Weight Till Christmas

by Ruth Saberton

  “Here it is!” I cry in relief as I retrieve the dress from the rail. Hello old friend! Thank goodness that all the skinny women who shop here would be drowned in a size fourteen!

  “Are you going to try it on?” Sam asks. “I don’t mind waiting, if you are. I’m actually very good at shopping with girls. Lucy trained me well. If you look outside the changing room in Next Uxbridge you’ll actually see the dent my feet have made in the floor!”

  I’m not sure about this. What if I put the dress on and it looks hideous? I’d be devastated.

  “Go on, I’ll hold your shopping,” he continues, giving me a little shove. “Try it.”

  So I do. A helpful shop assistant materializes as if by magic, scooping up the dress and escorting me into the most sumptuous changing room imaginable. Honestly, it’s so swathed in folds of peach silk and ribbons that it wouldn’t look out of place in Louis XIV’s Versailles. I feel guilty about draping my tatty leggings and duffle coat on the quilted stool.

  I slip the dress over my head and it slithers over my skin, a soft velvet waterfall exactly as I imagined. Normally I avoid changing room mirrors like the plague – who wants to look at porridge-textured thighs and more spare tyres than Kwik Fit unless they have to? – but this must be a magical changing room or something because this time I can’t stop looking. Although the zip won’t quite do up at the back and the fabric is a little light across my chest the dress still looks amazing! And the girl in it nothing like me. The rich emerald green sets off the hazel in my eyes and makes my skin glow. My squishy bits don’t need Spanx to hold them in anymore because the clever drape of the fabric hides every flaw while accentuating the curve of my hips and the swell of my cleavage. Even my hair looks like flame. I could be a Disney princess. Cinder Ellie, going to the ball!

  This is my dream dress, it really, really is! If I can only lose the last few pounds to fit into it then I know all my Christmas dreams will come true.

  “Are you OK in there?” Sam calls.

  Am I? I’m not sure? My vision is a bit blurry. Pulling the curtain back, I step forward with skirts swirling around my ankles. Sam’s mouth literally falls open.

  “Bloody Hell, Ellie! You look absolutely amazing!” he gasps.

  And this, coming just from a mate, tells me all I need to know. I have to lose my last few pounds and buy this dress. Christmas party and mistletoe kisses here I come.

  Chapter 9

  The following week catapults us into late December. Work is fairly slow – most people aren’t thinking about buying cars in the run up to Christmas – but I do manage to sell a pink Micra and the dreaded Mazda. This time when I slip into the driver’s seat to demonstrate I’m amazed to discover that my bum fits the seat neatly and that the mechanisms glide forwards and backwards with ease. I was almost more delighted by this than I was with my sale. I fit in that teeny tiny car! Me, Ellie Phant! There were only two explanations for this: either Sam had reinforced it with steel girders, or I had lost weight.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Vicky says accusingly on Wednesday evening. She’s still draped in her Broom! Broom! sash from the latest promotion and glammed up like a skinny, aged version of Honey Boo Boo. She’s hardly been in the office for the past couple of weeks, being far too busy with her promotions, and has hardly seen me. She looks me up and down critically and doesn’t look exactly thrilled. On the other hand, I am over the moon. I wish I’d done this ages ago. Stepping back from Mum has done her the world of good too. She’s hardly ever in these days. The last time I dropped by she was on her way out to a fitness class with one of her new friends from work.

  “She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” pipes up Rick from behind his computer, where I know for a fact he’s playing Warcraft rather than updating his accounts.

  “Watch out, Vicky! Ellie’s a fox! Fancy a drink after work, Ellie?”

  “Don’t be daft,” I say. Rick must be all of twenty one. I’m almost thirty, it would be like baby-sitting. Still, even though he’s messing around, it’s quite flattering.

  “How much have you lost?” asks Nick. At least, I think it’s Nick. He’s all wrapped up in his hat and scarf, ready to leave, so it’s pretty hard to tell.

  “Almost a stone,” I tell him proudly.

  “Wow, that’s brilliant!” says Rick warmly. “Isn’t it, Vicky?”

  I wait for her to agree and congratulate me. I’ll have a long wait though because instead of telling me how fantastic this is and blooming well done, she just looks miffed.

  “Keeping it off is the hard bit, you know,” she points out.

  Actually I do know. I’m the expert now in avoiding mince pies, mulled wine and choosing the healthy option at all the Christmas dos. It’s bloody hard, and yesterday the smell of gingerbread latte wafting from Starbucks was nearly enough to send me over the edge. I resisted because I’m only days away from seeing Drake again and showing him the real me. Sam and I are popping up to Oxford Street after work to buy my dress and I can hardly wait. I’m not going risk spoiling everything just for the sake of a slice cake or a few roast potatoes.

  “I exercise everyday and I never eat carbs after 5 p.m.,” Vicky adds piously.

  “Carbs are the devil,” Sam says cheerfully, joining us. He winks at me and deadpans, “Right, Ellie?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “They certainly are!” Vicky says fervently. Turning to Sam and fixing him with the kind of adoring stare a religious fanatic might give an icon, she adds. “You so think the same way as I do!”

  He does? I’m amazed. Sam should be afraid: Vicky has a brain like Aero.

  Sam looks surprised. For the past two years that he’s worked at Broom! Broom! Vicky has hardly deigned to speak to him; grease monkeys are totally below her usually. In the last month she seems to have forgotten this, or at least managed to turn a blind eye to Sam’s spanners and overalls, and is constantly seeking him out or asking him to look at imaginary faults on the cars.

  “We could exercise together, if you like?” Vicky continues, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulders and flashing him a winning smile. “I always hit the gym after work. I could help you with your weights? I know a really good exercise for your biceps.”

  Sam looks taken aback. Until lately the only exercise his triceps ever got was lifting pints.

  “That’s really kind of you but I’m a bit busy tonight,” he says kindly. “Ellie and I are going Christmas shopping. Are you ready, Ells?”

  “I’ll exercise with you,” Rick offers. “Horizontal jog?”

  Vicky throws him a look that practically withers his pot plant. Leaving Rick cowering behind his computer, I grab my coat, wind my scarf around my neck and follow Sam out of the warm office and into the cold night. The sky is clear and high above the roof tops stars glisten like glitter on a Christmas card. As we walk through Ickenham, towards the station, all the shops windows are lit up with their Christmas displays and twinkle in the darkness. The stained glass in St Giles church glows with jewelled hues and as we pass the strains of Christmas carols drift into the night air. I shiver with delicious anticipation. Only five days to go until the party! This Christmas is going to be the best ever! I just know it!

  If I’d thought Oxford Street was crowded the last time I visited, this evening is twenty times more manic. The tubes are rammed and as the Jubilee Line wiggles its way towards Bond Street more and more people squeeze themselves in until my spine’s pressed against the door and my face shoved into a stranger’s armpit. As the train jolts and sways we all cannon into one another and stumble awkwardly. Somebody’s laden carrier bag bashes into my leg and I flatten my palms against the glass in a desperate attempt to remain upright. Sam, several bodies away in the crush, looks over.

  “Shall we give it a miss?” he mouths.

  A miss? No way. I know I’ve chosen to visit the West End on one of the last shopping days before Christmas, so my sanity’s probably in question, but apart from that and several bruised toes I can safely
say that I’m going to buy that dress or die in the attempt. I have no idea why Sam keeps trying to put me off. I’m only minutes away from gliding that escalator, buying my dress and having it loving folded into tissue paper and placed in a yellow bag. I know exactly how those cord handles will feel in my gloved hand and how excited I’ll be when I unwrap the dress again, this time to hang it in my wardrobe. Yes, it’s hideously expensive but I’ve been carefully setting aside money each week and finally I’ve saved enough and it’s going to be worth every calorie counting, Snickers-avoiding minute. In just a moment’s time that dream dress will be mine, step one in my plan completed, and I’m so excited that even playing sardines on the underground can’t spoil my mood.

  The train pulls in to Bond Street and we all spew forth, pour through the tunnels, surge up the escalator and emerge into the magic of the West End at Christmas time. The air of excitement is palpable, mixed with the panic of last minute shopping, and as we mingle with the crowds my heart races. The shop windows glitter and beckon to me: Gap, Zara, Next and co all filled with wonderful treasures and promises of perfect Christmas Days cuddled up in tartan pyjamas and fluffy Uggs or maybe of partying the night away in a sparkly frock. This is the first Christmas in years that I’ve been anywhere near able to fit in these clothes and it’s all I can do not to press my face against the glass like a Victorian orphan outside a bun shop. Only the crowds propelling me long and the thought of my dream dress waiting for me keep me from being completely distracted.

  Selfridges is brimming with shoppers. Tills ring, carols play and there’s a real sense of excitement in the air. With every step that takes me closer to the Emily Rose section I feel my own excitement grow too; like a bottle of Coke that’s been shaken and shaken I feel myself fizzing and fizzing until I’m ready to explode. By the time we reach the final escalator I’m practically tearing up the stairs two at a time and leaving Sam for dust. Wow! I am fit!

  My heart pounding, I weave my way through the rails of designer clothes, Chloe, Stella McCartney and Alice Temperly passing by in an expensive blur until finally I reach the section I’ve been waiting for. With trembling fingers I sift through the rails, counting through the sizes with a growing sense of excitement. Size four (seriously?), six, eight, ten, twelve and … and…

  Hang about. Where’s the fourteen? It was here before, I know it was because I tucked it right at the back and prayed very hard that only very skinny women would come and shop in here. It must have just slipped onto the wrong rail or something. It can’t be far away.

  With a growing sense of panic, I sift through the dresses again and then for a third time, but it’s no use. My dream dress isn’t here. It’s gone.

  “Can I help you, madam?”

  The shop assistant is at my side. She looks a bit worried, probably wondering what this rummaging maniac is up to, but she’s nowhere near as worried as I am. If I can’t find my dress then Drake won’t see me in it, won’t suddenly realize how he feels about me and the whole Christmas party will be ruined. I’ve worked so hard for my dress, and so hard for Drake to notice the real me, that I don’t think I can bear the disappointment. I feel horribly close to tears.

  “I’m looking for this dress in a fourteen,” I manage to say, holding up a twelve and hoping desperately that she’ll be able to magic my size out of thin air. ‘Oh yes, madam,’ she’ll say, ‘we have several of those in the storeroom. I’ll just fetch one for you.’ Except that she doesn’t say this. Instead, she shakes her head.

  “I’m so sorry, we sold our last fourteen two days ago. It’s the last in that line. How about something in the blue or maybe the pink?”

  Pink? Is she mad? I can’t go to the Christmas party looking like a blancmange.

  “Or maybe try the twelve?”

  I shake my head. I know that even with all my hard work and careful eating I’m nowhere near a twelve. To be honest I probably never will be and that’s OK because I’m more than happy with the way I am now. I can’t believe my bad luck though. That dress had been in the store for ages. How typical that it was sold just days before I was ready to buy it.

  “God, Ellie, Usain Bolt should be very afraid,” pants Sam, catching up with me. His blonde curls flop across his face as he bends double to catch his breath, then he straightens up and sees the expression on my face. “Bloody Hell, what’s up? You look as though the world’s about to end.”

  The way I feel right now the world ending would be a mere trifle in comparison.

  “The dress has gone,” I say. My voice sounds as flat as I feel. Is it me, or are all the Christmas decorations in here suddenly far less shiny?

  “Oh dear, that’s a pity,” says Sam, but he doesn’t look very worried. Of course he doesn’t. Sam, for all that he’s my lovely mate and running buddy, is still just a bloke. He couldn’t possibly understand what this means. I know that if Drake had seen me in that dress he’d have been amazed. Now what I’ll wear is anyone’s guess.

  I swallow back the lump of misery in the back of my throat. “It’s my dream dress. I know it sounds crazy but thinking about wearing it really kept me motivated. I don’t know if I’ll even go to the party now.”

  “Hey, Ellie! Don’t say that! Look, there’s something I need to tell you,” Sam says, but at this point my mobile starts to ring. Pulling it from my pocket I see the screen reads Drake and my heart goes into freefall. Drake is calling me! What on earth can he want?

  “Drake? Hi, it’s Ellie,” I squeak. Duh, Ellie! Get a grip. He knows it is. He called you remember?

  Drake! I mouth to Sam who scowls and turns away. I ignore him and deliberately face the opposite direction. Two can play at that game.

  “Hi Ellie,” says Drake, in that sexy, dark chocolate voice that always hits me right in the knicker region. “How’s it going? Sorry I didn’t call back the other day, I’ve had so much on. I was gutted not to be able to meet up. Honestly, once Christmas is out the way you and I will hit the wine bars and that’s a promise.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I say, instantly forgiving him for the lack of communication. To be honest, Sam and I have been so busy with running and Christmas shopping that this hasn’t been anything like the major deal it would once have been.

  “Anyway,” Drake says eventually, once we’ve exhausted conversation about the staff at Ickenham and his adventures in Park Lane, “I was just wondering whether or not you were still going to the company bash this weekend? There’s something I really want to run by you and I think it would be better in person than over the phone.”

  I know that a few minutes ago I was contemplating giving the party a miss but now? I’d sooner dance naked through Oxford Street. What on earth can he want to talk to me about? I mustn’t get my hopes up.

  “Of course!” I say.

  “That’s great! I’m thrilled that you’ll be there. We really need a good catch up.” He pauses for a nanosecond, his voice low and intimate. “I’ve missed you, Ellie. The people at the new office are fine but they don’t really know how to have fun like we all did in Ickenham.”

  I think of Imogen, her mean comments and how she had put Drake on the spot. No, she didn’t look like she could have fun even if you wrote her a manual. Nick and Rick can be a pain, Vicky is a menace and Sam distracts me far too much, but work is generally a lot of fun. So I haven’t been promoted yet and I still dream about selling the sports cars, but at least I work with people who make me smile. Poor Drake.

  “I’ll talk to you properly on Saturday,” Drake promises. “Take care, Ellie. I’ll see you at Pendleton Manor.”

  I end the call and stare at my iPhone in total delight. Suddenly I’m floating on air and ready to shop until I can’t carry any more bags.

   “Right, Sam, “ I say, as I shove the phone away. “Are you ready to hit Oxford Street? I feel the need to shop!”

  But there’s no reply, only silence. Looking up from my bag I realize that Sam is nowhere to be seen. I glance around the designer department jus
t in case he’s lurking underneath a clothes rail but there’s no sign of him anywhere. Neither is in in the top floor Starbucks or downstairs sniffing the aftershaves in Jo Malone.

  Sam, for reasons known only to himself, has vanished.

  Chapter 10

  By the time Friday arrives I’m just about over the disappointment of losing my dream dress and have managed to convince myself that a glittery black one from Next will do the trick. I should be singing the Hallelujah Chorus that I can fit into anything from Next, but because the shopping trip ended on such an odd note with Sam vanishing it’s been hard to feel very enthusiastic. Even knowing Drake’s looking forward to seeing me doesn’t hold quite the same excitement. I didn’t even join in decorating the Broom! Broom! office or contribute to the Secret Santa. For the first time that I can remember I can’t summon any enthusiasm for Christmas. I have no idea what has happened to me. Maybe I’m coming down with something?

  Bah humbug. Just call me Ebenezer Scrooge. I really hope I get into the festive spirit soon.

  Sam’s apologized for bailing on me but whenever I try to find out why, he’s incredibly cagey and avoids answering the question with a skill politicians would envy. To be honest he’s been behaving in a really weird way ever since our trip to Oxford Street. He cancelled our last training session, didn’t turn up for the works lunch in the Coach and today he’s apparently far too busy in the workshop to join us for the boss’s festive announcement. Quite what he’s up to is anyone’s guess; we haven’t sold a car for days. I’ve sent him a couple of texts but he hasn’t replied, which isn’t like him at all. Usually we play text tennis for hours. Perhaps he’s missing Lucy more than he lets on? I know I really miss him. Mum keeps asking where he’s got to and I am at a total loss for an answer. Things feel weird and I really hope he returns to normal soon.