Weight Till Christmas (3 page)

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 him 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, forty 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.”

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.”