chapter 25

Only for a few minutes, though - because here comes an actual crew member, with a name badge and a walkietalkie, beckoning her to follow along after taking one apprehensive look at her, at waist-level, then turning and leading the way as if he couldn't stand to look into the sun too long. Is she really that bad? Following along, she glances down at herself, sees two puffy legs swinging forward and back, one at a time, from underneath the mound of her stomach which she can feel bouncing around, the fabric of her shirt plastered around its shape.

Through a door, into the studio proper, guided over lines marked with white tape on the floor, past cameras crowding in around two plush red armchairs. One of which she is directed to.

Well, here is she who must be the Interviewer. She introduces herself as Patricia Geli; a woman about thirty years old, any wrinkles masked over with makeup, strawberry hair up in a smooth professional bun, a felt coat the colour of burgundy neatly buttoned at a waist moderate in width. Together they do a brief run-through, practicing this and that. Lasts for only a six or so minutes, each minute ticking a new dose of pressure into Melissa's stomach. Hang on a second, is she inf...

Before she can even complete her own thought, the director comes in, yells orders, shocking everyone into action. Melissa is told to get out her seat to wait for the cameras to roll. To stand up, she has to tense her abdominal muscles, which compresses an absurd amount of bloating - ahh fuck! her diaphragm locks up, punched back into itself by the volume of slop inside her - what the hell, she never ate that much!... Melissa is finally able to stand straight and breathe again after being so severely winded. She retreats behind the marked line, with more momentum than she planned too, her centre of gravity having curiously shifted to the center of her gut. So she stands around. Waits for direction.

...And go...

As she bends over to sit down, all she can feel is the waistband slicing into her like a wire.

On the TV screen, in pixel-image, one sees a crease between the brows of she who must be Melissa van Meyer, and a faint tension in her lips signifying serious discomfort. She's sitting down, now, facing just past the camera, visibly having to breathe in her chest, any further expansion of her diaphragm ruled out of the equation - and anyone with eyes can see why. Because, grazing the bottom of the frame is the over-spill of a seriously oval shaped paunch, floral fabric straining into very tight folds in the places you'd most expect. All else that shows is the coin sized, concave shadow of a navel which looks deep enough to slip a marble into. Keep going, young woman, and you'll start losing them in there, soon enough.

Soon, without even thinking about it, the first few questions have been asked and answered. But every question and every answer given is like another breath of air into a balloon - but it's her own gut, slowly growing in response. A tightness keeps constricting harder and harder around her hips. Her lower intestines feel strangled, sick. My god... is she, what, expanding?! Hoping her eyes don't give anything away to the camera, she tests sucking in - gets a rip of pain through her abdomen instead, flinches. As casually as she can act, she shifts in her chair and lets a hand come to rest on her lap just beside her stomach so she can monitor the action down there by feeling any change if it does occur.

Which it does, soon enough.

As she answers a question about her writing methods, she swears she can notice a gradual shift outwards where her hand brushes the underside of her stomach. Panic threatens to surge up and set her jittering. Already, her hands are beginning to go weak with memory of a similar situation just one year ago... dressing room ... minutes of waiting ... dark black curtain ... stage ... lights, very exposed, hundreds of eyes ...

But then, chasing hard on the tail-end of rising panic comes laughing courage, screaming up in warmth and love to bolster her into the ability to do whatever the fuck she wants, ever - she almost grins. And remembers what she'd decided on, in the dressing room: The Power to Shock. An authorly duty, manifest. So, getting all zesty and testy, what else does Melissa dare to do but make the conscious effort not to suck in. Poof, out goes her stomach that tiny bit more, the throbbing deep in her gut easing up. Hell, as a matter of fact, she even shuffles further back and leans forward a bit so that the waistband of her leggings chokes even deeper into fold of her stomach, swelling out further now, muffin top bunched up, grossly obvious.

And she knows it's obvious, because the interviewer has started glancing at Melissa's waist in intervals of slipped concentration, which are getting more and more frequent. Answering another question, Melissa can see the plain disgust creeping onto Geli's face. All the viewers at home, pairs of eyes just like you or I, sit at home before screens witnessing the rising simmer of awkwardness. Soon the interviewer will say something snarky - she has to... Kai meanwhile, back at the apartment, is watching Melissa sit there in the worst fitted clothes he's ever seen, both incredibly horny and laughing his ass off at the same time.

And here it comes; the boiling point. A question which was never on the list, never planned. A post-interview transcript in a day's time would read something like this...

Patricia Geli: So, just going back now to your earlier point about how it all started. You mentioned there were times you doubted progress?

Melissa Van Meyer: That's right. At times I wondered if what I was doing was really worth anything. If there was any real reason to do it.

PG: Anything in particular?

MVM: It was strongest with my first novella, less so with what I've written since. But a lot of it was when I was researching, digging up information and facts that weren't going towards an essay. I mean, I was being marked, sure, but... Also when I had to sit down and really think about things and get myself into the headspace of non existent people. That really makes you wonder, sometimes, what am I doing?

PG (with a glance at the young author's unflattering rolls): Whatever your doubts, you seem to have done it quite well. Common opinion points to that. What were some of the things you did to write such lucid characters?

MVM: Like any other writer will tell you; we watch people. Try to figure them out. Once we feel we're good enough at this, we can try and create our own fictional people, and try to figure them out. Say for example, with Charlene, in my first novella. That's what I did with her. I tried to figure her out.

PG (with another glance, lingering somewhat distastefully this time): Word is that you, in a sense... did some method acting.

MVM: That's right.

PG: Could you tell us more?

MVM (hang on, this wasn't in the prep papers, was it?): About my, what, my methods?

PG: Indeed. It's no secret, of course, that you gained a... substantial amount of weight as you wrote your first novella. You've said in the past that this was a kind of method acting. Could you tell us more about that?

MVM (is she blushing, there?): Well. Yes. That's right. I did put on a lot of weight.

PG (looking pointedly this time): And you haven't thought about losing it?

MVM (using this underhand insult as something like fuel to launch her into a verbose speel about social pressure): Look. Simply, no. I don't know if this'll be cut from the interview or not, but, no.

PG: Oh. Why n-

MVM: I'll tell you why...