Weight Till Christmas
Ruth Saberton
Copyright page
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Ruth Saberton
Cover Illustration copyright © Carrie May
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Also by Ruth Saberton
Rearranged (with Sofia Latif)
Katy Carter Wants a Hero
Ellie Andrews has Second Thoughts
Amber Scott is Starting Over
Writing as Jessica Fox
The One that Got Away
Eastern Promise
Hard to Get
Unlucky in Love
Always the Bride
Writing as Holly Cavendish
Looking for Fireworks
Writing as Georgie Carter
The Perfect Christmas
About This Edition
Weight Till Christmas has been written and edited in British English rather than American English, including spelling, grammar and punctuation.
Chapter 1
OK Ellie, don’t panic. You can do this. Of course you can. It’s just a car and all you have to do is sell it. It’s not like you don’t do this every day of the week. Just ignore the fact you’ve never been near the sports cars before and only sell the little shoppers. So what if it’s a brand new Mazda MX5 with all the flashy gadgets and toys? It still has wheels and an engine, doesn’t it? This is your big chance to show the boss what you can really do. Get this one right and it’s goodbye lady cars, pink seats and boots that fit the shopping, and hello supercars! Your dream of being promoted to sell the sports cars could be only seconds away from coming true! If you make this sale, surely the boss will see that you’re more than capable of being promoted.
I glance around the showroom. It’s noon on a sunny autumnal day and everybody else has pushed off for lunch, leaving me alone to man the showroom of Broom! Broom!, Ickenham’s premier car dealership.
While a young couple circle the car and whisper excitedly, I break a chunk off my Dairy Milk and chomp thoughtfully. I’ve been working towards a promotion for months, putting in all the overtime and doing my best to prove that I’m more than capable. I’ve sold loads of little shoppers and I’ve helped the team reach our sales target. Stick insect Vicky, the other junior sales woman, is adamant that she’s going to be promoted and never misses an opportunity to put me down. Why she has to be such a cow I really have no idea.
Sam, the Broom! Broom! mechanic, childhood friend and my partner in Krispy Kreme runs, says it’s because she’s rubbish at her job and I’m not, but I’m not convinced. What does it matter whether Sticky Vicky is good at selling cars or not when she’s skinny and blonde? I might pull in more sales but I’m a size sixteen on a good day, wearing control pants and with the wind behind me, which renders me invisible to Drake and practically the rest of the male species. I’m no threat to Vicky. Other women, usually the middle-aged or those with several kids in tow, are more than happy to chat to me over the Fiestas and Micras, which is probably why I sell so many. But I know that deep down inside me is a thin Ferrari-driving Ellie Summers just screaming to get out – or rather she would be if I didn’t keep shutting her up with huge mouthfuls of Dairy Milk.
To be honest, I’m not sure when this chocolate habit really took hold. Maybe about the same time Dad died? Or perhaps a few months after, when Luke had enough of a girlfriend who spent more time with her mother than she did at home with him, and moved out? I’m sure a shrink would have all sorts of fun making connections and figuring it out and good luck to them. All I know is that when things are grim there’s nothing quite like a Snickers.
I hide my chocolate underneath my paperwork. Firstly, it’s melting and, secondly, if Sam comes by he’ll pinch it. I cast another cursory glance around the Broom! Broom! showroom. It’s still empty. The young couple are looking at a Micra now, but she isn’t interested, I can tell. Her partner looks enthusiastic but she keeps glancing back towards the Mazda. I won’t approach them just yet. They need to talk so she can persuade him that a sexy sporty car is far preferable to a practical little shopper. Car sales are all about timing and tact; if I go over and wade in like a bull rampaging through a china shop they’ll leave before you can say Mazda. Seriously, I know how these things go. That’s why I’m good at my job.
While I give them a couple more minutes, I click the mouse on my computer and bring up my favourite web page. Up it pops, all pinks and lilacs and flowing italic script intertwined with white ribbons and green ivy. Emily Rose Design: New to Selfridges! the web page declares proudly. I glance across at the couple, still deep in conversation, and return my attention to the screen, scrolling through until I arrive at the item I’ve been admiring for the last few days. There it is, my dream dress. Cut on the bias and from the smoothest, softest fabric imaginable, it falls in elegant folds from two diamond clips on the shoulders. The front is a deep V, designed to show off the collarbones and cleavage, while the back is draped towards the small of the back.
Everything about this dress cries simple sophistication and ever since I first saw Isla Fisher wearing it at a premier I have longed for it with all my heart. I know it would suit me because Isla and I share the same colouring; red curly hair, pale skin and cinnamon freckles but sadly for me, this is where the similarity ends. Isla is a gorgeous, delicate wisp of a girl who probably lives on salad whereas I clod hop through life and have Nutella for blood. My collarbones are hidden under a good layer of flab, if indeed they exist at all, and the Michelin Man would envy my spare tyres. So while Isla easily fits into designers’ samples I’ll be lucky if one of my thighs squeezes into this. Even if the price tag wasn’t so astronomical there’s no way I could buy this dress. It would never fit me.
I sigh and quit the page. This is the dress that I long to wear to the company’s Christmas party. Although it’s only September the date is already circled on the showroom calendar and Vicky has been planning her outfit practically since the end of June. The Christmas party is the highlight of the year and only this morning Charlie, our boss, promised that if we meet our sales targets for the quarter we’ll be treated to the biggest bash in the company’s history. I’d love to wear this dress to the party but first of all I’d have to lose some weight and, secondly, save enough money to afford it. Which brings me neatly back to being promoted…
Over by the scarlet MX5 the young couple are deep in discussion. She looks smitten but he isn’t so sure, I can tell from his body language. Perhaps he thinks the car is too expensive? Or maybe he’s worried that it’s a bit too girly for him to drive? Who knows? Either way it’s up to me to prove he’s wrong and make the sale. This is it. My big chance!
Right deep breath, Ellie. The customers don’t know that Drake handles the performance cars and you only sell the hatchbacks. All they know is that they like this red phallic symbol. All you have to do is sell it to them. How hard can that be? I’ve been top saleswoman here for two years running. I’ve sold more Micras and Kas than I’ve had Big Macs – which is saying something – so it’s high time I had a turn at selling something a bit more exciting. I know I can do it. I just have to be given the chance. The others going for lunch at the exact moment customers want to see the Mazda is my big opportunity and I can’t wimp out now.
I pin a big smile onto my face and join them. “Hi there! It’s a beauty, isn’t it?�
��
The woman nods excitedly. “I love it! I’ve wanted one of these for ages, haven’t I, Steve?”
Steve smiles indulgently. “Yes, you have, angel, but when I said I’d buy you a new car for Christmas I had something a bit more practical in mind.”
Blimey. What must it be like to live in a world where your boyfriend calls you ‘angel’ and buys you a car for Christmas? That’s like living in a parallel universe or something. My ex called me Chubs and couldn’t understand why I had an issue with being given an iron for Christmas. Just my luck I live in the crappy parallel universe.
“This Mazda is the very latest model,” I tell them, crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping I’m getting this right. “I know it looks small but it’s the perfect combination of style and substance, as well as featuring the very latest in performance technology.”
And just like that, I’m off. As I tell them all about the MPG and the sophisticated braking systems, Steve looks impressed and Angel is blown away by the range of colours she could choose from. When I mention the option of cream leather seats she looks as though she’s having a religious experience.
“Why don’t you take it for a test drive?” I suggest. The sun is out, in the golden syrup light Ickenham’s at its suburban best, and once they’ve popped the roof down I know there’ll be no turning back. I’ll have sold the car and my boss will have to let me have a crack at the Ferraris and Audis! Result!
Angel is bouncing with excitement but Steve is still looking worried.
“I’m not sure I’ll fit inside,” he says doubtfully. “Look at me, I’m six foot two and this car is tiny.”
Aha Steve! I am ready for this!
“This model comes equipped with the very latest in electronic memory seats,” I assure him. “I know the driver’s area looks pretty cramped but actually it’s really spacious. There are several settings to ensure maximum leg room.”
He frowns, unconvinced, and this is when I have a brainwave. In fact it’s more than a brainwave. It’s a stroke of genius. Just as my lady customers love it when I load the Micra boots with shopping bags, why don’t I demonstrate just how roomy this little car is? If I, the girl kindly nicked name Ellie Phant all through school, can fit in this car then he certainly will!
“I’m five nine myself,” I say airily, “hardly small but I absolutely love this car and I find it very comfortable. I love the seats in this model.”
OK, so this is a bit of an exaggeration but I’m sure this Mazda is fine and Sam did tell me something about the seats being special. He pressed a button when he was inspecting it, I seem to recall, and I was very impressed. I ease myself in and settle onto the seat. Now where was that button again? And how many times should I press it? Did Sam say to press it three times or not to press it three times? I should have listened more carefully, I suppose, but I was ordering us all a Chinese takeaway at the time. Oh well, it can’t make too much of a difference, can it?
“It’s really very simple,” I say with more confidence than I actually feel as I lean forward and reach for the small silver lever to my left. I press it three times and just as I was told, the seat moves all right, only not backwards but forwards, slamming me into the wheel and ramming my knees into the dash.
Ouch! That’s hurt my legs but not nearly as much as my pride.
“Silly me!” I’m gasping because there’s not a lot of puff left for speech and it feels as though my kidneys are about to pop out my nostrils. “I’ve pressed it the wrong way. I’ll just try again.”
I press the button again. I hope to God the seat moves before I pass out. There’s a whirring sound and the seat judders but it doesn’t move. Feeling slightly hysterical I jam my finger on the lever with all my might and there’s another grinding of machinery followed by an ominous burning smell. The seat hasn’t budged an inch. I am still well and truly stuck.
I feel faint and not just from the lack of oxygen.
“I think we’ll leave it,” says Steve.
“It’s not supposed to do this,” I squeak, sounding as though I’ve been inhaling helium. “Honestly, give me a moment and I’ll fix it.”
I jab at the lever frantically but there’s still no movement. My legs start to sweat against the leather seat. Steve and Angel hover helplessly for five minutes or so while I wriggle and pant like something from Fifty Shades of Grey before they eventually make their excuses and beat a hasty retreat. I’m left all alone in the showroom, wedged in the Mazda and awaiting rescue. This rescue eventually comes in the form of Sam who, once he’s almost passed out from laughter, has the unenviable task of having to unbolt the car seat to free me. While he works the others return from lunch and gather round to watch the spectacle. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so embarrassed. This is the last time I ever try to squeeze into a car made for Barbie.
Sticky Vicky is cackling with mirth but Charlie, our boss, looks like he wants to cry when he sees Sam unpeeling the interior carpets. Bollocks, there goes my hope of a bonus. I really needed that for Christmas. I’m going to be in serious trouble now. I must have cost the company a fortune. So much for hoping I might be promoted to sell the sports cars. I should have known better because this has not been the year of good things happening. Quite the opposite, actually. Funerals, tears and being dumped have made this my annus horribilis, that’s for sure.
I’m just contemplating putting myself out of my misery by impaling myself on the gear stick when Drake catches my eye.
“You could have just asked me instead of trying out the massage seat option,” he teases.
Sam rolls his eyes and makes a puking gesture, which I ignore because my stomach is far to busy doing flip-flops. With his long dark hair and ink blue eyes Drake is a younger and edgier version of Richard Armitage as well as my guilty and secret crush.
“Get a grip,” Sam orders me once Drake has stalked back to his desk. “He’s cheesier than the Cathedral City warehouse.”
OK, maybe not so secret? But Drake is so gorgeous and sometimes he stops to perch on my desk and chat, which has to mean something, doesn’t it? And he often lets me help him with his paperwork too because he says I’m much better at this than anyone else. I know he’d never be seriously interested in me in that way but sometimes I can’t help wonder – maybe if I was slimmer?
And maybe a pig just flew past? Who am I kidding? I’m wedged in a car, I’m so fat I’ve broken the mechanics, and the only thing keeping me going is the thought of escaping to MacDonald’s once I’m freed. Guys like Drake never look at girls like me. I watch him rejoin Sticky Vicky and swallow the huge lump in my throat.
“You’re nearly free!” Sam declares as the seat inches back. “I’ve saved the day. That deserves a big thank you, don’t you think?”
“Hardly. This is all your fault!” I point out. “Three clicks, you said!”
“I said never give three clicks,” Sam says with a grin dancing across his plump face. His green eyes twinkle with amusement. “That puts the seat into inspection mode, you numpty. It shoots right forward so that the mechanic can access the rear more easily.”
“Oh.” I stare down miserably at the steering wheel, which is so firmly embedded in my cleavage I look like a transformer. “So why wouldn’t it move?”
Sam pauses. He can’t quite look me in the eye. “The electronics were burned out.”
“Burned out? But that’s ridiculous. Weren’t they put together properly?” I am most indignant. Mazda had better watch out; I shall be sending them a very strongly worded email.
Sam looks awkward. “They couldn’t take the loading.”
Oh. What Sam is trying to say, as tactfully as he can, is I’m so heavy I burned the electrics out.
“It’s a crap design anyway,” he adds kindly when he sees my mortified expression. “It could have happened to anyone. It would have happened to me, for sure. Lucy’s always telling me I need to lose a few pounds. Come on, let’s go and get a cuppa and a bun to cheer you up.”
&nbs
p; I shake my head. Sam can try to make me feel better by telling stories about his diet-fascist girlfriend but the truth is that I’m too heavy. Mustering as much dignity as I possibly can, I clamber out of the car. My legs are numb and trembly, although that could be from all the upset. Sam can say whatever he likes about the design flaws and his own weight; it didn’t happen to him did it? It happened to me. I was the one who got stuck in the car.
The message couldn’t be clearer.
I need to lose weight.
Chapter 2
My resolution to diet lasts as long as it takes Sam to wander down the high street and return with a bag of doughnuts. Oh well, I decide as I tuck into one and sprinkle sugar all over my bruised chest, I’ve thought about dieting haven’t I? And it’s the thought that counts. Besides, everyone knows there’s no point starting a diet halfway through the day, or even halfway through the week. No, what are needed are a clean slate and an empty fridge. Then I can go to the supermarket and buy lots of healthy green stuff to start my new regime. I won’t be able to snack or cheat because there won’t be anything in my fridge that isn’t good for me. That’s what I call a result! I’ll lose shedloads of weight if there’s nothing bad in there to tempt me.
And the best part of this plan? My biscuit tin is crammed with Mum’s home-made flapjacks which I can polish off in one guilt-free sitting because I will actually be removing temptation before my diet begins. Mum loves to cook and since we lost Dad there’s only me left to bake for. I’d hate to hurt her by turning down her cakes and dinners. She’d be heartbroken. So every time I visit I’m fed and it’s rare that I leave without a few tupperware containers filled with goodies. Mum feels better, like she’s still able to care for at least one of us I guess, but it’s playing havoc with my figure. I must have put on several stone since the funeral.
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