Weight Till Christmas (11 page)

With any luck he’s inside…

Anyhow, the setting of Pendleton Manor is everything I’d imagined and more.  It would be hard to picture a more perfect venue for a Christmas party.  Small fir trees festooned in white lights line the steps leading up to vast front doors thrown open and spilling warm buttery light into the darkness.  Music drifts on the night air and bubbles of chatter rise into the starry sky, words punctuated by the tinkle of glasses and peals of laughter.  The wisteria clinging to the ancient walls has been threaded with yet more twinkling white fairy lights and fluttering red ribbons, while every mullioned window glows with light and promise.  I don’t think I’ve seen a more romantic scene in my life.  Dreams have got to come true here.  If they don’t somebody should sue Mills&Boon.

I shiver, partly because it’s bitterly cold, the air raw with the promise of snow, and partly with anticipation.  Cinder Ellie shall go to the ball and with any luck she’ll find Prince Charming.  I wish I wasn’t arriving on my own though.  Sam and I had planned to travel up together which would have been loads of fun.  We could have played my
Mamma Mia
CD, sung all the way and shared a packet of M&Ms.   ‘Sod the diet,’ Sam would have said, ‘it’s Christmas’.  I always eat the orange ones and he likes the green ones so normally while he drives I sort them all out and then we play this really funny game where you spit out the colours you hate.  Seriously, it makes us hoot for ages.

OK.  Never mind, you probably have to be there to get it. 

Anyway, that’s just what we do, or should I say, what we
used
to do?  If Sam’s leaving Broom!  Broom! then I probably won’t see that much of him anymore, especially if he doesn’t want to train with me.

This thought makes me really sad.  As I climb the steps up to the house even the beautiful swathes of Christmas garland above the door and flickering candles don’t make me feel much better.  I really hope that Sam’s inside and that we get a chance to chat.  I’d hate him to leave without saying goodbye and making some arrangement to keep in touch.  With any luck he’ll be in the hall chatting to colleagues and I can catch him there before Project Drake is go.

I enter the Great Hall, my wrap taken by a helpful attendant and a glass of steaming mulled wine pressed into my hand, but there’s no sign of Sam anywhere.  Vicky stares at me, looking unflatteringly shocked, while Rick and Nick whistle but Sam isn’t with them.  Neither is he with Charlie at the bar or the reception crew, who’ve gathered by the enormous roaring fire.  My heart plops into my gorgeous new glittery sandals.  He’s got to be here somewhere.  He’s bought me this beautiful dress, which has made me feel like a princess from the moment I stepped into it, and I really want to thank him.  It was such a generous thing to do.

I knock back my drink.  It’s so strong my hair nearly stands on end.  I’d have another but past experience tells me this probably isn’t the best idea.  I glance around for Sam.  Maybe he’s over by the tree?  There’s a few of the Broom!  Broom!
mechanics by it…

Mulled wine in hand, I wind my way through the press of colleagues, pausing briefly to chat or air kiss on my way to admire the tree and find Sam.  And what a tree it is, placed proudly at the foot of the staircase, just as I’d imagined, and rising up to reach the minstrel’s gallery.  Rainbow-hued lights have been woven through the thick branches, interspersed with jaunty crimson bows.  High up, and hopefully not suffering from vertigo, an angel tops the tree and guards the piles of gifts that have been scattered artistically at the foot.

This is exactly as I’d pictured it!  The perfect romantic Christmas setting.  Now all I need is Drake…

“Ellie?  Is that you?”

As though I’ve conjured him with my thoughts, Drake has joined me at the foot of the tree.  Ikea blue eyes wide with surprise, he is openly gaping at me.  Those eyes.  They get me every time.  You could bottle my knees as an alternative to Evian.

“Ellie!” he breathes. “You look amazing.”

The words,
‘
what happened’?  linger in the air like the trail made by a sparkler on Guy Fawkes Night.  In reality it’s a little bit insulting.  So I’m a bit lighter and I’m wearing a beautiful dress but I’m still the same Ellie.  The Ellie he thought would embarrass the high-end clients.

Ellie, stop being so picky!  Drake is stunned by how much you’ve changed.  Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?

“Thank you,” I smile.  I’m just about to say that he looks great too when I spot Sam across the Great Hall.  Crikey, he can really rock a tux.  Whoever knew?  Brad Pitt should be very afraid!  No wonder bloody Vicky’s all over him like a chest bandage.

Maybe I should rescue him?

“That dress looks wonderful on you,” Drake is saying, his eyes taking a leisurely stroll over me. “It makes your hair look like fire.”

I rip my attention back to him. “Oh!  Thanks.”

Now this is the point where I’m probably supposed to tell him that he looks great too.  And he does look nice in his DJ, his dark hair falling over his face and his eyes as bright as the blue bulbs on the tree, but he’s put a few pounds on since I last saw him and the sharp angles of his face and the strong line of his jaw are blurred.

“Congratulations on your promotion by the way,” Drake says warmly.  “I always knew you were good.  About time the powers that be saw it too.  You’re an asset to any company.”

I’m sorely tempted to ask him why, if this is the case, he didn’t stick up for me when Imogen made her nasty comments back when he’d just started at the city branch?  But of course I already know the answer to this: however much he may or may not like me, Drake thought I was too fat.  Never mind fat being a feminist issue; it’s clearly an employment one as well.

“Thanks,” I say again.  Wow, Ellie.  Sparkling conversation, not.  Think of something intelligent and interesting to say, for heaven’s sake!  This is your chance to make a big impression with gorgeous Drake, the chance you’ve worked so hard for.  Don’t waste missing out on all those cheeseburgers and  doughnuts by going down a linguistic no through road!  Why can’t I think what to say?  Should I mention that I overheard him and Imogen?

Fortunately, Drake doesn’t seem too worried about my lack of witty repartee.  He’s far too busy telling me all about how amazing things are in Park Lane.  Even as he leads me onto the dance floor he’s running through figures and accounts and asking me questions.  He used to do this all the time when we worked together.  I called it, in Charlie speak, ‘cascading knowledge’
whereas Sam would snort and say it looked more like ‘brain picking’
to him.

As we dance, swaying to the strains of Frank Sinatra dreaming of a white Christmas, Drake pulls me into his arms just as I’ve imagined for so long.  His hand caresses the small of my back, his fingers hot against my skin, and he rests his chin on the top of my head.

“Ellie Summers,” he breathes into my hair, “you really are something else.”

My attention’s certainly somewhere else; across the room to where Sam and Vicky are dancing to be precise.  She’s hanging off his neck like a baby monkey.  Ridiculous.  And what’s he doing encouraging her?  Sam thinks Vicky has the charisma of a lettuce, I know he does.  Granted, she looks amazing in a tight red sparkly dress that shows of her skinny legs, but the skirt’s so short I can practically see what she ate for lunch.

Dieting has clearly had a bad effect on Sam’s brain. 

“So, Ellie, what do you think?” Drake asks.

I yank my thoughts away from Sam and Vicky.  Drake is gazing down at me intently, his eyes holding mine are the same bright hue as a gas flame.  Oh crap.  He’s obviously just asked me something really important and I haven’t the foggiest what it was.  Focus, Ellie, focus!  Maybe he just said he adores you and has missed you terribly, that he now realizes you’re the woman of his dreams and that he can’t live without you?  Or something like that, in any case?

“Ellie?” Drake says gently, his fingers grazing the nape of my neck while I frantically try to look like I know what he’s talking about.  “I know it’s a big decision but I think we could work really well together.”

My heart starts to pogo at this.  Drake thinks we could be good together?  This is more than I could have ever imagined; I knew this dress was good; I just didn’t realize quite how good.  It’s odd though.  This churning feeling is more like panic than excitement.

“You can sell like a dream,” he continues, those hot fingers tracing invisible patterns on my skin.  “You’re great with customers, you’re a whizz with figures and you look sensational.  What a team we’d make!  Come on, Ellie!  It’s the job offer of a lifetime.  What do you say?”

Oh!  He isn’t declaring undying love at all!  He’s offering me a job!  I feel almost relieved before that emotion is swiftly replaced by something that feels rather like annoyance.  Much as it’s great to hear how wonderful I am, all this is coming from the man who when I last visited the Park Lane showroom let his colleague run me down, the same man who by complicity agreed that I wasn’t quite right for his image.  Remembering this takes the gloss off his words a little, even if he is offering me my dream job.  Me, Ellie Summers selling luxury cars in the West End!  And working with Drake too!  Before I lost weight all I could do was imagine this; I was more likely to fly to Mars than work in Park Lane.

“I know it’s a lot to think about,” Drake says quickly when I don’t respond. “I’ve sprung it on you so I guess you’re a little taken aback?”

I nod.  “Yes, I am a bit.” And just a bit cross too, actually.

He gives me his dimpled smile and then shrugs.

“Look, I know it’s a big decision but I really think it could be fantastic.  Why don’t I go and fetch us both another drink and then we can sit somewhere quietly and have a proper chat?”

I glance across the room.  Sam and Sticky Vicky are still entwined.  Fine.

Turning back to him I smile.  “Sounds like an idea.”

Leaving Drake to go and hunt out some mulled wine, I retreat into a drawing room where big squishy sofas are arranged in a square around a roaring log fire.  Some guys I vaguely recognize as being from the Park Lane branch have already bagged these and spread out in a very male and territorial manner, all legs wide apart, brandy in hand and loud sweary conversation.  You can practically see the testosterone tap dancing around the room.  They have their backs to me and thankfully don’t notice I’m there.  Phew.  I really couldn’t face trying to make conversation with a bunch of drunken young guys right now.  I’ve got far too much think about. 

The drawing room backs onto the terrace.  Three enormous windows stretch from the ornate plaster ceiling – where nymphs with cellulite and spare tyres that compete with mine, cavort cheerfully with satyrs and gods – right down to the floor.  Crimson velvet curtains swag each window, gathered back with heavy golden ropes, and within each deep recess are window seats, all plumply cushioned in gold and scarlet fabric.  Great.  Somewhere I can perch for a minute and gather my thoughts. 

I ease myself onto the window seat and stare thoughtfully out into the darkess.  The gardens beyond roll down to the Thames and now and then a river cruiser glides by, spilling trembling lights into the inky water.  It’s beautiful, I’m in my dream dress, thinner than I’ve been for ages, Drake has just offered me a fantastic job, he thinks I look wonderful and it’s Christmas.  Why am I feeling so miserable?  What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m just contemplating this when there’s a huge bellow of laughter from the men on the sofas and I hear Drake’s name mentioned.  Instantly my ears prick up.

“You’re looking like a right fat bastard, Scotty!  If you don’t lose a few pounds soon you’ll end up only being able to pull a fat bird!”

“Like the one I heard knocked Drake over at his leaving do?”

“Pull a pig!” hoots another. “Snog a dog!”

There’s a chorus of sneers and laughter before Scotty is able to get a word in.

“It’s all bought and paid for,” he brags, and there’s the sound of his hand whacking his stomach accompanied by more jeers. “That fat bird works in the Ickenham branch.  She’ll be here tonight somewhere.  The boss said he’d be sure to stuff a big bird this Christmas and he didn’t mean a turkey!”

There’s more raucous laughter but I hardly hear it over the buzzing in my ears. 

Oh.  My.  God.  They’re talking about me!  I know I should leave but I’m frozen onto the cushions in disbelief.  My blood is cold with horror.

“Why’d he do that?” wonders another. “Have you seen Drake’s birds?  They’re fit.  I would!”

More laughter and much discussion of somebody called Kristina who is, apparently, ‘gagging for it’ and who, according to Drake, ‘goes like a train’
. 
I’m hardly able to believe my ears.  I work in a male-dominated industry, but this is something else.

“Kristina blew Drake out,” says the voice I now know as Scotty.  Not a leading light in the global fight for gender equality.  “She can blow me anytime!”

“Fat birds are always more grateful,” remarks another.  “Anyway, Drake needs this one on side.  Our sales figures are shit this quarter and apparently she’s good at winning over punters.  He says it’s worth shagging her to get those skills on board.”

They roar with laughter at this and then the conversation turns back to the unfortunate Kristina and how many of them have got lucky with her.  There must be a man shortage in the West End or something, that’s all I can say.

My blood is no longer running cold or draining away.  No, it’s lava hot now and racing around my body like Lewis Hamilton on the home straight.

I’m fuming.  In a second I’m going to explode in a way that would make Vesuvius look like a feeble firework. Believe me, I don’t have red hair for nothing.  Drake Owen had better not come anywhere near me in the foreseeable because he’ll be wearing his gonads as a necklace. 

Gritting my teeth, I rise to my feet and make for the door.  If I head outside maybe the snow sharp air will cool me down and prevent me from stabbing Drake to death with a holly leaf?  He had better keep away from me, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.  If he does cross my path, I can only hope the cleaners here are good at getting bloodstains out.