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.
It’s very unfortunate that Drake chooses this exact moment to return with our drinks. The red mist descends…
Chapter 12
Drake pauses in the doorway, a glass of mulled wine in each hand, and smiles at me.
“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
I stare at him. Honestly, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. I feel a bit like Titania when Puck takes the love potion away from her eyes. ‘Methought I was enamoured of an ass!’ Or in this case, a total arse. Why haven’t I noticed before that those blue eyes aren’t so much denim in hue, but rather as bright and warm as arctic seas? And has his chin always been this weak?
“Have you, Drake?” I say, and it’s amazing that my voice doesn’t come out all trembly because inside I am quaking with rage. “Why’s that then? Did you want to pull a pig? Snog a dog? Or maybe stuff a big bird for Christmas?”
Drake blanches. The guys sitting on the sofas turn around, their eyes out on stalks when they see their boss frozen in the doorway. Drake should be frozen. My voice is so icy I hope his cock gets frostbite.
“Oh shit!” I hear Scotty say. “That’s her!�
��
“I thought you said she was a munter?” Hisses another, and is instantly shushed by his cronies.
“Yes, Drake,” I say sweetly. “What about that charming comment? It’s right up there with ‘fat girls are more grateful’, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ellie, I can explain everything!” He says frantically, his eyes darting to his white faced colleagues. “That was before – before you looked like this!”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window and for a second I hardly register that the tall red-haired woman in flowing green, curvy in all the right places and with boobs that Katie Price would envy, is really me. Inside I’m still the same Ellie Summers who shared doughnuts with Sam and adored Drake from afar. I might look different on the outside, but I’m still the same person! Nothing has changed.
Nothing, that is, apart from the adoring Drake part. Now I see him for exactly what he really is: a shallow, egotistical used car salesman. And he isn’t even very good at that. If his sales figures are as bad as it seems they are, Charlie will have him out by Easter.
I look him slowly up and down and then I start to laugh. I went to all this effort for Drake? What an idiot I’ve been! He doesn’t deserve so much as a nano second of my time.
The only person I should have been doing it for is myself.
“Sorry Drake,” I say sweetly, “but I won’t be coming to work with you up west. And I certainly won’t be playing ‘pull the sexist pig’ either. The only turkey getting stuffed this year will be you when Charlie sees your next set of sales figures. Have a merry Christmas, because I don’t think the New Year will be particularly happy!”
And with this parting shot, I push past him. Mulled wine sloshes all over his shirt like a blood stain and even though he calls after me, apologizing and begging to be allowed an explanation I find that I really couldn’t give a hoot. As I stomp across the hall, past the Christmas tree and through the dancers, I replay the hurtful conversation I overheard and test my feeling gingerly for damage, a bit like you’d prod the sore bit where a tooth has been removed.
‘I thought you said she was a munter?’ Prod. Nothing.
‘Fat birds are more grateful.’ Prod. Nope. Still nothing.
‘He’d be sure to stuff a fat bird this Christmas and he didn’t mean a turkey!’ Another prod and, yet again, nothing.
To discover, after all those months of agonizing over Drake and dreaming of tonight, that I don’t actually give a toss about him feels really strange and, to be quite honest, extremely liberating. Drake Owen is an idiot. He used me and I’ve been far too stupid to see it. My own lack of self-esteem got right in the way of the truth. Well, that’s not going to happen again. No way. It might be dark in here with only candles and fairy lights to illuminate the hotel, but I’m suddenly seeing a lot of things more clearly. Now I need to find Sam. I owe him a massive apology.
The great hall is filled to bursting point now with partygoers dancing of standing in groups to chat and laugh. There must be over a hundred people in the room and even though I’m not short it’s hard to see who is present. Bunching my skirts up into my fists, I climb up the stairs to the gallery where I can peer down on the scene and try to spot Sam’s curly blond head in the crowd. The last time I looked he was dancing with Vicky but now there’s no sign of him. And, now I come to think of it, there’s no sign of Vicky either.
Oh my God. What if they’ve left together?
My stomach lurches and for a hideous minute I think I might hurl my mulled wine down onto the unfortunate guests. Heart thudding, I step back from railings and try to take a deep breath. The scene shimmers dangerously, candle flames flickering and dancing as my eyes fill with tears.
I am at a wonderful Christmas party in a beautiful country house. I am slimmer, I am successful and I could have taken the job of my dreams. I no longer care what Drake thinks and I am free to have fun. All my Christmas wishes are coming true, so why am I so bloody miserable?
The answer, when it comes, hits me between the eyes like a mallet and is so glaringly obvious that I could howl. I am unhappy because I’m not being true to myself. This girl in the green dress, with the elaborate hair do and size fourteen body isn’t the real Ellie Summers. The real Ellie Summers likes Maccy Ds, and going to the Coach and sometimes she even likes to go running in the park.
But most of all she likes to be with Sam.
I am unhappy because I miss Sam. When I’m with Sam I’m always happy…
And then it all falls into place. It’s Sam, my doughnut-eating, partner in fitness, dress-buying buddy. Of course it is! It always has been. It’s Sam.
Sam’s the one.
I fly down the stairs and fight my way through the press of bodies, colliding with elbows, treading on toes and gasping out apologies. I scarcely notice whom I’m trampling on because all I can think about is finding Sam. I tear through the hall, the dining room, the music room and even the terrace, but there’s no sign of him anywhere. Close to tears and breathless, I’m just on my third circuit of the hall when I slam straight into Vicky, swaying drunkenly in the doorway.
“Slow down!” Vicky says as I narrowly escape a lethal hipbone injury. Peering up at me through eyes that are practically crossing with drink, she adds, “What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.”
I’ve had my appearance dissected quite enough for one evening. Besides, I’m in no mood to play social chess.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask. “Come on, Vicky! He was with you just now.”
Vicky catches hold of my arm to steady herself. She’s plastered. Mind you, she’s so tiny one glass usually sends her over the edge.
“He’s gone,” she says mournfully. “Lovely, lovely Sam has gone. I haven’t seen him for ages.” She hiccups. “We’ll probably never, ever see him again.”
I stare at her. For a second I’m so relieved that he isn’t snogging Vicky’s face off somewhere that it takes a while to register that he’s vanished. “What do you mean, he’s gone? Why would he leave?”
Vicky looks at me as though I’m stupid. OK, so she always looks at me like this but tonight the look is even more critical.
“Like duh! Because he saw you dancing with Drake,” she says, rolling her eyes like a dying horse. “Honestly, Ellie, that was really quite cruel. He’s devastated. I’ve had to listen to him going on about it all evening.”
I stare at her.
“And he’s so yummy,” Vicky continues, getting into her stride now. “I don’t know why you don’t give him a chance. You must know how he feels about you? You don’t?” Her eyes widen when I fail to respond. “Bloody Hell, Ellie. Sam’s crazy about you. Has been for ages. How come you don’t know? Everybody else does.”
They do? I’m staggered. Sam is crazy about me and they all knew? Thanks a bundle for not telling me, everybody! Suddenly everything starts to make sense, a bit like staring at one of those magic eye pictures for yonks and then suddenly seeing the pattern.
“I’m crazy about him too,” I whisper.
“Well, of course you are. Duh!” says Vicky. “Oh sod it, it’s Christmas and it’s not like Sam’s interested in me anyway. He’s just called a cab. If you hurry maybe you’ll catch him?”
I don’t need to be told twice. With a speed that the ducks on Ickenham pond wouldn’t believe, I tear out of the dining room and race through the Great Hall, past the beautiful Christmas tree, out of the enormous doors and into the night. Snow is falling now, big fat flakes that dance and whirl from a dark midnight sky, mingling with the strains of Silent Night floating from the terrace. The minor key is achingly sad and I shiver, partly from this and partly from the snowflakes drifting against my bare shoulders. I couldn’t care less about being cold though. All I care about is finding Sam.
I run down the steps, past the trees freckled with white fairy lights, and out into the darkness. My breath clouds in front of me as I pause on the drive, peering into the flurries and darkness. Has he left? Surely not. The snow has fallen on the
drive and there are no tell tale tyre marks. Sam has to be here still. He has to be!
Then, as though pure longing magics him to me, I spot a familiar figure at the far end of the drive, leaning against curly wrought iron gates topped with small Christmas trees. Suddenly all the training and running makes sense as I kick off my sandals and hurtle down the drive, not caring at all that the gravel digs into my bare soles or that the snow freezes my toes. All I care about is reaching Sam as quickly as I can. As I sprint, I know that every counted calorie and every missed burger has been worth it because it’s led me to this moment. Nothing else matters. I only care about Sam.
“Ellie?” Sam gasps, staggering backwards as I hurl myself at him. His arms tighten around my waist as he steadies me. “Are you OK? What’s happened?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer because I don’t have the words and anyway I have something far more important to do. I place my hands either side of his face, his dear smiley face, and then I kiss him. His lips are cold and frozen with surprise at first but not for long, because within seconds Sam is kissing me back, questioningly at first but then longer and deeper as his arms tighten and he pulls me close. I feel the racing of his heart against my chest and I kiss him as though he’s the oxygen I need to stay alive, which in a way I guess he always has been.
Finally we break apart, smiling shyly at each other as the snow flakes settle on our eyelashes, so close together that they are touching. We don’t need to speak: our kiss says more than words ever could.
Sam rubs his nose against mine. A Christmas Eskimo kiss that makes me melt just like the snow that falls against our lips.
“Can I tell you something?” he whispers.
Weight Till Christmas Page 9
