Page 5 of Midnight Kisses

I’d beensocareful to show myself accurately in the portfolio of images I’d submitted to Momentum. My worst nightmare was catfishing someone into thinking I was thin. It was the same on dating apps, I wanted people to knowexactlywhat I looked like—I uploaded images that clearly showed my double chin andround figure. Momentum had only asked for head and shoulders pictures, but maybe I should have included some full body shots?

I couldn’t help castigating myself for not doing more to avoid this horrible, sticky feeling. Maybe if I’d prepared better, if I’d anticipated this, I could have spared myself.

My smile, the carbon copy of Ginger's, felt wrong on my face, but I held it there for the duration of the briefing. I kept smiling even as all the other model-waitstaff were given a uniform. When Ginger handed me a medium t-shirt with aMomentum Eventslogo on the breast, I pretended to hold it up to see if it fit. I already knew I’d be lucky to get half a boob in there. Eventually, Ginger figured that out too, and asked if I could bring something of my own from home to wear.

“Anything in particular?” I said politely.

“Just black.” She tossed her pale hair. “Anything that’s black.”

We, the staff-to-be, swapped chatter for a while. I made sure to keep smiling even when a few of the other staff swapped complaints about their 'unflattering' uniforms right in front of me. First, flattering was just a socially-acceptable word for skinny, and secondly, what they werereallysaying was that it would be their worst nightmare to look like me.

I tried not to let stuff like this bother me anymore because it was a fact of my fat life, but sometimes when I was caught off guard, thoughtlessness could still prickle.

I kept my twitchy smile in place until I was back in my little white car. Driving home, I refused to let myself cry again. One sob session per day was more than enough—any more would be bad for my skin. Instead, I blasted emo music from 2005 the whole thirty-minute drive, nodding along with the thrashing beat. It made me giggle when people in traffic next to me did adouble take—my blonde hair and cherubic cheeks didn’t exactly shoutgoth babe.

Back home, I cooked some salmon and green beans with lemon for an early dinner and Googled what kind of things people needed in washrooms at fancy events. “Jackpot,” I muttered when I landed on a wedding planning blog which had a list of useful things to make available for guests in the bathroom.

Ginger had assured me that my job wasn’t the same as a cleaner, the venue already had cleaners. I was supposed to hold open doors and give people wash towels, plus be ready for any of the usual bathroom emergencies that could happen at fancy events: torn stockings, mussed hairdos, smeared lipstick, stained dresses... she’d suggested I might want to bring a few things in preparation and if I brought her the receipts, she would reimburse me.

Bold of her to assume my card wouldn’t decline; and I had to wonder why her company, which was being paid a lot to host this event, hadn’t done this. But as my mum would say, ‘being annoyed won’t pave the path’, so I put it out of my mind, sourced what I could from home, and made a quick trip to the supermarket for things I couldn’t find.

Across my duvet I spread a small sewing kit, spare nylons, hair clips, aerosols of all kinds (anti-odour, flyaways, static) and bandaids, bobby pins, safety pins, lotion, tissues, stain remover, lint strips, mints and antacids. I’d also added menstrual products, period pain relief, and a hand sanitiser that smelled vile and felt viscous.

After some consideration, I pulled open my top drawer and studied the rows of navy-blue frosted glass bottles with their prettyPSlabels. I chose my lavender room spritz for atmosphere, my facial spray with rosewater for cooling flushed skin, my all-purpose balm with kawakawa, and my fixing spray that held makeup in place without drying. And, of course, mystar product, the Perry Skin hand cream. This was the first formula I perfected, and I never left home without it. Say what you will, but in my personal opinion, dry hands were a fate worse than death.

I tipped out the plastic toolbox I kept all of my branded packaging in and packed everything neatly.

My flatmate Tala was also attending this party, but as a guest. I was optimistic on her account—Tala was about to be made redundant but had tickets to tonight’s event included in her severance package. It was an excellent opportunity for her to mingle among her peers in the media industry.

Ginger wanted all staff back at the venue by five, which was too early for Tala to head in, but my shift was due to finish at midnight so I could give her a ride home afterwards to save her the astronomical fare of a rideshare at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Finally, all that was left to do was find an outfit. But studying every black t-shirt and black pants combo I had, I felt uninspired.

‘Anything that’s black’, Ginger had said.

Reaching deeper into my closet, I felt for the familiar softness of my trusty black body-con dress. Designed by a celebrity with a shapewear obsession who was no doubt making clothes with thin bodies in mind, but her clothes came in extended sizing and looked divine on my thick body. The ribbed stretch fabric was soft and buttery, skimming over my curves and emphasising the delectable curve of my belly.

It didn’t matter if I didn’t have a glamorous job at the fancy party, I was a glamorous girl and nothing could stop that fact fromfact-ing.

Spirits renewed, I was reaching for my keys when I thought of something important.

“Tala?” I leaned in the doorway to our lounge. “Can I use your printer?”

“Go for it.” She was on the couch watching Derry Girls, the one with the hot poetry teacher. When she turned to look at me, I saw she’d slathered on one of my facemasks, which made me smile.

“If it jams, hit it on the left side.”

It didn’t jam, so I was able to print a hasty sign before driving back into the centre of the city.

The Sky Tower was one of Aotearoa, New Zealand’s most iconic built landmarks. I'd only ever visited on school trips before, but I remembered Toby Walker jumping up and down on the glass floor of the viewing deck, trying to scare us that it was going to break. This was the tallest building in the country—which was not a competitive field, given the whole country was on a faultline and most buildings were under ten stories.

Not that earthquakes were the main problem in Tamaki-makau-rau, Auckland, where I lived. We had other problems. The entire city straddled a volcanic field, so it was more logical to fear getting blown into the sky than sinking into the earth. My mum was a volcanologist before she retired, so I knew more than was normal about volcanic fields and caldera volcanoes, like the one under the famous lake three hours south of here.

But it wasn’t a good idea to think about natural disasters before taking a lift over 200 metres into the sky.

Traffic was bad, but I'd factored in time for that so I was still the first staff member to arrive at the Sky Tower. I strolled around the circular observation deck where the party would be held. It felt like being inside a pool doughnut, but more fun. Windows lined the entire circle, offering 360 degrees views over Auckland. I stood for five minutes and watched the sun sink deeper into the sky. While guests were watching it dip below the skyline, I’d be staring at sinks and toilet doors.

But I shouldn’t mope. I was glad to have this job. I needed every penny I could get for Perry Skin.

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