Deborah Blumenthal - Fat Chance

“Food and men are two of Maggie O’Leary’s favorite pastimes…. To snag her star, she ignores her own antidieting dictates and sheds the pounds but eventually finds that you can get a man and eat your cake, too.”

—People, Spring’s Best Chick Lit, 2004

“Light as a cupcake and as fun to devour, Blumenthal’s debut novel (and Red Dress Ink’s second hardcover) will likely find many fans.”

—Booklist

“Maggie is likable throughout the story line, but especially when she tries to live life to the fullest without concern to her size, and the support cast adds insight into what makes Maggie tick. To learn whether she got her hunk—read the book.”

—Harriet Klausner on reviewcentre.com

“Deborah Blumenthal’s deliciously amusing novel offers a refreshing chick-lit twist: a heroine who embraces with gusto her inner—and generously proportioned outer—food-loving self. Zaftig Maggie O’Leary happily devours barbecued ribs rather than obsessing about whether her own will be visible to the naked eye—and builds a high-profile career encouraging fellow females to do the same. Fat Chance is as much sparkling, laid-back fun as good champagne sipped from a bottle!”

—Wendy Markham, author of Slightly Single and Slightly Settled

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There are several people that I would like to thank for making this book possible: Claudia Cross, my agent at Sterling Lord, for her quick and spirited response to the book, and Sarah Walsh, her assistant, for handling business so quickly and efficiently, even when computer glitches threw themselves in our path. Renni Browne and Mary Costello are writing teachers extraordinaire, and I thank them both for their vision. My editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, deserves special thanks for being such a hearty supporter of the book from the start. She is a joy to work with. She is gracious, elegant, supportive, sensitive and always available. I would also like to offer deep-felt gratitude to Margaret Marbury and her associates at Red Dress Ink for their unswerving enthusiasm.

My husband, Ralph, my best friend and mentor, is always having drafts of my work dropped on him and, as ever, I am eternally grateful for all his guidance. Our daughter, Annie, is also a faithful reader and editor as well as an overall great kid, and much love and appreciation goes to her for her unflagging support. Our younger daughter, Sophie, also deserves thanks and love for putting up with seeing my back at the computer for as many years as she has been with us. Thanks to Connie Christopher for offering her wise counsel. To all my other friends and family who have been willing to listen to the whining all these years, thanks for staying on the line.

To Ralph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Chewing the Fat

How could I forget the way it started? We chewed the fat—on our filet mignons that were charred to blackened perfection outside, bloodred inside, topped with a pebbly crust of crushed green peppercorns. We were having lunch at Gallagher’s, Bill’s favorite steak restaurant, and the more excited he got about the idea, the more he waved his fork through the air like a conductor’s baton, never mind that the end of it held a wedge of baked potato enveloped in sour cream that I feared he might inadvertently fling down on my head.

“The entire planet is fat, Maggie,” Bill said, shaking his head. “Between 1991 and 1998 alone, the incidence of obesity almost doubled, and you know better than I do that the only people who benefit from bestselling diet books are the people who publish them.” I opened my mouth to answer, but he went on.

“So here’s my thought,” he said, pausing just long enough to reach for the salt sticks. “Why not cover it in a regular space? But not the pap weight loss stuff—”

“A counterculture perspective,” I said, finishing Bill’s sentence.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he said, the fork alighting once again, this time precariously freighted with a dollop of creamed spinach. “Your audience is bigger than ever—one out of every four adults is fat—and they’re crying out for compassion.”

“Bill, it’s time for someone in the media to stand up and offer America an alternative vision about their overweight: ‘Live with it and love it.’” I could almost hear the first stirring strains of “America the Beautiful.”

“Exactly! You’ll be their counselor, Maggie, you’re perfect for the job.”

I put down my fork and pressed my hand to my fluttering heart, as if to recite the pledge. “I’m speechless, Bill, it’s brilliant. I’m behind it a hundred percent.”

“We’ll move you into a new office,” he said with mounting excitement, “and you’ll have carte blanche to indulge yourself at the city’s finest restaurants.”

With a fine stroke of the knife, I teased off a sliver of beef. “I can’t wait to get my teeth into it.”

Within a week of my lunch with the managing editor, my column was announced in the paper, and from then on my wit and wisdom sparked nationwide attention, leading not only to an outpouring of calls and letters from desperate readers, but also radio and TV interviews, and speaking engagements. In January, just nine months later, yours truly’s face adorned the cover of People with the headline, The New Face of Fat: Is Maggie O’Leary America’s Anti-Diet Sweetheart?

“Fat Chance” was launched, and I was becoming a rising media star. And readers? Well, they were eating up my words.

Five minutes to deadline and adrenaline surges through my gut. Eyes on the screen, I pound the keys with my usual vigor, stopping only to sip my Rhumba Frappuccino Venti—Starbucks’ malted-rich, soda-fountain-sized coffee drink that tamps down a leaning tower of reader mail. A perfect marriage with the cinnamon-dusted apple pie from the Little Pie Company down the street. Mmmm… Nobody could beat their pie crust. And they got the chunky consistency of the apples just right. Texture. That’s what perfect apple pie is all about. I turn back to the computer, dropping a few flakes of crust between the keys. The phone rings.

“I’M FED UP, YOU HEAR ME?”

I jerk the phone arm’s length from my ear, but the voice rockets. “I CAN’T LOOK AT MYSELF ANYMORE. I’M FAT AND—”

“Wait, please I—”

“I’M DESPERATE…NO ONE UNDERSTANDS…”

“I do, but—”