Savanah's Swan Song (Part 19)

"Why don't we take a swim?"

When Savanah hesitated, Angelina quickly added, “Don’t worry.  The cove is completely private.  No one can get within a mile.”

“It’s not that,” Savanah said, lifting her duffel. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

The actress waved away the triviality.  “I’m sure I have a suit that’ll fit.  What are you, a size 12?”

Savanah laughed.  She didn’t mean to.  It just came out.  She was size four.  She’d been a size four her entire adult life.  An easy size four.  Even during Covid, when she and Chad ordered takeout every night, she remained a size four. 

Sure, her size fours didn’t fit right now, but that was a momentary blip on her life’s radar. But size 12?  That hefty number suggested less a blip than a blob.  She’d read somewhere that Marilyn Monroe had been a size 12 during her unhappy marriage to Arthur Miller and Savanah distinctly remembered thinking, what a heifer! 

Now that number was being applied to her.  Laughable.  

Angelina didn’t laugh.  She merely pointed up the stairs.  “Well, whatever it is, I’m certain I have it.  Go up to my bedroom.  First door on the right.  In the bottom drawer of my dresser are all the bathing suits I’ve retired.”  The celebrated movie star patted her well-padded paunch.  “I’m planning to unretire them at some point, but they might as well get some use in the meantime, right?”

“Sure,” Savanah shrugged.  “I’ll stretch their sea legs.”

Angelina laughed.  “Just don’t stretch them too much!”

Savanah laughed, too, but as she trudged up the stairs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Oscar-winning actress had just made a fat joke at her expense.

The upstairs was as nice as the down.  Formal and classy, but not oppressively so.  Rich wood floors and paneling with the occasional splash of modern art.  It was a bit surprising that all the wood in the home hadn’t swollen faster than the homeowner in the salty sea air, but--unlike the body of the homeowner--it had obviously been well-treated.  

Moments later, Savanah stood naked in said homeowner’s bedroom, rifling through their dresser in search of a bathing suit.  The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on the singer.  It evoked the surreal nightmares she would occasionally have when she was over-tired or over-stressed before the release of a new album or the start of a world tour.  The curtain would open on a vast uninhabited desert, or her voice would chirp like Kermit the Frog’s, or any number of embarrassing, career-killing vignettes played by the warped projectionist at the back of her subconscious.  She always awoke with a fevered jolt…but at least she could joke about them with Chad over coffee the next morning.  This time, however, her rude awakening was no laughing matter.  

Savanah knew better than to try the size 2 buried at the base of the drawer beneath the mountain of nylon and polyester, but she couldn’t resist the fashionable size 4 above it.  It didn’t fit.  Not even close.  Nor did the size 6.  Or the size 8.

The droning cadence of a cheer routine—like the ones she was supposed to perform with her Oscar-winning host on-screen—popped into her head.   

Two, four, six, eight, take a look who’s gained some weight!  Savanah!  Savanah!  Mooooo, Savanah!

Higher up the stack, the suits were less stylish and less worn, and labels from froufrou brands La Perla and La Blanca gave way to Lane Bryant and BloomChic.  The fact that Angelina Jolie shopped online for plus-sized swimwear might have been amusing had the first swimsuit to fit—barely—not been a Lane Bryant tankini with spaghetti straps.  The tag was still on it. 

Size 12.

Savanah briefly considered digging for a size 14.  She didn’t like the way the 12 clung to her belly and revealed a thick swath of pale flesh beneath its crest, but the search had already taken forever.  The urbane Angelina probably suspected her bumpkin guest was busily stuffing her duffel with souvenirs.  So, Savanah ripped off the tag and, not seeing a trash can, placed it on the dresser beside a framed photo of a tanned, skinny, and bikini-clad Angelina Jolie on the beach beside an equally slim and attractive redhead in a demure blue dress. 

Savanah thought it might be the woman laughing at the back of the plane in the photo Angelina had shown her downstairs, but she wasn’t certain. Regardless, the way whoever it was ogled her famous beach buddy’s cleavage suggested she wasn’t family but more than just a friend.

“Angelina?”  Savanah descended the stairs to find the living room empty.  “Ms. Jolie?” she asked again.  There was a sticky note stuck to the double doors leading to the backyard footpath.  Apparently, the actress had tired of waiting. 

Come to the cove.

A.J.

Savanah did as the note instructed and tip-toed out the door and down the path.  Fortunately for her bare feet, the trail was well-maintained and soft with sand, and, after winding through a smattering of coastal vegetation, it emerged into a pristine cove the size of a tennis court.  Its sand was so flat and smooth they probably could play tennis if they had a net and an inclination for exercise.  As it was, the cove’s only dimpled blemishes resided on the thighs of the obese woman splashing through the surf.

“You made it!” Angelina kicked through the foam and shuffled up the beach toward Savanah.  When she got close, she frowned.  “Is that one of mine?”

Savanah nodded.  “It still had the tag on it.  I hope that was Ok.”

“Of course!” Angelina gushed, her smile returning.  “I’m glad somebody’s finally getting some use out of it.  I was shooting up the size charts pretty fast back then.  What do folks in your industry call it?  ‘With a bullet’?”   

Savanah gave a tight-lipped smile.  If she kept shooting up the charts as fast as Angelina, she’d want that bullet for herself.

The actress padded around the singer, examining her from behind.  The latter stood up straighter as if being inspected by a drill sergeant. 

“It looks good!” Angelina concluded.  “Size 12, right?”

Savanah winced and nodded again. 

“I knew it!  It takes one to know one!”  When Savanah shot her a dubious glance, Angelina clarified, “Not that I’m a size 12 anymore.  I’m talking in general.  Being a bigger girl.”

Angelina went to adjust the hem of Savanah’s spandex swimsuit where a pyramid-shaped in-cut had folded under itself, but the singer slapped her hand away--

“I’m NOT a big girl.”

Angelina reared back, stunned, but quickly regained her composure.  “I see.  My mistake.”  Then she nodded toward Savanah’s belly.  “Can you even see your feet beneath that thing?”

Now, it was Savanah’s turn to be stunned. “Of course, I can…" Her voice trailed off before she could add, “See my feet," because she couldn’t.

Before Savanah could find her feet, Angelina spun her around and--to the plumpening pop star’s dismay--smacked her backside like a mother disciplining an unruly child. 

“There’s an even bigger bulge back here!”

“At least you won’t have to worry about putting suntan lotion on those shade-soaked tootsies.”

Savanah’s cheeks burned like she’d spent the entire day in the sun.  She lurched away and then pivoted, ready to unleash a volley of obscenities, but the pounding of her heart in her throat blocked the words. 

“Because if things keep going for you the way they went for me,” Angelina continued.  “You won’t be able to reach them.” 

Suddenly, the corpulent actress seemed defeated by her own verbal assault.  Her fierce expression turned mournful and her piercing blue eyes moistened.

Big girls don’t cry, Savanah thought, surprised to find the dusty song lyric swimming amidst the tsunami of emotions in her head.  Maybe it was Frankie Valli’s silly falsetto or the tragic look on her host’s still-beautiful face, but by the time Savanah finally found her voice, its vitriol had died away. 

“What happened?”

Angelina shook her head. 

“Does it have to do with the woman in the picture you showed me?  The same one you’re on the beach with in that photo in your bedroom.”

“Maggie,” Angelina sniffed.  “That’s another one I keep for motivation.”

“Who is she?”

Angelina stared out to sea as if searching for the answer to Savanah’s question somewhere on the horizon.  Then her face brightened as if she had found it, and she took off toward the shoreline. 

“Race you!” she shouted.

Savanah had no choice but to chase the waddling actress into the surf.