Weight Till Christmas (6 page)

“Besides,” moans Sam, “I still need to lose some weight.  Lucy knows I’m cheating on the diet and it’s really annoying her.”

I sigh.  Sam might be carrying a stone or so too much but everyone knows it’s not the same for guys.  Besides, he always loses it easily when he puts his mind to it.  It’s not quite so simple for me.  Sam is a sweetheart and a good pal but I can’t ignore the evidence that’s staring me in the face any longer.  This is hardly CSI Ickenham: I got wedged in a car, an old man thought I was pregnant, Drake feels awkward about my weight and my boss just passed me over because I’m too fat.  The evidence is all spelling out one thing and one thing only.  I need to make some changes, starting by telling Mum I can’t eat her lovely dinners every night if I want to lose some pounds.

Everyone returns to work, or as much work as can be done when they are excitedly discussing the Christmas extravaganza.  Sticky Vicky is loudly telling our ancient cleaner and the secretaries exactly what she plans to wear to the party and before long has pinged pictures of her dream outfit to us all by staff email.

 Abandoning my orders, I pull up
Emily Rose
on the Internet, scrolling through the beautiful outfits until I find the dress.  There it is, all cloud soft emerald velvet and glittery straps.  I just know that if I could get into a size 14 it would look amazing against my skin and hair.  My eyes close and I see again my day-dream: the country mansion, the snow, me floating down the stairs, Drake sweeping me into his arms and realizing that I’m not just a colleague but the woman of his dreams.  Never mind any old fairytale.  If he saw me looking like that at the Christmas party it really would be Cinder Ellie!  I just know it!

And just like that I have a plan.  An amazing, inspiring wonderful plan.  With the Christmas party as my goal and the very handsome prince attending it, this is the chance I’ve been waiting for to show Drake the woman I really am underneath the squishy bits. 

I flick open my diary.   The party’s going on the 19
^th
of December.  That gives me nearly six weeks  to get myself into shape and into my dream dress.    That’s ages and ages, isn’t it?  I can do it.  How hard can losing a bit of weight really be? Josie from
Big Brother
did it and she was huge before.  Surely I can do it too, especially if I have my dress as my goal?

Snapping the diary shut, I jump to my feet and call across to Rick that I have to pop out for an hour.  I’m going to lose that weight, wear that dress and wow Drake.  Of course I am.  That’s what happens in all the films and novels, isn’t it, so why shouldn’t it happen to me?  I am going to get started on my diet and health kick right away.

And, for the first time in my life, I can hardly wait.

Chapter 6

Several days into my so-called master plan I’m not feeling quite so confident or as enthusiastic.  In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve not been rather over optimistic thinking that I can actually do this.   Losing weight, slipping into my dream dress and wowing Drake at the Christmas party seems like a great idea in theory but the reality’s a bit different.   Forget what all those celebrities tell you with their DVDs and personal trainers to force them into becoming exercise and lettuce junkies.  Dieting is hard.  Really hard, especially in the run up to Christmas where just about everywhere I go there are mince pies and gingerbread lattes just crying out to be gobbled up.

Seriously, I bet Einstein had an easier time splitting the atom than I’m having losing the pounds.

If they sold will power alongside the Adios
and Slim Fast,
I might stand a chance because I’m really struggling.  So far I’ve spent a fortune on diet books, walked to the duck pond so many times that the ducks recognize me and come waddling over hopefully only to be really cheesed off when I don’t have a bun or a bit of stale bread for them.  Those ducks have got no hope.  I wouldn’t trust myself near bread at the moment, stale or not.  Carbs are a big no no on all the diets I’ve researched and it’s been over a week now since I ate any bread.  No wonder my dreams are full of rolls smothered in thick yellow butter, or doorsteps of toast plastered with Marmite.  Just the thought makes me drool and every cell in my body strains to take a trip to Greggs.  Seriously, if Drake Owen turned up now desperate to ravish me and there was a plate of hot buttered toast on offer too it’d be a close run thing, which I’d choose.

My name is Ellie Summers and I am a breadaholic…

The other thing nobody tells you about dieting is not only does it play havoc with your social life – no more chatting over lattes or sending out for a pizza – but it also puts all your relationships in jeopardy.
 
Take my mum for instance.  She was mortally offended when I told her I couldn’t eat huge dinners every night and refused the huge chocolate cake she’d baked.  Honestly, I felt like the biggest cow in the world.  On Sunday I turned down a roast and Mum is still sulking; apparently she had to invite the neighbours in to eat it, which I think can only be a good thing?  In the meantime, Sam says if I do the cabbage soup diet any longer he’s going to seriously reconsider being my friend.  It’s Friday evening now and everybody has gone to the Coach for a drink and some food while I close up and stomach does a great impression of Vesuvius erupting.  No socializing for me tonight.  I am a girl on a mission.  And that mission is to lose weight.  Or starve in the attempt.

After Charlie’s announcement about the Christmas party and my following epiphany, I’d raced into Ickenham and totally cleared the local chemists out of Slim Fast
. 
I wish I hadn’t bothered.  The shakes are really good, and I’m particularly partial to the strawberry, but I don’t think you’re really meant to drink them all by  lunchtime.  Anyway, I discovered very quickly that meal replacements don’t work for me.  So it was on to the next plan and this time I was determined I’d stick to it.  How hard could the 5:2 really be?  The first two days went really well.  Then I hit the 2 part.  I tried my best but I ate my entire day’s calories by elevensies and at the close of the working day I was practically passed out at my desk.  Rick and Nick had to feed me emergency Mars bars just so I could leave the office and walk home, which totally defeated the object.  So now, day ten, I’m three days into the Cabbage Soup Diet, which seems effective, if a little antisocial. 

Drastic measures are called for if I am to fit into my dream dress.

So this evening I’m going to take the next step in my master plan.  Rather than joining the others for a couple of ciders and a pile of cheesy chips I’m about to enter the mysterious world of the local gym for my induction session.

I pause at the bottom of the steps and look up.
 
Absoglutely Fit
. 
Do I even have abs to get
glutely fit
?  Somewhere under the squishy bits I guess I must have.  Time to find out I suppose.  I check my watch and gulp back the rising terror as two tiny girls tear past me, all swishy ponytails, and racehorse legs in tiny shorts and bright white Reeboks.  My saggy leggings, huge tee shirt and tatty trainers hardly compare and the rainy November evening has made my hair frizz.  There’s no way I can swish anything.  For a moment I teeter, torn between wanting to look like them and doing a runner.  I could easily make it back to the pub

 It’s almost six and I’m due to have my induction, whatever that means, in about two minutes’ time. I have a sudden longing to be squashed up the saggy sofa in the Coach, sharing chips with the boys and listening to Sam moan about the latest workshop drama.  Anything but make an idiot of myself here.  Then I think about getting stuck in the Mazda and Drake’s awkwardness when he thought I was going to visit him and my resolve hardens.  Almost before I know I’ve done it, I’ve climbed the steps, shot through the revolving doors and am checking in at reception.

“Ellie Summers?” The receptionist, skinny, swishy haired and very tanned for London in November, beams at me. “Fantastic!  Kevin will be doing your induction tonight.”

“Kevin?” I echo.  A guy?  I thought they’d give me a sympathetic woman.  Somebody who might understand how it feels to worry about your cellulite and bum.  Not a bloke!  I almost turn tail and bolt for the street except that a man mountain is blocking my way.  My goodness, but he’s huge!  I just about reach his navel.  And are those legs or Giant Redwoods?

“This is Kevin!” trills the receptionist as the giant takes my hand and pumps it enthusiastically. “Kevin’s one of our best!  He used to play rugby for Britain.  He’ll take your details and don’t worry!  He’ll soon get you in shape.”

Never mind get me in shape.  My shoulder is practically dislocated now.  Traumatized, I trot after Kevin through a warren of corridors and into an office where he sits me down and starts to go through a scarily long list of questions.  Every time I answer, he clicks his tongue in a faintly disapproving manner.  I’m not sure what I’ve said wrong.  So far I’ve only given him my age and address and said that I want to get fit.  What’s wrong with that?

“Weight?” barks Kevin, pen poised over a complicated form.

I stare at him.  To be honest I haven’t a clue.  My weight is a bit like the state of my bank account; if I don’t check the balance I can’t get upset.  What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

“Err, ten stone?” I say hopefully.

Kevin’s brows shoot upwards in a most unflattering manner. “I doubt that very much.  Get on the scales, please.”

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.  I haven’t been on the scales since – well, I can’t even remember.  Since Luke left, that’s for sure.  He loved to weigh us both and even kept an Excel spreadsheet to chart our progress.  I dreaded those weigh in sessions, especially towards the end when he would sigh and look so disappointed with me.  Soon scales were to me as garlic cloves are to vampires.

Feeling close to hysteria I step onto the scales while Kevin peers over and tuts again.

“Eleven stone two.”

“Eleven stone two?” I stare at him in disbelief.  How much does cabbage soup weigh?  “That can’t be right.  Maybe I should take my trainers off or my watch?”

But Kevin isn’t listening.  He’s far too busy coming at me with a terrifying pair of pincers.

“Ow!” I shriek as he grabs a big chunk of my upper arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“BMI.” Kevin tuts again as he scribbles something down on his chart. “Over 28.  That’s verging on obese.”

I glower at him and rub my arm.  So tell me something I don’t know, smart arse.  I’m not here because I’m skinny.

“Tell me about your diet,” Kevin continues, indicating that I should sit down again.  I do, but eye the pincers warily.  If he waves those at me again I’m out of here like last week. “What do you like to eat?”

What do I like to eat?  Chips, pizza, Maccy Ds, buns, Mum’s roasts to name a few, but somehow I don’t think these are the answers he’s looking for.

“Err, bread,” I say helpfully. “Wholemeal, obviously.”

He fixes me with a gimlet gaze. “Bread is the devil.”

It is?  This is news to me.  I’m very fond of bread.  Right.  Think again, Ellie.  Don’t piss him off.  What’s mildly healthy?

“Rice?  Brown rice, of course.”

Another tut.  “Rice is the devil.”

I try again. “Cottage cheese on Ryvita.  Mmm.”

“Dairy is the devil.”

And on and on we go, through just about every food group known to girl until I realize everything, which tastes nice and makes life worth living is the devil.  Yep, Satan has the monopoly on all the tasty grub.   All I should want to eat is green stuff and eggs.

Yummy.

Assessment done, and Kevin clearly disgusted by my unhealthy life style, I am frogmarched to the gym, where lots of tiny weeny women are pounding away on treadmills or climbing endlessly on step machines.  No wonder they don’t break a sweat on the steps to the gym.  Feeling self-conscious, I tug my tee shirt over my tummy and breathe in.  I’m not convinced I want to go near any of this scary looking equipment.  It looks like something out of a torture chamber and judging by the way that man lifting weights with his legs is grunting, it blooming well hurts.

Oh God.  I miss the Coach
.

“Hop on,” Kevin says, pointing to a treadmill and typing something into a dashboard that wouldn’t be amiss on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

I climb on nervously.  Kevin leans across and clips what looks like a giant peg onto my index finger.  I am now wired to the machine in a way that is frankly quite alarming.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“I’m going to take your heart rate and pulse at rest and after exercise,” he explains.  A frown creases his forehead. “That’s strange, your pulse seems very high already.”

I don’t find this strange at all.  I’m so stressed I’m amazed my pulse hasn’t exploded the equipment.  The machine begins to whir and I start to walk.  Hey!  This isn’t so bad.  Maybe I can get into this after all?  I can buy some funky exercise gear and bring my iPhone ear buds and I’ll be well away.  Green dress here I come!

But just as I’m starting to enjoy myself Kevin twiddles something on the controls and the treadmill picks up pace.  I start to walk even faster but I just can’t keep up.  The next thing I know I’ve broken into an ungainly jog and am wobbling all over the place in an attempt not to go flying.  Blimey, never mind the funky exercise gear, I’m investing in a sports bra, preferably one fashioned from girders because my boobs are bouncing around like Skippy.  I cross my arms over my chest and plough on, my breath starting to rasp and the cabbage soup in my stomach swilling around in a very alarming way.  Oh dear, this does not feel good at all…

“I need to stop,” I gasp as my stomach starts to growl and churn.

Kevin gives an evil chuckle.  “Every one says that at this stage.  Go for the burn.  Let’s see what you can really do.”

Before I have a chance to protest he’s cranked the pace up yet again and my legs start to spasm as I try desperately to keep up.  Oh Lord.  Sam wasn’t joking about the antisocial effects of the cabbage soup diet!  My stomach is doing macramé and I can even hear the noises it’s making above the whirring machine.  My body breaks into a cold sweat.