Plus-Size in Paris

By Erin Zhurkin

Plus-size in Paris? C'est compliqué!

Online, influencer Abby Allerton is savvy, relevant, and empowered due to her Instagram profiles Plus-Size Real and Femme Fatale, but IRL not so much—she's sadly stagnant and in need of an upgrade.

 

When the #BTSPFW invite drops into her inbox, Abby can't help but say, "Oui, oui, this is for me!" and do whatever it takes to get on the next plane to Paris for an exclusive behind-the-scenes Fashion Week event!

 

As she navigates Paris with all the culturally perceived imperfection she seems to embody, Abby feels thrown into the catacombs of body image. Determined to be unabashedly herself, she ends up making friends in haute places, and it turns out Abby might just have what it takes to launch a couture coup d'etat!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dépaysement Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988188513

Book preview

ONE

MAIS OUI

Abby’s never been to Paris, so frequenting her local imitation French café, Wholly Crêpe, is the closest thing she’s got. Now, sitting in her favorite spot, where they should probably have a nameplate in her honor because she’s there so much, she’s doing her favorite thing—the thing that brings her back here time and time again—which is to watch the chef and owner, Philippe, and hopefully flirt with the handsome waiter, François, while she works.

Like clockwork Abby watches Philippe desperately try to keep his national identity alive. He does this by torturing the diners at Wholly Crêpe with his singing. He sings—or rather shouts—a weird mash-up of Edith Piaf lyrics and La Marseillaise. If the mood is right, she’ll join in for a verse or two. Listening to Philippe, Abby can’t help but wonder if his singing isn’t a coping mechanism, a kind of scream of the soul that he ended up here after his premiere culinary training at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Cue another somber chorus of La Vie en Rose.

Just at that moment, Abby sees François stop scrolling on his phone and look over to her table. In his black waiter’s suit and long apron, he looks like a tall, sleek, out-of-place penguin. Of all their usual customers, she’s got a hopeful hunch that she’s his favorite. With that thought in mind, she adjusts her hair, highlighted blonde with just the right touch of brunette lowlights, so that it falls gently on her shoulders. Abby is curvy and falls into the super silly, outdated fashion-world category plus-size. Always sitting up straight thanks to her yoga practice, she gives off the vibe that her body is her home, and in her home she’s undoubtedly comfortable. Her dreamy brown eyes with their long, naturally curling eyelashes are often noticed by others, and people are drawn to her because of them. She’s been described as a cross between Blake Lively and Aidy Bryant.

Today she is wearing a colorful top that dips in front with just enough calculated cleavage to be what her mama calls elegantly sexy—not town hussy sexy. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby sees François quickly run his fingers through his wavy, dark hair and adjust his stereotypical moustache before heading over to greet her. She gears up to place her usual order and to feel the flirty François butterflies that appear in her stomach whenever he is near.

"Bonjour, Abby. Ça va?"

Très bien, merci! Abby says. François gives a sigh in response.

Goodness. That sigh seems loaded. Are we a cranky French waiter today? Abby says.

"Well, one could say I’m over it, ma chérie."

Oh no. Do you want to talk about it? I like your scarf, Abby says.

"I didn’t wear my scarf for a few days, and I think I’ve caught a boog," François says as he adjusts his linen scarf tighter around his neck. Abby smiles at the way he says boog for bug. Being able to take in François’s accent is a delicious side dish for all the customers of Wholly Crêpe, and Abby is no exception.

You are having the usual, ma chérie?

"Oui, mon monsieur . . ."

"Philippe, two sugar crêpes with lemon and side of crème Chantilly, and don’t forget that Diet Coke because balancing our nutrition is important." François winks.

"Ouch. I think you might have a bit of le cranks today." Abby has just thought of that term and is waiting to see how it lands.

"Le cranks? Really? Mademoiselle, I took you to be a little more cultured than that."

I like to keep things interesting, Abby says.

"Mais oui . . ." Following a good tug of his black penguinesque vest, François adjusts his scarf again and moves on to the next table.

Now settled in and ready to roll, it’s time for Abby to do her Insta post with links to her website and peruse the new offers of sponsorship and partnership waiting for her in her inboxes.

Her blue-checked verified accounts—Femme Fatale, at last count a half million followers, and Plus-Size Real, with upward of 450,000—are her life’s yin and yang. Femme Fatale is all things Parisian style, all things skinny, subtly using vintage pieces she acquires. She also uses third-party photographers from France. Femme Fatale has been her monetary star thanks to her gorgeous layouts and ability to add just the right touches to the pics. Using vintage pieces has allowed her to make quite a profit adding affiliated links to her posts. Plus-Size Real, on the other hand, is the antithesis to Femme Fatale for obvious reasons; the word skinny is never mentioned, nor is the desire to achieve thinness allowed. It’s all about being real.

Still, she recognizes she’s in her sweet spot with her influencer business and doesn’t want to do anything to mess it up. She wants to get Plus-Size Real to 1M, but it’s been a little stagnant for some reason. She clicks over to her Google folder for Femme Fatale content to see what new photos have been added by her partner photographers in France and elsewhere. Just at that second, one from Pascal (her fave hired Parisian photographer) pops in. It’s good but not exactly right.

@FemmeFatale: Bonjour! Can you make it a little more vivid? It feels a little drab to me. And maybe on the next round put the flowers to the left of the model?

@ParisPascal: Bonjour, FF! I can try, but it is not vivid in this part of Paris. It is between two old buildings, and the light is limited. The small streets here as you know are hard to capture with good color, but the vibe is clear and simple industrial chic! Do you like the model’s look?

@FemmeFatale: Yes, she’s perfect. Very cool. Isn’t it brighter in Paris?

@ParisPascal: In summer yes, but you asked for a winter shot, and I delivered. Haven’t you been to Paris?

Abby sits back. Time to lie. Again. She straightens up, sitting tall and strong, and types a response.

@FemmeFatale: Of course! I just remember there being more light. My bad. Merci. I’ll make it work.

@ParisPascal: Pas de problème!

Abby takes the photo and starts to work her editing magic, adding the tags and links to ensure what’s shown is accessible to her followers—where to buy the trench, where to buy the cliché beret, where to buy the cute gold pointed-toe flats. Then, like clockwork, she quickly pops back on to Google to initiate yet another flight search to Paris. She’s looked at flights for years without following through, but lately it seems to be a daily occurrence, like brushing her teeth. François is back with her Diet Coke.

All sarcasm and pending sicknesses aside, what’s new with you, mademoiselle?

Um, I think you are already looking at it, François . . .

I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but see it with your huge screen.

Abby laughs as she’s using the smallest, most compact version of the MacBook on the market.

Are you planning a trip to Paris? François says as he leans in even more.

Oh, I’m just doing some fun searches as I work. I’ve always wanted to go. I think I told you before that I missed my high school trip to Paris because my mama was sick. One can dream. Abby sighs.

Paris is always a good idea, Abby. Especially for you.

Abby crinkles up her nose and asks, Mmm, why do you say that? I feel a smidge of snark coming, François, and I’m pretty sure you’ve hit your cranky French waiter limit at my table today.

François puts his hand to his heart, and with a slight bow he smiles gently, letting her know he’s in a better place. Abby swoons as his thick, dark hair falls forward over his piercing blue eyes that are now looking straight through her.

"You should go because you’ve never been, and you will go all doe-eyed like that emoticon with hearts for eyes. You are the perrrfect visitor." François slowly straightens, keeping her gaze.

I’ve never been overseas, Abby says as she breaks his gaze and shrugs.

Really? You seem so worldly to me.

Wordy? That’s funny you said that. Did I ever tell you I was spelling bee champ all through middle school? I was so hated for that and other reasons, but I didn’t care. Never underestimate a good speller.

"So many miscellaneous facts come from your mouth during our little visits. I said world-lee with the lee, the letter l and ee, worldly as in the world we live in, the planet, the earth."

Oh, right! Sorry. I guess it was an accident with your accent.

Oh, mais oui . . .

You think I’m worldly? she asks.

Oui, but of course, he says back to her matter-of-factly.

At that moment, François’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Abby’s intrigued.

What’s that buzzin’ in your pocket? You saw my screen. Show me what’s in your pocket making all that noise.

Oh, mademoiselle, we don’t know each other well enough for you to know what is going on in my pocket, he says as he moves away.

"Well, that’s not true, I’ve been coming here for a few years now, and you’ve been here every time, so I’d say we know each other relatively well, non?" Abby says.

François moves his body in what appears to be an attempt at a hip TikTok dance and then puts his hand in his pockets. Abby laughs. She grabs at his apron and gets the phone. Once the phone is in her hands, she sees there is a notification from Femme Fatale on the screen. She quickly fumbles it back to him. She had no idea that he followed one of her accounts.

Sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed it from you. I’m not usually that aggressive, and you’re not feeling well.

It’s okay. I like when women grab at me.

Abby can’t help but laugh. He’s just too cute.

"You should go to Par-ee, Abby. It will be good to you—or for you. Damn your English prepositions. You can finally put all those mediocre French classes you took in school to good use."

You know why I like coming here? Abby asks.

"Because of the chef’s songbird singing voice and moi? The sexy waiter?" François says.

Oui, all those things, but mostly because it reminds me of a place I’ve never been. Coming here, I travel there. Abby points to the big Eiffel Tower on the wall. It’s a little trip without the hassle, trouble, and goodbyes—and I do love a good crêpe!

"But life is trouble, Abby. Without hassles, life is not truly lived. And if you don’t say goodbye, you can never have a new hello. I think that was said by some guy named Pico or Paulo, so it is not all my philosophical genius, and therefore I can’t take all the credit, but hassles are needed so that you can enjoy the other side of life."

"Did you get all that from a su-PEAR positive Insta account?" Abby smiles as she says it, attempting her own French accent.

"Oui! From the @MeaningfulQuotes profile. It has, like, three million followers. Totally legit, so positive, and making the world a better place, what’s not to j’adore."

Thought so. Abby takes a sip of her Diet Coke and then sighs with delight.

Their frequent banter with accents has become a kind of visceral experience for her. She could speak to him all day, just asking him to repeat certain words in French and then in English with his accent in full swing. She’s often wondered what would be sexier—him speaking in English with a French accent in bed with her, or him in bed speaking the real deal, full-on French. She starts to blush a bit and focuses back on François.

François’s apron pocket buzzes again.

Are you going to grab it? Please grab it! It will certainly be the most exciting thing to happen to me today!

A different customer, an old lady, sits upright, and says, I’ll grab it from you. Come on over here.

Abby gestures for François to go over there. François turns to the lady and smiles confidently. "Non, ma chérie. There is not enough of me to go around. Désolé." He turns back around to Abby.

As tempting as it is, I’ll keep my hands to myself this time. You can do that little move you were doing earlier, though. François smiles and shuffles off. Both Abby and the admiring old lady laugh as if to say, Once again, day made at the Wholly Crêpe café.

Abby closes the tab on Paris flights and shelves that away once again so she can focus on getting her Instagram post done. She wants to get this latest post online so she can move on to something else. She’s learned that with influencing, discipline is key. Keeping things fresh and fun for her followers must be her daily goal. She can’t help but recognize the irony that she’s starting to feel in her own life that it’s time to post and move on.

With her AirPods in and the volume up on Meghan Trainor, who has been her mantra in human form for years now, she starts typing as fast as she can, capturing the thoughts as fast as they come. This post is a hassle and a trouble that she’s over encountering on a daily basis.

Buttoning up a shirt is one of those thoughtless, mundane tasks for a woman. But put a plus-size woman, whether she’s voluptuous or not, in that scenario, and it can make or break her day. No matter the color or style, there’s always a guessing game as those buttons move up that fastening line of fantasy thinking. No gape, no gape, please god, no gape!

Often, when a significant boob gape appears, spiraling ensues: The shirt’s too small, which means my boobs are too big. If I just had smaller breasts! I’m fat, so no good design-abiding shirt will ever fit me if I’m this weight and shape. And finally, down the rabbit hole to research the latest detoxes and diets, starting tomorrow! I’m not okay, I need to change, and I’m not enough have taken residence in our hearts once again. All this madness from a silly, thoughtless design flaw. Before we find ourselves in an all-out boob-gape mental state requiring us to call in sick to manage our breakdown, there is an option. Because ladies, we always have options! The option is simply not to spiral. We deserve shirts that fit and don’t gape! Society and its hugely overwhelming stigma of what constitutes a normal body, an acceptable body, is the problem. Not designing for real women is the problem. Now here’s a list of brands that boob-gape and a list of brands that don’t. You got this!

I’ve so got this! Abby says, louder than she realizes, as she does a little jig, adjusting her body in her chair. She looks up after posting and sees that others are watching her. She smiles and double waves to them. All five of them wave back, and that’s inclusive of Philippe and François. After posting to Insta, Abby quickly maneuvers through her post to then link it to her story, all the while shimmying in her seat to the music blaring in her ears, and starts to type the text:

PLUS-SIZE REAL: BUTTON-BUSTED LIST REVEALED!

As she continues to masterfully click around the keyboard with her hot-pink manicured nails, she realizes this offers her the perfect Instagram Story shot with the caption Writing in pink this morning. She quickly takes a photo at the perfect angle, so her fingers look sleek and long, and adds it to Femme Fatale’s Story. She’s a master at this, and she knows it. She looks up and notices François watching her.

Just as she’s about to shut down, she decides to check her accounts once again, on her phone, to make sure all looks pretty and on brand. She scrolls through Plus-Size Real first.

Seriously? Abby says to herself as she scrolls down and sees she’s once again being trolled. She reads the comment:

@plussizereal: If you’re all about empowering women, how about you empower them to lose weight! It’s not empowering to be fat—it’s just being fat. Lame.

Abby narrows her eyes and starts to formulate a response. So many trolls and so little time. She’s used to it now and has become an apt responder.

@winner123: How about you be a REAL winner and stop the objectification of women and worry about your own body? Oh, and you might want to come out from the basement at your mom’s house and do the dishes. Peace and love, my brother, because I’m pretty sure you are a man.

She clicks Reply, but the feeling of good comeback swagger is short-lived for her on this one. What she wrote to the troll hit too close to home.

TWO

TWINKIE TALK

A bby? What’s coming up? Charlene, Abby’s therapist, tilts her head slightly down to meet Abby’s gaze on the cushy white linen couch across from her.

I feel guilty, Abby says as her eyes fill with tears.

Can you tell me more? Charlene says.

I feel tight. Everywhere. I feel guilty that I hate her sometimes, when she’s the one that gave me life. Abby wipes a waterfall of tears gently streaming down her cheeks. I feel guilty that sometimes during her illness I wish she would’ve died. How awful is that?

Charlene hands her a tissue. Abby wipes her tears with it and now has black streaks resembling tire tracks across her eyes. Charlene hands her the whole box.

It’s natural to feel all those feelings, Abby. What’s not natural is to dwell there. And that’s why you’re here.

I guess I feel with things being better, with her better, that something’s got to give. But then I get pulled back in and I feel selfish. I live this strange dual existence with them.

How so? Charlene asks.

From my room, I’ve built and manage two successful Instagram profiles with literally hundreds of thousands of followers. I mean, I love what I do, I loved getting my degree, I just don’t love the isolation of it all. It’s strange, isn’t it? That I’m living this way? I feel like this stupid troll I was responding to recently. I felt like I was responding to myself.

In what way? Charlene says, holding eye contact.

Because I’m the same. I have one life online and another in real life. It sounds cliché, but it’s how I feel.

What do you need to do to feel more authentic, for yourself? Charlene asks.

I’m not sure. Do you think I’m having a quarter-life crisis? I saw this whole Reel on it and listened to a podcast about it. Is that a thing?

Could be. What do you do when you feel those feelings of being inauthentic? Charlene asks.

It’s weird. I kind of double down and work harder on my accounts. I go to this café, Wholly Crêpe, a lot just to get out of the house, and then . . . there’s the Twinkies. Abby’s eyes move down to the floor. A slice of shame about those Twinkies permeates the room. She sees Charlene’s eyes still holding hers in the most loving way. Abby knows she won’t let that go.

Do you want to tell me about the Twinkies, Abby? Charlene says.

They were always put in my lunches and given to me after school. My mom used to give them to me when I was young. When I felt sad, or when things were hard. They were kind of a go-to treat for us.

How do you feel about them now? Charlene asks.

That maybe I don’t want them anymore, Abby answers.

Bull’s-eye. Charlene leans back.

Abby’s cat, Chloe, pushes the door to enter Abby’s room and jumps up beside her on her desk. Abby picks her up to give her a gentle nose rub. In a red bra and dark-blue silk pajama pants, it’s another day, another dollar in the online world. With her being what’s called a mid-tier influencer, who gets anywhere between five hundred to five thousand dollars per post, she’s done well for herself, and one of the benefits, she must admit, of living at home is that it has helped her be a savvy saver. She loves working first thing in the morning and is almost always half-dressed while doing it. She’s just finished some morning journaling or morning pages, as Charlene recommended, and is feeling particularly focused and positive.

"I need a new gig, Chloe. I do not want to turn twenty-five like this. Isn’t it time for me to live? I want my joie de vivre." Chloe resumes her usual position on the desk, ready to interrupt, in the same way Abby resumes her usual position at Wholly Crêpe, waiting for François to interrupt. She smiles to herself at this realization.

Abby looks around her room. It’s professionally set up with an eclectic flair. There are vision and mood boards full of mini-printer pics organized by hue alongside ideas for her next posts on magnetic boards. There are strings of lights across the boards and long mirrors along her walls that give optimal views from every angle, which help her recreate Femme Fatale looks for Plus-Size Real. It’s a curated space that percolates with creativity around her centrally placed diploma in Fashion and Art Design from Watkins. Memories of good years, good times alongside the sad and hard going on at home. Always pursuing her creative life kept her going.

Chloe stretches and rolls all over, attempting to overpower the keyboard. Abby types around her as if she’s not there. She pauses, looks at Chloe, and says softly, At least I’m not in the basement. I mean, this is a cool space even if it is in our parents’ house, right? Abby creates a camera lens box with her hands and looks through it at different angles of the room. Ah, doesn’t matter how you angle it or shoot it, Chloe. Living with my parents is indeed sad. She flaps her arms down on the sides of her chair and does a stretch that lets her arms dangle and her neck fall back, but then after a few seconds, she starts her 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 countdown she learned from listening to the Mel Robbins podcast. That helps catapult her forward in every challenge, and today is no exception. She rockets herself straight up and gets back to work. She gives Chloe a final gentle stroke before the cat jumps down in her dismissive way.

Hey, Siri! Abby says.

Uh-huh? Siri answers.

"Play Abby’s Je t’aime playlist," Abby commands. Siri confirms that she’s now playing the playlist, and Abby scrolls down and opens multiple files in her IG Femme Fatale posts archives on her MacBook Pro. After perusing the pics, she clicks over to Notes to prepare her post for the profile and quickly writes the heading:

FRENCH GIRL CHIC FROM PHARMACY TO TRÉS JOLIE

She moves a few curated pretty pics of pharmaceutical skin-care products around on her screen, then goes into her archives to see if @parispascal sent her any shots that go with the products she’s highlighting this morning. She’s due to post them today, according to her sponsorship calendar. She comes across an old pic, one that she herself took when starting this account. It’s a memory of how Femme Fatale came to be, and it’s perfect. Just then, a DM comes through.

@HeatherBeather: Hey, I didn’t get my payment this month. Just letting you know.

@FemmeFatale: Hi, how are you? I was literally looking at some of our old pics. It’s been a while. I’ll check on it.

@HeatherBeather: I’m fine. Thanks for checking on it and letting me know.

@FemmeFatale: Sure thing. You didn’t tell me how you are doing. My mama’s better, and things are better, and I’m thinking of making some changes with Femme Fatale. Can we meet up soon when you are in town? I’d love to fill you in.

@HeatherBeather: I’m happy to hear about your mama. Let me know what you find out about the payment. Sorry to be short, but I’ve got to go. Thanks.

Abby throws her phone on the bed. This needs to stop. The fact that Femme Fatale is her more lucrative account makes it hard to give up the facade. This arrangement with Heather is like a stale piece of gum that’s been chewed too hard and too much. Her so-called perfect scheme of keeping Heather the face of the account but Abby behind the scenes doing all the work seemed genius at first—they simply went their separate ways due to creative differences, keeping the account and its brand on the money for both of their benefits. She clicks back over to the Femme Fatale post, with the vintage pieces beautifully placed, and adds the accompanying link to Insta to finish it off. As she does, the memory starts to play in her mind once again, as if an assistant director on a movie set were fiercely wielding the clapboard and calling out, Biggest fuckup so far—take 119.

Okay, so let’s go with the pale-yellow shirt, the turquoise pendant and bracelet, and add the men’s chapeau for a campy feel, Abby says to Heather, her best friend since ninth grade, as she throws the items her way across the bed.

Got it. I love that combo. You are so good at this, Abby, Heather says with a thumbs-up.

"Merci, mon amie."

Heather puts them on in front of the mirror, and Abby jumps back to look at her more closely.

Why don’t you do this? Heather asks.

Do what?

Dress yourself up and post photos? You’re the one with the style sense. I’m beginning to feel like you only want me for my body. Heather laughs.

Well, you do have a killer bod. We both know that, and I would be stupid not to want it.

Really?

Well, yeah. I mean, your life is so much easier because of the body you have.

How so? Heather says.

Well, because you’re skinny and petite. That’s like winning life’s lottery ticket.

"What are you talking about, ‘life’s lottery

Reviews for Plus-Size in Paris

[Tory Kunkle · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fun easy read that is a fish out of water story. The lead character has moxy and wits. Enjoyed following along to see how her story ended. The author has a clear point of view on Paris and all it has to offer for anyone.