Weight Till Christmas Page 3

  I glance at the buffet and it’s all I can do not to drool. My stomach rumbles again, so to distract myself I have another class of champagne. Everyone knows champagne isn’t fattening. Kate Moss lives on the stuff and she’s the size of a sparrow. I glug the drink gratefully now I know it’s practically calorie free.

  “I can’t eat,” I explain to Sam, as we head back to the buffet table and he piles his plate high with potato skins, kettle chips and pizza. “This dress was way too tight already. I’m in agony!”

  He looks up from the very important business of stacking Pringles up on his paper plate.

  “So why didn’t you wear something more comfortable?”

  Sam’s so sweet and such a mate that I sometimes forget he is still a bloke.

  “Because it’s my best party outfit and this is a party,” I explain patiently. “I wanted to look my best.”

  “Ellie, you always look great,” he says loyally.

  “Mate, you need to get yourself to Specsavers,” I say, in surprise. What’s got into him? Sam isn’t usually one to comment on the appearance of anything that isn’t edible.

  He sighs. “Why can’t you take a compliment? You do look lovely. You’re Ickenham’s version of Isla Fisher.”

  Stealing a look at my reflection in the showroom window, I wince. Isla on a bad day maybe and if she’d lived on my mum’s macaroni cheese for a month! It’s sweet of Sam to be nice to me. Maybe I could get a refund on those Spanx? I don’t feel like Giselle at all, more like a load of slow drying cement poured into a dress. Vicky, currently draped all over Drake like a toga, is looking lithe and toned and amazing in something that’s little more than two hankies stitched together. Seriously. I don’t think it could even contain one of my sneezes.

  Life really isn’t fair.

  “You do always look great,” Sam insists loyally. “I don’t understand why you put yourself through this agonizing. Why don’t you just go and get changed into something that won’t slice you in half and then come and have some fun? It’s just some drinks and nibbles for Fake Drake’s leaving do, not Miss bloody World.”

  I choose to ignore the ‘Fake Drake’ jibe and open my mouth to tell Sam that tonight is supposed to be the night where Drake spots me across the Twiglets, realizes that underneath the billowing midriff is the girl of his dreams and sweeps me off into the sunset, but then shut it quickly. Not only is this dream totally ridiculous but also Sam likes Drake as much as Tom likes Jerry. I’ve heard quite enough barbed comments lately to have gathered this much. I don’t want to fall out with him. Instead I splash some Cava into a paper cup.

  “Don’t go too mad on the booze,” Sam warns. “We all know what happens when you get drunk! Remember the firm’s Christmas party when you—”

  “All right! All right!” I say quickly. Why is it that my friends always remember the embarrassing things I do rather than the super cool ones? Granted, the ratio of cock-ups to cool is certainly biased in favour of the former, but even so…

  “Don’t look so mortified,” he grins. “I thought it was really great when you won the mince pie eating competition. That took skill.”

  I feel like drowning myself in the champagne glass. Eating twelve and a half mince pies in six minutes is a claim to fame I could happily do without, even if I was a YouTube sensation for a few days

  For a leaving do, Drake’s has to be one of the better ones we’ve put on here at Broom! Broom! The food is good, the drinks are flowing and there’s even some music to groove to. Because it’s all free everyone goes a bit bonkers and before long it looks like locusts have descended on the buffet, there’s a line of empty bottles on the reception desk and most the team are bopping away happily to the strains of Wham. I’m just slumped at my desk watching Vicky gyrate (she’s so skinny, how do her internal organs fit inside?) and wondering whether to go mine sweeping for drinks while Sam goes in search of Pringle crumbs, when Drake comes over. I can’t help it; my heart goes into freefall. He is just so gorgeous with those Caribbean-blue eyes and just the right amount of dark stubble sprinkling his cheeks. I wonder how it would feel against my face?

  Oh God. I must be pissed to start thinking like this. Drinking on an empty stomach? Not smart. Nice one, Ellie.

  “Dance?” he says, smiling down at me.

  “Yes, please,” I say, or at least I think this is what I say. It sounds a bit like I am speaking underwater. He’s interested now he’s leaving? Better late than never I suppose.

  Drake reaches out and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. For one awful moment I think my backside is wedged in my chair but he tugs a little harder and out I pop like a cork from a bottle and slam straight into his chest. My legs no longer seem to be attached to my body and are wobbling all over the place. I’m like Bambi in heels and after far too much alcohol. Now I’m trying to move I actually realize just how drunk I am. The room’s spinning around like Kylie and although Drake’s mouth is moving I can’t figure out a word he’s saying. He tries to steady me but it’s too late. My legs have turned to water and slide from underneath me. The last thing I hear, before I hit the deck, is the ominous and unmistakable sound of ripping fabric as my poor dress splits.

  Then, thank goodness, it all goes blissfully dark.

  Chapter 4

  “The number you have called is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  I can’t believe it. I must have dialled this number so many times I’m practically on first name terms with the Orange answerphone woman. I’m considering adding her to my Christmas card list. Maybe it’s time I actually bit the bullet and left a message? Otherwise Drake’s going to think he’s got a crazed phone stalker.

  OK, Ellie, you can do this. Take a deep breath. You’re calm and cool remember? Or at least as calm and as cool as a girl who passed out and flashed her Spanx at all her colleagues ever could be…

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I am so not going to think about that right now. If I allow myself to spend so much as a millisecond dwelling on the total prat I made of myself at Drake’s leaving do I’ll combust with humiliation and all that’ll be left of me will be a pair of smoking heels and an iPhone. At least I passed out and don’t remember a thing about the whole hideous episode. I shouldn’t know that my dress split from my waist to my knees, that I landed with a wallop on top of Drake and that my colleagues had been treated to a close up view of my control pants and cellulite. No, if it wasn’t for friends like Vicky who remind me of this on a hourly basis and all the embarrassing camera phone pictures that have been doing the rounds I’d have had no idea just how much of an idiot I made of myself.

  Or just how big my bum really is…

  I press the end call button in desperation. Somebody up there must really hate me. It’s so unfair that this had to be Drake’s final impression of me. Never mind my amazing sales figures, or the hours I’ve spent helping him with his paperwork, his parting image is of me flattening him on the dance floor. I didn’t even get to say goodbye or apologize for knocking him over. The next thing I knew I was waking up at Sam and Lucy’s with a lump the size of a Cadbury’s Cream Egg on my head. Lucy had taken one pitying look at me sprawled on their sofa and gone out for a run, leaving Sam to ply me with Resolve and bacon sandwiches and stop me from sticking my head in the oven when I heard just what a muppet I’d made of myself.

  Seriously. Just paint me pink and call me Miss Piggy…

  So, I really need to apologize to poor Drake. He’s been gone for almost two weeks now and although I’ve texted several times he’s only got back to me once and that was just a smiley in response to me asking how the new job is going.

  Sam, sprawled across my desk, helps himself to my Dairy Milk stash. Calmly, I remove the chocolate from his hands and replace it in my drawer, turning the key with a click.

  “You’re on a diet,” I remind him.

  “I can pick that, you know,” Sam grins.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the workshop?”

  “
Shouldn’t you be selling cars?” he counters.

  I glance at the clock. It’s just gone 1 p.m. on a rainy afternoon and outside the traffic is swishing through the streets, scattering diamond and ruby reflections in the puddles. The inside of the showroom window is starting to fog up; people are scurrying by with their collars up and huddling beneath umbrellas. It isn’t test-driving weather and experience tells me I’m as likely to visit the moon as I am to sell a car this afternoon.

  “Now Drake’s gone, somebody will have to sell all those cars,” Sam adds. “Oh, hang on…”

  Right. I’m not listening to any more of Sam’s sarky comments. My eardrums will be worn away at this rate. It’s time to prove him wrong. Fired up, I grab my coat and reach for my umbrella.

  “Where do you think you’re off to? Lunchtime’s over,” says Vicky petulantly.

  “Out,” I tell her airily. “I’ve got overtime owed to me and it’s a slow afternoon. Charlie’s fine with it.”

  “But that only leaves me on the sales floor! Rick and Nick and still out to lunch.”

  Literally and metaphorically, I think darkly. Our two junior salesmen would be dangerous if they so much as shared a brain cell. Fortunately they’re generally so busy fighting over the mirror and seeing how many girls they can pull in the Coach to be too much of a liability.

  I’m shrugging on my coat and am halfway to the door now. “I’m sure you’ll cope,” I say cheerfully. “See you later!”

  Sam, roused by this from his Roman emperor style lolling, stares at me in surprise.

  “Where are you going, Ellie?”

  I’m almost into the street now, my brolly unfurling just like the excitement is unfurling deep inside. Enough of playing answerphone tennis and being a drip! It seems to me that I have a choice. I can either sit here feeling sorry for myself, work my way through my body weight in chocolate and run through the events of Drake’s leaving party like some kind of mental video nasty, or I could dredge up some 1990s style girl power and take the initiative.

  “Into London,” I declare boldly. “Maybe I’ll start my Christmas shopping?”

  Actually, shopping is not top of my agenda. No, today my purpose is far more serious and far more exciting. I won’t share this information with Sam, but I’m not just shopping. Certainly not! No, I’m going to Broom! Broom!’s city branch and I’m going to find Drake. And when I do, I’m going to apologize in person and tell him I’d love to go for that drink sometime, if he still wants to take me.

  No more sitting in the passenger seat. From now on I’ll be the driver. Go me!

  Although it is only several weeks since Drake’s leaving do, Christmas has already come to Oxford Street and as I cross the road from Bond Street Tube I can’t help but be caught up in it all. The lights are strung up in readiness for the official switch on and Selfridges’ windows are already decorated with beautiful silver trees, decked with yellow baubles and surrounded by mounds of yellow and silver parcels. For a moment I pause with my nose pressed against the glass, drinking in the magic of Christmas. There’s a chestnut seller on the street corner and the air is rich with the scent of roasting. My mouth waters but for once I don’t have time to eat. No, I am a girl on a mission.

  Once inside I wind my way through the Mulberry handbags and Chanel perfumes then ride the escalator straight to the second floor. I’m not distracted for a second by the acres of gorgeous lingerie or the rails of designer jeans because I know exactly where I am headed. Through White Stuff I charge like a paratrooper, before I arrive in the designers’ section.

  My heart is racing as I weave through the racks of beautiful clothes: Stella McCartney, Chloe, Prada until finally I arrive at the small section dedicated to the English designer, Emily Rose. With trembling hands I work my way through the rails until finally my finger tips brush against velvet, as soft as cloud and the same deep green as Cornish rock pools. My pulse starts to slow and relief swamps me. My dream dress. Thank God. They still stock it!

  I sigh and step away. Although the dress is stocked in a fourteen I’m a long way away from that. I ride the escalator back down to the ground floor, lost in a lovely day-dream where I’m slim and tiny and drift around in beautiful clothes. Guys like Drake practically queue to ask me out and nobody has ever made a quip about calling me Ellie Phant.

  I’m so deep in day-dreams that it’s a surprise to find the bus to Park Lane pulling up. Catapulted out a lovely fantasy, where I’m wearing the green dress and everyone is stunned by how amazing I look, I clamber on board and squeeze through the crowds and into the aisle. London buses are always such a nightmare. Isla Fisher probably goes everywhere by chauffeur.

  “Excuse me, love, would you like to sit down?” An elderly gentleman asks, rising creakily to his feet. “Please, I insist you take my seat.”

  Aww. How sweet is that? Old folks have such lovely manners. It must have been great living back in the days when men opened doors for you and paid the bills. How nice to be made to feel like a delicate, fragile female even if the man in question probably hasn’t had his own teeth or hair since at least 1940. Still, there’s no way I can let a pensioner give up his bus seat for me, no matter how chivalrous he is.

  “That’s really kind,” I say, “but I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Of course you can.” The elderly gentleman hauls himself upright. “A young woman in your condition shouldn’t be standing. You need to rest.”

  What? I gape at him as the hideous truth dawns. ‘A young woman in your condition?’ He seriously thinks I’m pregnant and that’s why he’s offering let me sit down? I don’t think I’ve ever been so mortified in my entire life and, given the hellish few weeks I’ve had, that’s saying something.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” the old man says firmly, propelling me into his seat. “Take the weight off your feet.”

  What else can I do? Reluctant to embarrass him by pointing out the only thing I’m likely to give birth to is a pizza; I sit down. By the time the bus arrives at Park Lane I’m crimson with embarrassment and scuttle away into the crowd. I have so got to diet. And I will. Soon. Once Christmas is over. Nobody can diet at Christmas, can they? Mum would be gutted if I turned down her goose fat roast potatoes. Especially since they were Dad’s favourites…

  The bus rumbles away into the traffic. With enormous relief, I spot the smart showroom window of our flagship branch and practically tumble through the revolving door. Wow. This is so posh! There’s a gorgeous grey carpet and everyone is wearing the uniform properly, no customizing it like Rick and Nick, and not a sarcastic mechanic in sight. It makes the Ickenham branch look a bit shonky. I wait around in a queue for a few minutes until a woman approaches me.

  “May I help you, madam?”

  Is she a supermodel or a saleswoman? It’s hard to tell. I tilt my head backwards and stare up at her. Imogen Hatgen: Sales reads the name badge. Imogen? Well, no wonder she has long legs, blonde hair and is about ten feet tall. She’s got the distinct advantage of being Nordic. A stumpy ginger Brit can’t compete with that! Don’t be intimidated Ellie, she might look like Giselle but I bet she’s never won a mince pie eating contest in her life.

  “I’m looking for Drake Owen,” I announce bravely. “I’m a colleague from the Ickenham branch.”

  “Ickenham?” Her nose crinkles a little bit at this mention of the suburbs. Hey! Don’t diss Ickenham, Imogen. You might have fjords and Abba but we have a duck pond and everything.

  “Drake isn’t available at the moment, I’m afraid, he’s with a client.”

  “Oh.” I am almost floored with disappointment. After coming all this way and psyching myself up to apologize it is a total anticlimax not to see him.

  “Shall I take a message? Who shall I say has called?”

  “I’m Ellie Summers, his friend from the Ickenham branch,” I tell her and then, just in case Drake has mislaid his phone, I add my mobile number. And my email. And my Facebook. I almost go for Twitter too but she’s running o
ut of paper.

  “I’ll pop back later. Maybe he’ll be finished? Can you tell him I’d love to go for that drink now? Maybe after work? “ I say hopefully.

  But Drake’s colleague isn’t listening. She’s moved on to another potential customer. Disheartened, I visit the loo where I freshen up, give myself a pep talk and text Sam quickly to check that Broom! Broom! suburbs style hasn’t crumbled without me. I’ll go and explore Green Park for a bit, I decide, then I’ll come back and see if Drake’s free. Cheered by having a plan of action I head back into the foyer, freezing in my tracks when I overhear Drake’s smooth voice deep in conversation with Imogen.

  “No, Imogen, don’t feel bad. It’s a bit awkward but you did the right thing.”

  Imogen makes a simpering giggly sound. “I didn’t think somebody like that would really be a friend of yours.”

  I freeze. Oh Lord. They’re talking about me. I shrink back against the wall but they stop only metres away. I know that people who eavesdrop on conversations never hear any good about themselves but there’s nowhere for me to go. If I walk past now I’ll run smack into them, and how hideous would that be?

  Drake has paused. I wait for him to say that actually Ellie is a friend of his but there’s just an awkward silence.

  “After all she’s hardly in your league,” Imogen continues, her words like poisoned darts into my self-esteem. “When she said mentioned going for a drink with you I was a bit surprised.”

  Drake says nothing.

  “The poor girl’s obviously got an enormous crush on you,” Imogen persists. “So I did my best to stall her. I mean, as if you’d be interested in her. She’s at least a size eighteen!”

  I almost leap out of the shadows at this to bop her on the nose. Actually, Imogen, I am a sixteen! Not that this is any of your business.

  “Ellie’s had a tough time,” Drake says quietly. He sounds awkward and his voice is so low that I have to strain my ears. “She lost her father recently and it’s been difficult for her.”