Luke wasn’t impressed with my weight gain, that was for sure. Neither was he a fan of my visiting my mother most days after work. I understood that he felt a bit neglected, but what else could I do? She was lonely and grieving – to be honest we were both grieving – and I wanted to support her as much as I could, and if that meant eating a roast dinner or a second helping of jam roly-poly, then I figured tighter waistbands and a few extra pounds were a small price to pay. It was just a pity my boyfriend hadn’t felt the same way.
“You’re putting on weight,” he’d remarked critically one day when I couldn’t squeeze into my jeans. “You need to stop eating round at your mother’s all the bloody time.”
I’d dragged my attention away from trying to tug up my zip.
“She’s lonely, babe. She misses Dad so much and it helps her if she has somebody to look after now and then.”
Luke had looked sulky. “It’s not now and then though, Ellie. It’s practically every day. I’m lonely too. I never see you anymore.”
“So come with me?” I’d suggested hopefully, but Luke hadn’t been keen on that idea. Mum’s semi in Uxbridge didn’t have Sky Sports and her constant cooking, although delicious, played havoc with his diet. When he wasn’t watching footy Luke liked to play for a local team and he was religious about watching his weight. I generally cheered from the sidelines and then joined him and our friends in the pub. This hadn’t been a problem when Dad was alive but now I was spending more time with my mother it was quickly becoming an issue.
To cut a long and very sad story short, the choice had soon been a simple one: either I spent less time with my mother or we were over. What kind of a choice was that? I’m an only child; my mum was heartbroken and very soon so was I. Luke moved out and I was left with just my regrets, grief and the biscuit tin for company.
“You could always just bin them the food your mum sends home,” Sam suggests when I mention this idea. He licks jam from his fingers and glances ruefully at the two remaining doughnuts. “That’s what I ought to do with these. Lucy says I need to lose two stone.”
“Is she mad? There’s no way you’re overweight.” Honestly, I despair of Sam’s girlfriend. Lucy’s been with Sam since we were all at school and she’s a monumental pain. He was the captain of the rugby team and she was the prettiest girl in the school so of course they ended up together like something out of High School Musical. I don’t know why they’re still together, habit I suppose and the fact that she’s pretty. Sam’s so easy going but Lucy always was a menace. When we were in year seven she was the worst for teasing me for being a little bit chubby. Mum liked to feed me up then too. It took a growth spurt and moving out of home to get down to a size twelve.
I have a nasty feeling it will take a bit more this time…
“Thanks Els, but she does have a point,” sighs Sam while me and my thoughts meander down Memory Lane. “Since I hurt my shoulder I haven’t been able to play rugby and the pounds are creeping on.
“I’m going to do some research into diets,” I tell him. I feel fired up by a missionary zeal at the very thought. How hard can it really be? Look at all those celebs that lose tonnes of weight and bring out a DVD. If they can do it so can I. Watch out Davina!
I polish off my doughnut and say with great determination, “I’m going to go online and see what I can find out about the 5:2 diet. Then on Monday I’m starting! Just you wait.”
“Well good for you,” says Sam. He helps himself to another doughnut and munches thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll join you?”
“That’s a great idea,” I agree. “We can motivate each other.”
It will help me keep on the straight and narrow if Sam’s dieting too. No more trips to Maccy D’s or late night Dominoes if he’s also calorie counting. I know I have the will-power of a gnat, and a gnat with very little will-power too, so I need all the help I can get.
Leaving Sam to try and restore order to the Mazda I return to my desk and finish off some figures. Actually, this is more than just figures. It’s something I am very proud of. Yesterday while Drake was on a tea break and Vicky admiring her reflection in a car bonnet, I sold ten Fords to a cleaning franchise. Not the most glam deal ever but this is Cameron’s broken Britain and every sale is valued. Ten sales should really put me in the good books. Drake was super impressed and he gave me a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes he does that and it really confuses me. Would he kiss me on the cheek if he didn’t like me? Surely not? But then again, if he liked me in that way, wouldn’t he have done something about it by now? Asked me for a drink? Or maybe even dinner? I’ve been single for a fair while now. It’s not as though I’m not free.
Never mind men are from Mars. Sometimes I think they’re from another universe altogether.
Anyway, once he’d finished the paperwork, Drake had said he was going to speak to our MD about my sales – which might mean a little bonus for me– if they can forgive me for the Mazda fiasco that is. I could give Mum a really nice Christmas present then, something to make her smile.
I’m just thinking about how I could pay for Mum to have a luxury spa day when our boss, Charlie, strides into the office followed by Drake.
“Ok, Top Team,” he carols, clapping his meaty hands together. “Gather round!”
Top Team? I catch Drake’s eye, normally we pull faces at each other when our boss talks like a total tool, but Drake is far too busy smiling to look my way. I minimise the Weight Watchers website and paste an I’m so interested expression onto my face. The rest of the Broom! Broom! team abandon Facebook and Twitter to look attentive.
“This has been a very tough year for the car industry,” Charlie says, as though this is news and we haven’t all been sweating blood to make sales. “But here at Broom! Broom! we buck the trend! Go us! This last quarter has been the most successful in the company’s history, and that is down to the sheer grit and talent of you guys and one of our team in particular.” He pauses for effect as a ripple of excitement flutters around the room. “Yesterday this person single-handedly sold ten cars and that alone deserves some recognition.”
Oh my God! He means me! I’m being singled out for praise and thanks! Me! I can’t remember a time in my life when this has ever happened before. Above the excited thudding of my heart I wait to be named. Luxury spa here we come!
“And that person is of course, none other than our senior salesman, Drake Owen! Drake has worked so hard for this company and I’m sure you’ll agree that he more than deserves a promotion.” Now Charlie’s pumping Drake’s hand and clapping him on the back in a boyish manner. “We’ll certainly miss you here, Drake, but the Park Lane Branch will be thrilled to have you joining them. Congratulations!”
Applause ripples through the office. Even the mechanics have been summoned to hear the good news. Sam looks as stunned as I feel. He knows I sold those cars. What’s going on?
Once all the excitement has died down Drake comes over and perches on my desk.
“Ellie, this is so embarrassing,” he says. “The board’s assumed I clinched that deal. They were looking for a reason to promote me and they jumped on the sales of those cars.”
There’s a lump in my throat the size of one of those bloody Focuses.
“Didn’t you tell them it was me who closed the sale?”
Drake’s eyes are so sad that if I weren’t already close to tears I would be after looking into them. He takes my hand in his.
“Of course I did! I tried to tell them that it was you who sold those cars but I could hardly get a word in. And when I did manage, they all thought it was me trying to big you up.”
I don’t understand. “Why would you do that?”
“Come on Ellie,” says Drake, squeezing my fingers. “You must know I have a soft spot for you?”
Sometimes I think he does, the times when we share jokes or he teases me. Other times when he’s doing exactly the same with Vicky I’m not so sure. Drake is handsome and fun and charming; flirting comes as naturally to h
im as breathing. I try hard not to read too much into it. Besides, I’m several stone overweight right now and spend most of my spare time with my mum, which hardly makes me the most exciting offer he could have.
“But you know how it is here,” he continues. “We have to be professional and I am technically your boss so I can’t be seen to have favourites.”
It makes sense and I nod slowly. Is this why he’s been blowing hot and cold?
“Anyway, management assumed I was trying to do you a favour. They insisted any deal you may have set up was down to me anyway because we work together and I’m your team leader.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I feel terrible about this. Shall I go and see Charlie and turn them down?”
I’m torn. I want the promotion, of course I do, but not at Drake’s expense. I’m so fond of him and I wouldn’t be happy if my dreams came true at the loss of his. Besides; maybe he’s right? We do work together and he has taught me a lot. I know I dream of having a promotion but Drake is our top salesman. I’m so confused my brains have turned to cotton wool.
“You should have that promotion,” I say finally. “You deserve it.”
Drake stares at me. “Do you really mean that?”
I nod. I can’t think straight when he’s this close.
His answering smile is so bright that I need to slap on Factor 50 and before I know it I’m folded in a bear hug and crushed against him like something out of Mum’s Mills&Boons. Wow. He smells delicious, of lime and black pepper and mandarin. If Chanel could bottle that, they’d make a fortune.
“Ellie Summers, you really are the best, do you know that?”
And when Drake kisses my cheek, I really feel like this could be true. The Mazda, Mum’s loneliness, worrying about my weight, none of these things matter any more. Even Luke’s nasty comments fade away like mist in the sunshine.
“Let’s go for a drink later on,” Drake suggests. “Just you and me. And not to the Coach either. How about I drive us out to Henley? We could sit by the river and watch the party boats.”
I love the idea of this. Ickenham is great with its duck pond and ancient church, but the busy main road and tube line can’t compete to the slow majestic waters of the Thames and our themed pub with its fake beams is a far cry from the white fairy lights and elegance of a Henley hostelry. For a split second I’m sitting there at a window watching the light bleed from the sky while chinking glasses with Drake. My stomach turns a slow and delicious somersault.
“We could even grab a bite to eat,” he continues. “I know this little bistro in Taply. They do the most wonderful steak.”
And pop! Just like that the dream evaporates. I can’t go out tonight with Drake, I said I’d drop in on Mum. She texted earlier on to say she’s made macaroni cheese for supper, my favourite, and I can’t let her down.
So, of course, I say no and Drake just shrugs and drifts away, back across the office and over to Vicky who is all smiles and giggles. Is she off to Henley to celebrate instead of me? I bite my lip and look away.
Then I reach into my desk drawer for my chocolate.
Chapter 3
“And so I’d just like to finish by saying that you guys have been fantastic to work with. Please keep in touch. I’m going to miss you all. Very much.”
There’s a ripple of applause as Drake concludes a leaving speech that I’ve hardly been able to hear over Vicky’s sniffing and Sam’s sarky asides. To be honest I’m getting a bit tired of hearing Sam run down everything Drake says and does. Just because he’s having a rubbish time at home – judging by the cottage cheese and Ryvita in his lunch box Lucy is persisting with the diet – doesn’t mean we should all suffer.
Take the ‘goodbye’ flowers Drake sent me earlier, for example. I was thrilled when a massive bouquet arrived at the office. Apart from the sad fact that never before in my life has anyone sent me such a bouquet, it was just as good to see the look on Sticky Vicky’s face when it arrived. She was a perfect match for the lime green Beetle she was selling at the time.
“Who’s sent you those?” she’d asked incredulously as the guy from Interflora staggered across the showroom and practically collapsed at my desk.
“Drake,” I replied, half thrilled and half disbelieving as I scanned the card.
“Drake?” Vicky echoed, in the style of Lady Bracknell discussing handbags.
I’d nodded and had had to focus very hard on the flowers until my heartbeat slowed. Drake had sent me flowers! Me!
“Why on earth would he do that?” Vicky asked. She sounded stunned which was fair enough. I’d been pretty stunned myself.
“He’s saying thank you for all the help and support I’ve given him over the time he’s worked here,” I told her. At least that’s what the card said. But these were red roses, their petals velvet soft smelling better than anything at the perfume counter. Red roses were symbolic, weren’t they? Everybody knew that. Was Drake trying to tell me something? I wished men came with a manual. They’re harder to read than Chaucer in the original.
I’d buried my face in the roses and allowed myself a few milliseconds of believing that Drake Owen, he of the Levi 501-blue eyes and gillette-sharp cheekbones had sent me flowers not because I was a valued colleague but because he actually liked me. Wasn’t this exactly what happened in all the pink books I loved to read? The hero saw beneath the bad hair/clumsiness/pirelli-belly to the heroine’s true worth and the rest was history. Why shouldn’t this happen in real life? Drake might be moving to a new role at our flagship showroom but, as he’d said in the note, that meant we could be real friends rather than boss and employee.
Did this imply he wanted our relationship to change from simply being colleagues into something more? Since that simple misunderstanding over the car sales, he’d been so sweet to me; bringing coffee over, chatting far more than usual and Sticky Vicky was giving me such evils that every time I go to the loo I had to check my back for daggers. I hardly dared get my hopes up, but surely this had to mean something?
Then Sam had to go and spoil it all.
“With the promotion Ellie just got Drake, he should have bought the entire florists,” he’d said coldly, only casting the most dismissive of glances over my roses. “How many bunches of flowers do you think his new salary is worth?”
Honestly, I think now as Drake finishes his speech and Vicky blows her nose, if this is what dieting does to Sam then the sooner he hotfoots it to KFC the better. He’s been in a vile mood lately. He’s normally a sunbeam in overalls, someone to sneak a cheeky latte with or have a good moan to, but the last few days he’s been a right misery. I make a mental note to drag him over to the buffet the second that our MD has concluded his speech about what Drake has bought to the table.
My mind drifts. Mmm. Talking of tables, that trestle by the door is groaning with all sorts of goodies: pizza slices ooze with cheese, chicken nuggets are piled high like golden coins and there are all kinds of yummy dips and crisps. My stomach’s rumbling just at the sight.
It’s hardly a surprise I’m feeling hungry. I haven’t eaten anything for almost twenty-four hours. My stomach’s probably in shock; wondering where on earth the toast and biscuits and Pret à Manger sandwiches have gone. That’s the part of my stomach that hasn’t gone dead from being crammed into the Spanx I picked up in Debenhams earlier, obviously. On the packet the girl who was wearing them under her dress looked like Giselle, all long-tanned limbs and honey-hued hair. Cheered at the idea of magic pants transforming me into a supermodel, I’d ignored my overdraft and bought them. Forty quid to make me look like Giselle was money well spent in my book.
Anyway, along with today’s starvation diet these tight pants, currently threatening to cut off my circulation, were my only hope of squeezing into my party dress. It says it’s a sixteen on the label but I must have put it in the wrong wash or something because it feels far too tight. When I tried it on and finally managed to tug the zip up I nearly passed out. Hence the dash to Debenhams’s, fort
y quid on sludge covered granny pants and not eating a mouthful all day. I might feel a bit light-headed but at least I’ve managed to get into my frock. There was no way I could go to Drake’s leaving do in my uniform or, even worse, my leggings.
No, it had to be my old faithful little black dress and it was worth every painful, hungry second to be able to wear it. With my hair up, my make-up on and one of my red roses tucked into my hair I have really made an effort. As of thirty seconds ago, Drake ceased to be my line manager, which means everything could change…
This thought makes my stomach lurch as though I’m in a lift that’s descending at about a million miles an hour. Luckily for me at this point glasses of champagne are being handed around so I take a couple and gulp them quickly.
“Steady! That stuff’s strong,” Sam warns, materializing by my side and looking at my two empty glasses in a worried fashion. He’s clutching an orange juice in one oil-speckled hand and a pizza slice in the other.
“And that stuff’s calorie laden,” I point out gesturing to the pizza. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a health kick?”
He grins, his eyes crinkling. “It’s got peppers on it. That’s one of my five a day, so it’s actually good for me. Besides, what Lucy doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I don’t say anything. Lucy, diet Nazi, can probably sniff out pepperoni from a mile off.
Sam finishes his slice and licks his fingers happily. “Do you want me to fetch you a bit?”
Normally nothing could have kept me from a pizza but today I have to think very carefully about my dress. I feel like one of those Victorian women who were laced into corsets. God, no wonder they were always fainting. I’m feeling quite giddy myself, although that could be all the alcohol hitting an empty stomach.
I shake my head and enjoy the unusual sensation of being virtuous.
“No thanks, Sam. I’m fine.”
He looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ellie Summers? Come on, El! It’s double pepperoni – your favourite.”
Weight Till Christmas Page 2