ARISING

By Anne Hosansky

ARISING tells Abby's story as she fights to survive in a 1970's weight loss company.
Desperate for money and a new life after her husband's death, she gets a job as editor for Dieters United. But ambition meets reality when the solely male executives push her down as she tries to climb the corporate ladder. Despite being warned by the CEO that men don't like "assertive females," Abby wages a one-woman campaign for equal power.

At the same time, she's trying to jumpstart life as a single woman in her forties. She falls for an egotistical artist who's only interested in getting her into bed, then pursues a man she can't get into bed. She takes secret revenge by writing feminist parodies of children's tales (a Jill who doesn't tumble after Jack).

Abby's attempts to make her editing job more important are frustrated by the CEO's resentment of her growing independence. His racism vetoes her interview with the company's sole Black lecturer. Enraged, Abby wants to leave.but is afraid to without the safety net of another job, plus the hurdle of ageism.

Inspired by her friendship with a woman who shows her what it means to be strong, Abby faces her major challenge: does she have the courage to become her own woman in both board room and bedroom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350902761

Book preview

1

1974

The ad leaps out at her. Writer for new weight—loss company.

A whole company just to get rid of some pounds? Abby asks. I’ve lost more important things.

Nobody here to answer, better get used to that.

She taps her pencil against the newspaper, debating. But there’s nothing hopeful in the Females column and the bills piled on the desk are staring at her.

You don’t give me any choice, she tells them, circling the ad.

Her letter brings a phone call with a surprising question: How’s your weight?

Okay for normal purposes. I hope this woman has a sense of humor.

But the crisp voice just says,Come for an interview Monday morning. Nine sharp. Bring samples of your work. Ask for Miss Franklin.

What do you wear for an interview these days? She takes her best suit out of the closet. A respectable black. Trying it on, Abby sees a woman in the mirror she barely remembers. She hasn’t worn this since the funeral.

The offices are in a Manhattan skyscraper. She’s afraid of heights, what if there’s a fire? But the elevator releases her safely on the 22nd floor. Large gilt letters proclaim DIETERS UNITED above a montage of obese people on the march.

The reception area is an intimidating mix of glass, chrome and leather chairs. The young woman behind the desk informs her that Miss Franklin isn’t available yet. Waiting, Abby tries to remember the speech she had rehearsed, but her mind’s going in circles. If only she had more samples, if only they were more impressive, if only she were younger. She had omitted her age in her letter. Do they hire women past forty?

She studies the blown-up photos on the walls. Before and After shots, mostly women. The Befores face forward in clothes that accentuate their bulk. Afters wear flattering clothes, figures turned at a slimming three-quarter angle. She recognizes the technique, Paul used it in fashion brochures.

By the time Miss Franklin is available it’s almost ten. So much for nine sharp, she could have had that second cup of coffee.

Clutching her portfolio she’s directed to an office that’s all gray: walls, carpet, chairs. The gaunt woman behind the desk matches the décor: short gray hair, gray suit. Removing her glasses she looks Abby over. You should lose ten pounds.

That’s what I call a welcome. But she’s being gestured to a chair by the desk.

Your resume doesn’t include much experience, Miss Franklin says. However I’m interested in your having written magazine articles. Did you bring samples?

A few, Abby says, fumbling in her portfolio.

"We are looking for a writer who can create marketing materials. Have you written articles about dieting?‘

I wrote one about teenagers trying to lose weight.

Our clients tend to be older than adolescents.

I’m a fast learner and. . . .

You may leave those samples with me.

Thank you, she says, handing over the meager papers. Miss Franklin, she adds. The book she’d bought advised saying the interviewer’s name several times. It also advised commenting on something personal in the office. Miss Franklin’s desk is bare of anything personal, but on the windowsill there’s a row of miniature wooden animals.

What charming little cows.

They’re pigs.

Pigs! I’m a city girl so my knowledge of farm…

I bought them in Mexico.

Mexico! One of my favorite places. Memory is stabbing her, the four days she and Paul had in Acapulco.

She tries to smile at Miss Franklin, but sunlight from the window makes it hard to see. Squinting, she makes out the lapel pin, a silver circle enclosing the number 24.

What a lovely pin. Is the 24th your birthday?

That’s the number of pounds I lost.

How wonderful. You’d look less witchy if you had some padding.

Our employees are required to weigh in on Monday mornings. If you have any problem with that, let me know now.

Yes. I mean, no. I don’t have a problem.

If we like your writing we’ll call you for another interview. However, I must tell you that I have several other people to see.

I understand. Thank you. Miss Franklin.

She picks up her purse—upside down. Lipstick, mascara, comb and tissues go flying over the carpet.

Sorry, she mumbles. Kneeling—there goes my pantyhose—she grabs her things. There goes the job, too.

Shoving everything into her purse, she stands up. I’d just like to say…

I’m afraid I don’t have more time this morning.

I’m sure you’d find I’m a hard worker (rapid delivery borrowed from a Katharine Hepburn movie ) and I have a real appetite for learning.

Appetite? Is that meant to be a pun?

What gets me brownie points? Yes. Humor would spice up brochures, don’t you agree? Just a dash to hold readers’ interest.

Miss Franklin hesitates. That might be a new approach.

Dieters United was founded by the CEO of a pasta company. Mr. Portman had been portly indeed, Abby thinks, looking at his portrait in a place of honor on the wall when she’s called back for a second interview.

Is there an after of him? she asks the receptionist.

That is his after, honey. He doesn’t have to be thin, he’s rich.

Miss Franklin has a test assignment. We need a slogan. It should have the company name in it. See what you can come up with in an hour.

Seated at a desk in the middle of a busy aisle, Abby stares at the typewriter.

Panic’s at high tide. She has to get this job. No safety net without Paul’s salary.

After precisely one hour she’s summoned to Miss Franklin’s office.

I have something I think you’ll like, Abby says. Dieters United Slenderize Together.

I don’t think….

Think of the initials—D, U, S, T. Dust off those pounds! Those letters could be on all the brochures. Do I sound as if I know what I’m talking about?

The verdict hangs in the air. A moment, three. . . .

I’ll run it past Mr. Portman.

She’s hired on a trial basis, Miss Franklin tells her, phoning two days later. Be here Monday morning nine sharp, so you can weigh in.

There’s no editorial department she’s informed when she arrives, so they’re putting her in Marketing. You have a private office, Miss Franklin announces. The private office has glass walls, in a row of identical cubicles.

Glass walls were our controller’s idea, Miss Franklin says. This way we can keep an eye on everybody.

A girl can’t even pull up her pantyhose in private around here. Abby considers running that past Miss Franklin, but the woman doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.

The office is barely large enough for a desk, two chairs and a file cabinet. No window.

Not even a door, everyone could walk right in.

It’s Goldfish Row, she thinks later, walking past the other fish bowls. It strikes her that it isn’t possible to see what someone’s typing. Why not take a chance? Lunch time, when no one’s around. She needs something to laugh about.

This little pig went to Marketing

This little pig stayed home and ate

And this little pig

Someone’s watching! She knows before she looks up. She yanks the paper out of the typewriter, but it’s too late. He’s walking in, a heavy man, coat folded over his arm, aroma of tobacco mixed with pungent cologne. His face is too familiar.

You seem quite busy, he says.

Yes, Mr. Portman. Did he see what I was typing?

You recognize me, he says, taking possession of the other chair. It makes the office feel claustrophobic.

Yes, from…. She’s starting to say his picture looming over the reception area. I’ve seen your photo in newspapers.

So you’re Abby. He laughs at her surprise.I keep close tabs on my employees. Very close tabs.

I’m sure you do, sir.

Miss Franklin tells me you’ve written some articles. I’m thinking you could write some about me. That dame who started Weight Watchers gets herself a ton of publicity. We’ll double that, right?

Right. I mean yes, sir.

We wouldn’t pay extra for these, of course. It would be part of your duties.

Of course.

However, there’s always the possibility of a bonus at Christmas.

He stands up, a giant in the small cubicle.

About that nursery rhyme. I’d do that sort of thing on my own time, if I were you.

She can feel her face burning. But he’s left. She watches him stride down the aisle, swinging his coat as if he’s sweeping everyone out of the way.

She waits three minutes, then tears up the pigs.

The pigs on the windowsill run in and out of her dreams all night. Those four days in Acapulco.

Half a honeymoon, Paul said, apologizing for having to rush home for an assignment. I owe you the other half.

They never went back.

2

They had met on a train. As romantic, she thinks now, as the MGM musicals of those days. It was 1946, the war had ended. A lot of men were still in uniform, but he was wearing a rumpled business suit, carrying a large art portfolio.

Mind if I sit here? The first words she heard from him. He was standing next to the seat beside her. She had put her purse and jacket there, hoping no one would claim the seat and she could curl up and sleep. Reluctantly she pulled her things away to make room for him.

How easily they might never have met. What if he had taken an earlier train, a later one, gone into a different car? What if the seat beside her had been taken? What if one of them had decided to fly (not too easy before jet planes). All the if’s that crisscross life, taking you somewhere you never expected, unlike the train on its predictable route.

She was next to the window and kept staring out, queasy from the cocktail party at the conference the night before. That kind of scene always had her drinking too much because she was uncomfortable talking to people whose gaze kept shifting, looking for someone more important. Now she had to keep going to the bathroom.

It was embarrassing to have to ask this man sitting beside her if she could get past him.

It gives me a chance to stretch my legs, he said, getting up.

You’d be better off if we switched seats, she said on her second trip.

Not at all. I enjoy the way you keep looking out the window even though it’s getting too dark to see.

She was blushing, she knew, because her face felt hot.

I’m fascinated by the scenes I glimpse in those windows, like miniature stage sets.

What a stupid remark, she thought, but he just smiled as though he understood.

What do you do besides look in windows?

He wasn’t being sarcastic, she realized, just teasing.

I confess to being a writer. Still not used to telling anyone that, hearing her mother’s warning not to show off. But he was asking what she’d written.

Some magazine articles. One book. I’m sure you never heard of it, not many people have. She was chattering on, she who always avoided talking to strangers.

What do you do? she asked.

I confess to being an artist. Commercial variety. Though at the moment, I’m the proverbial starving artist. Like to join me in the dining car?

She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Well, why not accept the invitation, he could hardly do her harm on a train. Besides, he didn’t look like any Lothario. Glasses, too thin.

Dutch treat, she said, aware how prim she sounded.

Of course, he said, steadying her arm in the rocking aisle. By the way, I’m Paul.

She hesitated. Abigail.

She can’t remember most of what they talked about. How could she have lost that? She does remember asking if he’d been in the war. No, he told her, poor eyesight had kept him out. He hated war, but was ashamed that he had been home while his friends were in the army, risking their lives.

She fumbled for words, but he waved them away.

Tell me about you, he said. She noticed he was looking at her left hand.

I’m not married, she blurted out. But at almost twenty-two wasn’t she supposed to be married, like the girls she’d gone to school with? If you didn’t have an engagement ring by your senior year, you were a failure. I’ve been busy with my career. A convenient alibi.

Sounds interesting, Abigail.

Actually—was it the wine or his smile?—my friends call me Abby.

Abby, he echoed, something unspoken agreed between them.

She liked the way he said her name, with a midwestern accent. Wisconsin, he said when asked. ‘Jewel of the midwest,’ they call it. I escaped to New York.

Back in their seats he said, I’ll try to get some sleep. See you in the morning.

She was unable to sleep, listening to his breathing, his light snores. He slumped nearer, his arm against her. The sleeve of his jacket pulled up, revealing light hairs curling on his wrist. She felt as if she were in bed with him.

The train pulled in before dawn. They looked at each other groggily. She was sure she looked a mess, makeup streaked.

I’d invite you for breakfast, he said, but I have to get to the office. He gave her his card, asked for hers. Perhaps we can meet again sometime.

Who knows? The words came out flippant, not matching the feeling.

He must have felt the same way, because even as she put the key in her apartment door the phone was already ringing.

STOP! That’s not the way it happened. You exchanged cards. Brief Encounter. Strangers On A Train. He did not call.

Five weeks later she was standing on a rainy corner waiting for a bus. Taking out her wallet she saw a card. There was a phone booth near her. She tossed a nickel.

Heads I call, tails I don’t. It came up tails. She called anyway. Would a woman answer?

A voice she recognized said, Paul here.

You probably don’t remember me, she stammered, watching her bus leave. We met on a train last month. We had dinner together and… well, it’s me.

Hello me, he said. Where are you?

Waiting for him in the café he’d suggested, she wanted to run out, sure this was a mistake. What had she been thinking, some strange man in a train?

She saw him come through the door, his shy smile when he recognized her.

She knew with clarity she’d never had about anything that she would love him.

He was the first man she had sex with. Before that there had been boys who fumbled in the back seat of their fathers’ cars. Even just petting she’d been awash in guilt. Good girls didn’t. But with Paul sex felt inevitable, as though in his arms she was where she belonged. He told her every day that he loved her. She was afraid to trust this gift. What if his office transferred him to another city? What if he was struck by a car, by lightning? What if. . .?

I’ll never leave you, he promised.

At their wedding he asked the accordionist to play Always.

No one warned you there is no always.

3

DIETERS UNITED features a personal approach, each client meeting privately with a guide. Abby’s informed that she’s to observe a session.

Won’t I make the person self-conscious? she asks Miss Franklin.

She—most of our clients are women—won’t know you’re there. You’ll be watching from the next room through a one-way window.

The young woman who comes into the session looks about forty pounds overweight. She’s wearing pants that stretch too tightly across her ample hips.

Welcome, says the very thin guide.I’m Gilda.

Abby stifles a laugh. Gilda, the Rita Hayworth temptress! Is that how the guides see themselves?

Beth, the woman mumbles, as if she can barely get the word out.

They sit facing each other. Beth shifts uncomfortably, looking around.

Well, Beth, Gilda says, it seems you have a problem with overeating. Tell me about it. What do you eat too much of? ‘Frankensteins’ we call those foods. And when are your worst grabbing times?

At night, Beth whispers. I’m alone then because my husband’s away so much. I lie on the couch eating and watching TV just to hear voices, the house is so lonely.

Abby pulls back so abruptly she hits the wall. Beth looks up, startled.

There’s construction going on in the building, Gilda says. Now about your eating pattern. . . .

Abby’s stopped listening. She’s seeing herself at night, gobbling stale potato chips, drinking cheap wine, anything to fill the emptiness.

So you eat to comfort yourself, Gilda says.

Beth sobs, dabbing a tissue over her face.

And the more you eat, the less attractive you feel, Gilda prompts.

Yes, Beth cries. My husband’s disgusted with the way I look.

Gilda’s taking out a mimeographed sheet. Here’s a list of foods it’s safe to nibble on. Carrots may not be as tempting as Famous Amos cookies, but think of the dessert—a happier marriage.

Don’t tell her that, Abby wants to say. It’s not that simple.

Were all marriages multi-colored strands? Loved Paul’s sensitivity, his brilliance, his unwavering love. Hated the business trips that took him away from her, the nights when the house was empty, the times he came back with an expensive gift that made her wonder, never daring to ask.

Easier to remember the trivial .The way he left closet doors open, the stained coffee cups in the sink. She tries remembering that, as if rage could barricade her from grief.

I miss you, she hurled into the wine-soaked darkness one night, but I don’t miss the way you scattered papers around the house.

She waited for Paul to laugh. But there was only the unending silence.

She’s told to interview Beth. We want you to do a series about her for the newspapers, Miss Franklin says. A before, during and after. I’ll sit in on the first interview.

The three of them sit at a long conference table, Abby beside Beth. Miss Franklin observing them from the other end of the table.

Tell me something about yourself, Beth, Abby says, since I don’t know anything about you. Her first company lie, she thinks, seeing Miss Franklin nod.

Beth looks down at the table, tracing an invisible pattern with a bitten fingernail.

I’m not very interesting.

This is where it begins, Abby thinks. I don’t count—therefore I eat or drink or write inane versions of fairy tales. That’s what she’s been doing lately. She can’t seem to write stories anymore, as though whatever talent she had vanished with Paul. All she can do is make up cynical versions of childhood tales, putting those cardboard characters into a world as bleak as her own.

Back in her office she reads her sparse notes. But Beth doesn’t seem to inspire anything.

Looking through the glass wall she sees that the aisle is empty. Why not take a chance?

She rolls a sheet of paper into the typewriter, hoping Portman won’t materialize again.

The fairy godmother told Cinderella, I’m going to give you a gorgeous gown. You’ll dazzle the prince.

But the gown didn’t fit! Cinderella had eaten 100 cookies because she’d been so depressed about not being invited