve given up the idea of constantly trying to change my weight to stay in line with whatever the ideal of the day is, so I just wear oversized pullovers. All I can hope for is a miracle. Or alternatively, a GQ model who desperately needs affection.

Phew… I sigh.

Then I look at myself in the mirror, and that makes me sigh again.

No, it’s a disaster. This isn’t going to work.

Smile. Come on, Sam, smile a little, I say to try and encourage myself. Cheeeeeese…

Jeez, that looks more like something from a horror movie than a smile. But it’ll do for now.

Sam, will you hurry up, please?

I’m coming! I mumble, grabbing my keys from my dressing table just before rushing down the stairs. And at that moment I just let the daily routine take over, get a kiss on my cheek from my mom, pet my cat, Samson, for a moment and then run out of the house, desperately hoping I’m still in time to catch the cable car to Union Square.

My stop on the Powell-Hyde line is just two blocks from my house, and there’s a car every twenty minutes or so. When I see Market Street on the horizon, I’m already late for the quarter past eight car, but luckily it’s been stuck at the traffic lights, so I’m fortunate enough to be able to jump aboard before the driver can start the motor again.

Once inside, I make my way past a group of young boys holding onto the straps and look for a quiet corner where I can get my thoughts in order.

Today’s schedule:

8:45 a.m.: forward the email about the newsroom meeting.

12:40 a.m.: go and fetch Dave’s shirts from the laundry.

4:30 p.m.: send a confirmation for the appointment with John Carter.

Note to self: do not daydream about any imaginary weddings with your boss.

I doubt that I’ll actually be able to avoid that, though, because he is…

Free?

I wish… I sigh.

I mean, is this seat free? a woman of about fifty asks me, gesturing to a seat next to where I’m standing.

Err… Oh, sure, of course it’s free, I stammer. Please, go ahead. I move out of her way so she can take what is, I realise too late, the last free seat on the car.

Then the traffic light turns green and the journey resumes, all the passengers with their noses buried in their freshly printed newspapers. Looks like I’ll just have to stand for the whole trip – that’ll teach me to have my head in the clouds. The road outside flows past as we travel, and a jazz song starts to emerge from the car’s speakers.

I put a spell on you, because you’re mine…

"It’s 8:00 a.m. and this is Love Attitude 89.9 FM, the radio station that speaks directly to your heart. Another rainy day in San Francisco. The cable cars are packed and the traffic on Powell Street is at a standstill. The city has woken up and so the Love Attitude gang here at Fisherman’s Wharf studios is here to keep you company with the unforgettable voice of Nina Simone in that classic from the fifties. It’s still dawn on the West Coast – way too early to get up, so stay in bed for a little while, turn the volume up and stay with us on 89.9 FM, Love Attitude, the radio that reaches you across the airwaves of love."

You know I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you anyhow. And I don’t care if you don’t want me. I’m yours right now. I put a spell on you because you’re mine.

Chapter 2

Swansong

While Sam is rushing to work and hoping she won’t end up stuck in traffic on Market Street, down at The Chronicle there are already people standing around the coffee machine gossiping while others are barricaded in their offices on the top floor wondering why they didn’t stay in bed this morning with a nice cup of green tea and the sports pages.

One of them is Tom Mayer, the newspaper’s chief editor. He’s sitting at his desk looking bored and weary, pulling random magazines he has just bought at the news stand out of his briefcase one by one and slamming them down on the desk top as he recites their names in a monotone.

"Ok Magazine, Celebrity News…"

"Come on, Tom, don’t tell me you’re actually giving any credit to what’s its name… People Today? You must be kidding! says Dave. Why not the National Enquirer too while you’re at it?"

You’re in there too, Tom snaps back, folding his arms. Page nine.

Dave turns on his iPad and looks for the page without saying another word. "Hey, listen to this, he says, his eyes on the screen. Shocking Hillary confession – suspicious goings-on. Who’d have thought it? Hillary is actually a man." He ponders the article for a moment, pretending to be interested in the latest absurdities that the magazine’s unscrupulous writers have come up with.

Dammit, will you put that thing down?!

I guess those were probably her husband’s last words as President of the United States. But come on, her hairdo should have given the game away – it’s always so unnaturally perfect… How did we miss it?

"I’m really sorry, Dave, but analysing the ex-First Lady’s hairdo is not one of my priorities," Tom says, sighing in resignation.

It’s true what they say, continues Dave, completely ignoring him. Since they invented the push-up bra, you can’t trust anyone…

Will you cut it out? cries an exasperated Tom. His agenda is full to overflowing with appointments he won’t possibly be able to make, there’s more voicemail on his phone than he’ll ever have time to listen to and his desk is completely covered in mediocre gossip magazines. He could really do without Dave’s sarcasm and is about to throw him out of his office. What a disaster… he mutters as he tries to clear some space. Thanks to you, it’s going to take me hours to find my keyboard.

"What do you need it for, anyway? According to To-Morrow, the planet’s going to be destroyed by an army of aliens who are going to arrive in a fleet of UFOs in ten days."

"Goddamn it, Dave, I’m being serious here!"

"So am I – but these magazines aren’t!" He holds up his tablet right in front of Tom’s face. It’s displaying the National Enquirer’s homepage.

Tom ignores it, picking up one of the newspapers that cover his desk and showing it to Dave. "Perhaps you would rather read it in The New York Times, then? he asks, sounding almost amused. Does that sound more trustworthy to you? Because in that case, you should probably know that there’s a little article about you in there too, on page five."

Of course, mutters Dave, grimacing irritably. There would be…

Tom seizes the opportunity and starts reading out the first lines of the short article for him.

One notable absence among the many celebrities spotted at the event was lawyer Anthony Walker, a supporter of the new South Bay regeneration project. It appears the lawyer had to cancel his visit at the last minute due to an accident which occurred while he was playing golf. By a curious coincidence, however, later in the evening, model Madeleine Hunt – Walker’s by now possibly ex-wife – made her appearance, accompanied by man about town Dave Callaghan, The Chronicle’s vice director and reporter. Callaghan is well-known for his turbulent relationships with showbiz celebrities and for the controversial enquiry he has been conducting over the last months into the affairs of councilman Willoughby Hoffman.

Tom doesn’t need to dwell on that. It’s old news, the type of nonsense you hear around the water cooler, so he races through the rest, ignoring the astonished expression on the face of Dave, who obviously hadn’t been expecting today’s New York Times to feature an article about his latest fling.

In reply to accusations of him having a relationship with underage Hilary Mason, Congressman Hoffman stated that he was the victim of an elaborate conspiracy which aims to discredit the image of his party only a few days before the elections. Public opinion has nevertheless been shaken by the news, which has caused a boom in sales of The Chronicle. A fact that the newspaper’s vice director seemed to be particularly proud of while, wearing Armani, he squired the Ralph Lauren model through the crowd of paparazzi. Apparently, Mr Callaghan doesn’t feel that the allegations with which he is dragging the name of San Francisco’s administration through the dirt should be applied to his daily activities. Rather, his glorious performances at every important local event add another notch to his reputation as a womaniser.

Deciding that he has read enough, Tom puts the newspaper down and glares at Dave. Do I need to go on?

That’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous, Dave mutters, without turning to face his colleague, as though to deny even the possibility. "Did you really say it was in the New York Times?"

That’s what it says at the top of the front page.

This is impossible, he snorts. You must have gotten it mixed up with some other newspaper. Let me see that, he says, almost ripping the paper out of Tom’s hands and reading the article for himself, confident that there must be something in there that will exonerate him from these despicable accusations.

Tom raises his hands as though to say ‘help yourself’ and lets him check the article for himself, certain that he’ll find nothing to get him off the hook. There isn’t much that Dave can say, because one thing is for sure: starting from today, things are going to be very different around this newsroom. Tom just needs to find the right way to tell him. "Get used to it, you’re an easy target. You’ve been sleeping with the wife of one of the most popular lawyers in town. The opposition will use that to convince the public that everything you say is just some dumb vendetta. You can almost see the headlines: Disgusting Liberal Smear Campaign Scandal. If Walker decides to go after us, your little fling with Hunt will cost us a five year lawsuit and a ton of money."

"All this is nuts! Nuts!" yells Dave, while reading through the article once more, still unable to believe that they are actually trying to use his personal life to destroy months of work. Tom isn’t over reacting – they really have gone for the kill.

Listen to this: ‘We wish councilman Walker a quick recovery and hope to see him back on the course in the near future. And with personal assets valued at over fifteen million dollars, not even Dave Callaghan will be able to keep Hunt away from a good divorce lawyer.’ This is pure defamation!

No, Dave, this is politics, and I’m not about to let people belittle the serious work we’re doing here.

At the sound of Tom’s tone of voice, Dave finally realises just how seriously he is taking the situation, and stops feigning indignant indifference. So are you firing me?

No, I’m not, he admits after a while, while massaging his temples. He’s the editor of one of the most widely read newspapers in the country, so he can never afford to be impulsive. Like all big decisions, it looks like he pondered this one for a while before making his mind up. "That’s not what I said. But I am obliged to do something," he points out, leaning back in his chair.

Dave doesn’t react, or at least not immediately. He should feel more relaxed after hearing that he still has a job, but there’s a strange look in Tom’s eyes… He’d always been a very straight up guy, one of those people who speaks their mind freely and clearly and who will tell you to go to hell to your face if they have to. So why is he taking so long to get to the point? What exactly is on his mind? Nothing good, that’s for sure. Come on, then – spit it out! snaps Dave eventually, unable to stand the tension of waiting any longer. What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness? Whip myself in public to prove that I repent? Stick twelve dollars in the collection plate down at St Joseph’s?

Don’t be stupid. And I have no intention of giving in to Hoffman’s threats either. If Walker can’t handle his wife, that’s his problem. And anyway, none of this makes Hoffman’s situation any more or less serious. He was caught in a car with a girl who isn’t even eighteen years old, so he has absolutely no excuse. He clicks his tongue in satisfaction. That was a good one and we are going to keep pushing it.

Okay. So what exactly are you thinking? asks Dave, unable to disguise his anxiety or his irritation.

So from this moment on, you have to be totally beyond reproach.

What do you mean?

"You know exactly what I mean, Dave! No more screwing around! No more nothing, period."

I don’t follow.

Ok, then I’ll try and make myself crystal clear, Tom sighs. "From now on I don’t want to see you at parties. No more flings. No more romantic jaunts to Costa Rica for the weekend. No more getting papped on yachts or with Playboy models…"

"What? Oh come on…" Dave groans as it dawns on him what Tom is saying.

The whole world has to think you’re a saint, Tom continues, regardless of Dave’s reaction. And I want to see you sitting on the front row in church every single Sunday, if that’s what it takes!

Oh, for fu—

No, Dave! shouts Tom, leaning towards him across his desk and pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Maybe you don’t realise how bad this is. You’ve risked a lot here, believe me – a lot! He warns him. You’re a great journalist, and a great deputy editor, and the only reason I am saving your ass is because there’s nobody in this office that’s worth half of your big toe. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose The Chronicle because of you! he mutters through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. Do you know what I did when I got my promotion, Dave? Do you?"

No, I don’t, Dave admits laconically.

I glued the seat of my pants to this damn chair, and so if someone wants to get me out of it, they’re gonna have to shoot me first and cut me off it. Am I being clear? Do you understand what I’m saying?

Yes, quite clear, Dave stammers.

"Great, so take my advice and get these words into your stupid, stubborn head: if I find out you’ve been anywhere near anything that even looks or smells like a woman, or if you’re even caught looking in the window of a lingerie shop, you’ll be out on your ass. I won’t accept any excuses or justifications and there won’t be any exceptions. Do you think you can manage that?"

Tom… he hesitates.

I want an answer, Dave, and I want it right now.

For how long?

At least until after the elections.

But you’re asking me to abstain for almost three months!

Yeah, and that means that in three months time you’ll still have a roof over your head and a salary at the end of the month which you will be able to spend on sex toys and all the edible underwear you can eat, with the compliments of the newsroom. So what do you say?

Dave thinks it over for about a second before realising that being fired in his field means ending up in the obituaries office or, even worse, writing bitter articles about conspiracies and celebrities on some sad personal blog. Dave knows that he has no choice: if he doesn’t agree, he’ll be moving back into his parents’ basement.

I…

No, he just can’t do it. And not because he doesn’t understand where his priorities should be – it’s that he knows himself: there’s no way he’ll be able to stay cooped up at home for three months. That’s just who he is. He has certain… needs, so to speak. And anyway, this isn’t a normal thing to ask! Who can survive for three months without—

Think of it as a way to test your willpower. Dammit, Dave, would you really throw away all the work you’ve done so far just for some nookie? Don’t you want Hoffman to pay for what he did? Imagine his face when they throw him out of the party. Think of how much alimony he’s going to have to pay his wife. Dave still doesn’t look convinced. Isn’t all that enough to convince you? Well, listen to me, then… As soon as this story is over, you will have carte blanche to do whatever you decide you want to.

Define ‘carte blanche’.

It means you’ll have my permission to do whatever you want to him. To take him down!

Tom, are you giving me your word about this?

That’s what I’m saying. Don’t you trust me?

I want the front page, Tom. I want to put Hoffman on the front page under a headline of my own choosing.

Okay, Tom concedes.

And I also want to be free to decide what goes in there, with no editorial interference from you.

Okay, okay, whatever.

And I want a raise.

Get your ass out of here right now! shouts Tom loudly.

Dave bursts out laughing. Okay, okay – but come on, it was worth a try.

Fine – you tried, and you failed. Now get the hell out of here, because thanks to you, I have a million goddamn problems to fix.

Dave nods and stands up, but before leaving the room he murmurs an embarrassed, By the way, thanks…

They look at each other in silence, neither feeling the need to add anything. They both know that if Tom hadn’t intervened, Dave would have been fired today. Very few people would have taken a risk like that, and The Chronicle could have found a dozen unscrupulous reporters. They probably wouldn’t be as good as Dave, but still…

Get out, before I change my mind! Tom scolds him good-naturedly, and Dave takes the hint and leaves Tom’s office.

Chapter 3

The Bow Tie Challenge

Will you take these? And these? No, not these. Take these too, and… Regardless of the amount of documents she keeps piling up on my arms in an increasingly wobbly pile, she has the nerve to say, And take these too, before putting a couple of folders on top that she’s probably been hiding in her drawer since her first day in the office.

Great, I say, as I set off.

Ah, hold on! says Margaret, raising a cautionary finger.

I knew it was too good to be true…

I forgot these, she says with an angelic smile.

Nothing else? I ask sarcastically.

Hmm… she ponders. I think… she turns round and looks at her desk. Yes, that should be everything. But I’ll call you if something else turns up, she says, dismissing me and instantly forgetting I exist.

Welcome to The Chronicle. On your right, a harpy clad in a red pants suit known as Margaret Banks, head of the Culture and Entertainment section and, contractually, my boss. She’s a lovely person except for this bad habit she has of overloading me with work – a habit that everybody who ends up in the office for more than a week or so seems to develop: if they need someone to spend two hours of their life searching through the archives, they ask me. The same thing happens when there’s a delicate phone call to be made. And who do they turn to when there’s some bizarre character to interview? Always and exclusively me. Except when it’s time to share the credit, in which case it becomes "Who? Sam? Sam who? Never heard of her. Does she work here? Seriously?"

And that’s my career in a nutshell.

Trying not to trip over, I leave her office and walk in a straight line until I bump into my desk. My workstation is a very small cubicle in a corner just by the window. There’s a grey table, a grey office chair, a grey desktop PC, and an imposing card index cabinet, the only object in my little personal space which is a completely different colour: black. Well, off-black, if I’m totally honest, so I should probably say it’s another shade of grey, but I still like to think of it as black so I don’t get too depressed. It’s pretty hard to keep your spirits up when you spend all your days crammed into eighteen square feet.

Ah, Sam… says a voice from across the hall. There are some e-mails that need sending.

Sure, fine… I grumble, dumping the pile of documents I’m holding onto my desk. I start cursing to myself even before knowing what these e-mails are about, hoping that spontaneous combustion or something will save me from this boring task. I know from previous experience that I’m very soon going to find out what he’s talking about in any case.

It’s a fact: whenever there’s a problem, one way or another it always manages to find its way over to me, so all there is for me to do is sit down and decide where to begin. Before I start, though, I check the time. It’s only ten, I know, but I’m already as desperate for my coffee break as a camel is for an oasis after crossing the desert. I can’t stop staring at the clock, hoping that soon it’ll be time for me to get out of here and find solace in one of those styrofoam cups. Caffeine… It’s the only thing stopping me from munching my way through those cookies I’ve got hidden in the third drawer of my desk.

It wasn’t always like this. At the beginning I was actually happy to work for a newspaper, especially because The Chronicle is not just any newspaper, it’s the newspaper around these parts. And these parts are San Francisco. When they offered me an internship here, I couldn’t believe it. I was twenty-three years old, I had just finished college and I had a head full of dreams. I could already picture myself holding a Pulitzer prize, and had a very moving speech prepared for the occasion. Three years later, I wish I could say that there’s been some progress, but unless you count me now having a company badge, nothing has happened. I’m paid the same salary and my colleagues treat me just as dismissively and look at me just as suspiciously. Only my workload has tripled. The long and the short of it is that I live my working life squeezed between a cheese plant and the printer, and instead of dreaming of a Pulitzer, nowadays I dream of being able to afford a top of the range vacuum cleaner. In other words, the expectations I had for my life have been drastically downsized. I’m not a natural pessimist, it’s more like the direct consequence of the failure of yet another diet which Vogue promised was ‘infallible’. To be more specific, I’m talking about the lemon diet which I tried last year after me and the waistbands of my pants had a bit of a falling-out. It felt like this time it was going to work, but as it turned out I didn’t lose a pound and I wasted four hundred dollars on buying a small greenhouse for our garden, plus another two hundred on the doctor. On the bright side, my mother can now grow strawberries in December and there is always a cheesecake in the fridge.

What a face! says Terry as she joins me. She’s in the same boat as I am, working in the same department with the same approach: grim tolerance while we await the day of our revenge.

I just found out that I’m going to be spending the whole day searching through publications, newspaper articles and reviews for stuff about Millie Brown – you know, that artist who creates her pieces by vomiting up paint, I tell her, while staring dejectedly at all the files Margaret gave me.

Terry comes closer, looks at my desk, then, without a word, steals a chair from another cubicle and sits down next to me. Sounds like an interesting artist. I wonder what she could do with a chocolate milkshake… Strangely, she isn’t giving me a hard time, and that immediately puts me on my guard.

What are you planning? I ask her suspiciously while spontaneously pushing my chair back.

Nothing, what do you mean? she says, feigning innocence, and in the meantime takes a file out of a folder and looks it over. "Let’s

Reviews for Who's that Girl?

[nelispelusa · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Received an ARC at no cost to author for my voluntary review...(netgalley) I have to say that I was so disappointed with who Sam ends up with, it killed it for me. Sam was a beautiful curvy girl with no self esteem, and unfortunately has a crush on her bully of a boss Dave, who never notices her until she some how gets involved in a beauty pageant. She also catches the eye of another person Al, who does not treat her like crap, so I ask why, why did she not pick him. So even though it had it had its funny moments I can not condone being mean to someone.. Sorry folks..I will not give it less stars because writing was not bad.