All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble
crossed one skinny leg over the other. Jen had that polished look I was striving for but couldn’t quite pull off. If you weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds and squeezed into a midthigh skirt and three-inch stilettos, you looked like a hooker. You got lots of attention but for all the wrong reasons.
“Do you know someone who might be interested?” Jen asked, “I could make the apartment available immediately. I’m spending more and more time at Tre’s place and an empty apartment isn’t a good thing.”
She’d confirmed they were more or less living together. Opportunity only knocked once. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
“I might be interested.”
“You?”
Jen sounded like she didn’t think I was serious.
I explained what had happened with my landlady.
“Hmm,” she said, stroking her chin. “But what would you do with all of your stuff?”
“Put it in storage. It would only be for a couple of months. I don’t even know if I can afford the rent.” I played my ace card. “There is a plus to having me live there.”
“And what is that?”
“Being that I’m officially in the real estate business, and I know a lot of people, I could keep an eye out for a tenant. You’d be my very first client.”
“Hmm.”
All these “hmms” were beginning to annoy me. I might be a lowly peon at the Chronicle but I was well connected. Jen knew exactly who’d gotten me this job; Ian Pendergrass himself. She also knew I’d introduced her to a lot of important people.
“Could you manage to pay say six hundred dollars a month?” Jen asked. “That would be half of my mortgage. I’ll pick up the other half until you find me a tenant.”
“I could pay five,” I countered, crossing my fingers behind my back. Five hundred would be a steal for Jen’s two-bedroom water-view apartment, and I would be able to put aside a few hundred per month. She didn’t have to know the rattrap I lived in was costing me close to a thousand.
I’d slaved to make the place pretty. The toilets leaked and the pictures on the walls hid holes and flaking plaster. Even the partitions were thin. During the late hours you could hear the neighbors’ bedsprings squeak. I’m sparing you the graphics. You don’t want to know.
“Okay, we’ll agree on five.”
I squealed loudly and moved in to hug her.
The phone rang and we both reached for it.
“This is Dear Jenna,” Jen said in her professional voice. I was surprised when she handed the receiver to me.
“New boyfriend? He’s got a sexy voice.”
I wish.
“Hello, this is Chere,” I said, the elocution classes I attended one night a week finally kicking in. Plus I remembered the reprimand I’d received from Jen for saying, “Hey.”
“Just a reminder, tomorrow morning at seven. Don’t mess up.” It was Quen Abrahams again. I’d missed one session two weeks ago and trust me I’d heard about it. I’d needed my beauty sleep and I’d overslept.
I groaned. I’d forgotten all about making that appointment. Plus I didn’t have the extra sixty dollars to pay him even though he was giving me a break.
Quen was not only Flamingo Place’s health club manager and on-site nutritionist, but was doing me a favor personally training me.
“My legs are killing me. Every bone hurts,” I whined.
“It’ll get better,” Quen said in that voice that reminded me of nights when the temperature in Florida dipped into the fifties and you broke out the wine and Barry White. “Did you weigh in today?”
I grunted something. I’d totally forgotten.
I could feel Jen’s eyes on me and sensed the wheels turning. Everyone thought I was easy and had a string of men. They should only know what it took for me to sleep with a man. Courage. Ian and I hadn’t exactly slept together. The old geezer liked to look and touch.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the club then. Seven o’clock sharp, remember,” Quen said.
“I’ll be there.” I blew a kiss through the mouthpiece. “Love you, too.”
Under my breath I muttered, “slave driver,” and slammed down the phone.
Chapter 2
Crabby because I was still hungry, I clomped home and had a salad for dinner. I was starving. I stuck my head in the refrigerator, found a turkey leg in one of those Ziploc bags and yanked it out.
I zapped that leg in the microwave and quickly wolfed it down. Food never tasted so good. Afterward I sat down and made a list of what I needed to do to improve myself.
The phone rang just as I was thinking how much all this reinventing was going to cost.
“Talk to me,” I said, picking up the receiver.
“Chere?” Sheena, one of my girls greeted in her usual high-pitched squeak. She didn’t wait for me to acknowledge her but began babbling away. Meanwhile my stomach was still rumbling. I considered having another piece of turkey just to quiet things down.
“So did I hear right?” Sheena yakked. “Your boss is taking a stroll down the aisle with our favorite disk jockey?” That girl didn’t miss a thing.
“You heard right.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to talk about any wedding unless it was mine.
My short answers didn’t bother Sheena one bit. She was off and running. “What’s happening with your real estate? You selling any houses yet?”
“I just passed the test a week ago. Cut me some slack,” I said irritably. I wasn’t going to say one word about my two clients. That news would be all over town in a Flamingo Beach minute and I didn’t want to be jinxed.
“Then you must not have sold anything,” she said. Sheena could be a bitch at times. “I hear they’re looking for part time help selling or renting properties at Flamingo Place. Manny Varela is the property manager. You want me to put in a good word for you?”
“No, thanks. I know Manny. I can speak for myself.”
Sheena had been sleeping off and on with Manny for over a year. Sleeping with men that weren’t hers was Sheena’s favorite pastime. It was an ego thing. True, Manny with his jet-black hair, olive complexion and expensive designer suits wasn’t bad. But it was the Benz he drove that made him a catch.
“Well let me know if you change your mind,” Sheena said, “And call me the minute you hear something.” She hung up.
These next few months were going to be devoted to me. I planned on losing weight, getting my man and starting a new career, and not necessarily in that order. Earlier, I’d placed a big toe on the bathroom scale and was pleasantly surprised to see the number was lower. Growing braver, I’d given the scale my whole weight. I still had eighty-three pounds to go, but losing two pounds for me was a big deal and should be celebrated.
Over the years I’d pretty much convinced myself that being big worked for me. I hadn’t lacked admirers. What you don’t know is there’s a slew of “chubby chasers” out there; men who think being full figured is hot. They weren’t necessarily what I was looking for but what I got. My expectations were set way high. This year I’d made resolutions; one being to get Quen Abrahams.
Quen with the corded arms and strong thigh muscles also came with a degree and ambition, and he could string