Weight Till Christmas (2 page)

He frowns, unconvinced, and this is when I have a brainwave.  In fact it’s more than a brainwave.  It’s a stroke of genius.  Just as my lady customers love it when I load the Micra boots with shopping bags, why don’t I demonstrate just how roomy this little car is?  If I, the girl kindly nicked name Ellie Phant all through school, can fit in this car then he certainly will!

“I’m five nine myself,” I say airily, “hardly small but I absolutely love this car and I find it very comfortable.  I love the seats in this model.”

OK, so this is a bit of an exaggeration but I’m sure this Mazda is fine and Sam did tell me something about the seats being special.  He pressed a button when he was inspecting it, I seem to recall, and I was very impressed.  I ease myself in and settle onto the seat.  Now where was that button again?  And how many times should I press it?  Did Sam say to press it three times or
not
to press it three times?  I should have listened more carefully, I suppose, but I was ordering us all a Chinese takeaway at the time.  Oh well, it can’t make too much of a difference, can it?

 “It’s really very simple,” I say with more confidence than I actually feel as I lean forward and reach for the small silver lever to my left.  I press it three times and just as I was told, the seat moves all right, only not backwards but forwards, slamming me into the wheel and ramming my knees into the dash.

Ouch!  That’s hurt my legs but not nearly as much as my pride.

“Silly me!” I’m gasping because there’s not a lot of puff left for speech and it feels as though my kidneys are about to pop out my nostrils. “I’ve pressed it the wrong way.  I’ll just try again.”

 I press the button again.  I hope to God the seat moves before I pass out.  There’s a whirring sound and the seat judders but it doesn’t move.  Feeling slightly hysterical I jam my finger on the lever with all my might and there’s another grinding of machinery followed by an ominous burning smell.  The seat hasn’t budged an inch.  I am still well and truly stuck.

I feel faint and not just from the lack of oxygen. 

“I think we’ll leave it,” says Steve.

“It’s not supposed to do this,” I squeak, sounding as though I’ve been inhaling helium. “Honestly, give me a moment and I’ll fix it.”

I jab at the lever frantically but there’s still no movement.  My legs start to sweat against the leather seat.  Steve and Angel hover helplessly for five minutes or so while I wriggle and pant like something from
Fifty Shades of Grey
before they eventually make their excuses and beat a hasty retreat.  I’m left all alone in the showroom, wedged in the Mazda and awaiting rescue.  This rescue eventually comes in the form of Sam who, once he’s almost passed out from laughter, has the unenviable task of having to unbolt the car seat to free me.  While he works the others return from lunch and gather round to watch the spectacle.   I don’t think I’ve ever felt so embarrassed.  This is the last time I ever try to squeeze into a car made for Barbie.

Sticky Vicky is cackling with mirth but Charlie, our boss, looks like he wants to cry when he sees Sam unpeeling the interior carpets.  Bollocks, there goes my hope of a bonus.  I really needed that for Christmas.  I’m going to be in serious trouble now.  I must have cost the company a fortune.  So much for hoping I might be promoted to sell the sports cars.  I should have known better because this has not been the year of good things happening.   Quite the opposite, actually. Funerals, tears and being dumped have made this my
annus horribilis
, that’s for sure.

I’m just contemplating putting myself out of my misery by impaling myself on the gear stick when Drake catches my eye.

“You could have just asked me instead of trying out the massage seat option,” he teases.

Sam rolls his eyes and makes a puking gesture, which I ignore because my stomach is far to busy doing flip-flops.  With his long dark hair and ink blue eyes Drake is a younger and edgier version of Richard Armitage as well as my guilty and secret crush.

“Get a grip,” Sam orders me once Drake has stalked back to his desk. “He’s cheesier than the Cathedral City warehouse.”

OK, maybe not so secret?  But Drake is so gorgeous and sometimes he stops to perch on my desk and chat, which has to mean something, doesn’t it?  And he often lets me help him with his paperwork too because he says I’m much better at this than anyone else.  I know he’d never be seriously interested in me in that way but sometimes I can’t help wonder – maybe if I was slimmer?

And maybe a pig just flew past?  Who am I kidding?  I’m wedged in a car, I’m so fat I’ve broken the mechanics, and the only thing keeping me going is the thought of escaping to MacDonald’s once I’m freed.  Guys like Drake never look at girls like me.  I watch him rejoin Sticky Vicky and swallow the huge lump in my throat. 

“You’re nearly free!” Sam declares as the seat inches back. “I’ve saved the day.  That deserves a big thank you, don’t you think?”

“Hardly.  This is all your fault!” I point out. “Three clicks, you said!”

“I said never give three clicks,” Sam says with a grin dancing across his plump face. His green eyes twinkle with amusement. “That puts the seat into inspection mode, you numpty.  It shoots right forward so that the mechanic can access the rear more easily.”

“Oh.” I stare down miserably at the steering wheel, which is so firmly embedded in my cleavage I look like a transformer.  “So why wouldn’t it move?”

Sam pauses. He can’t quite look me in the eye. “The electronics were burned out.”

“Burned out?  But that’s ridiculous.  Weren’t they put together properly?” I am most indignant.  Mazda had better watch out; I shall be sending them a very strongly worded email.

Sam looks awkward. “They couldn’t take the loading.”

Oh.  What Sam is trying to say, as tactfully as he can, is I’m so heavy I burned the electrics out.

“It’s a crap design anyway,” he adds kindly when he sees my mortified expression. “It could have happened to anyone.  It would have happened to me, for sure.  Lucy’s always telling me I need to lose a few pounds.  Come on, let’s go and get a cuppa and a bun to cheer you up.”

 I shake my head.  Sam can try to make me feel better by telling stories about his diet-fascist girlfriend but the truth is that I’m too heavy. Mustering as much dignity as I possibly can, I clamber out of the car.  My legs are numb and trembly, although that could be from all the upset.  Sam can say whatever he likes about the design flaws and his own weight; it didn’t happen to him did it?  It happened to me.  I was the one who got stuck in the car.

The message couldn’t be clearer. 

I need to lose weight.

Chapter 2

My resolution to diet lasts as long as it takes Sam to wander down the high street and return with a bag of doughnuts.  Oh well, I decide as I tuck into one and sprinkle sugar all over my bruised chest, I’ve thought about dieting haven’t I?  And it’s the thought that counts.  Besides, everyone knows there’s no point starting a diet halfway through the day, or even halfway through the week.  No, what are needed are a clean slate and an empty fridge.  Then I can go to the supermarket and buy lots of healthy green stuff to start my new regime.  I won’t be able to snack or cheat because there won’t be anything in my fridge that isn’t good for me.  That’s what I call a result!  I’ll lose shedloads of weight if there’s nothing bad in there to tempt me.

And the best part of this plan?  My biscuit tin is crammed with Mum’s home-made flapjacks which I can polish off in one guilt-free sitting because I will actually be removing temptation before my diet begins.  Mum loves to cook and since we lost Dad there’s only me left to bake for.  I’d hate to hurt her by turning down her cakes and dinners.  She’d be heartbroken.  So every time I visit I’m fed and it’s rare that I leave without a few tupperware containers filled with goodies.  Mum feels better, like she’s still able to care for at least one of us I guess, but it’s playing havoc with my figure.  I must have put on several stone since the funeral.

Luke wasn’t impressed with my weight gain, that was for sure.  Neither was he a fan of my visiting my mother most days after work.  I understood that he felt a bit neglected, but what else could I do?  She was lonely and grieving – to be honest we were both grieving – and I wanted to support her as much as I could, and if that meant eating a roast dinner or a second helping of jam roly-poly, then I figured tighter waistbands and a few extra pounds were a small price to pay.  It was just a pity my boyfriend hadn’t felt the same way.

“You’re putting on weight,” he’d remarked critically one day when I couldn’t squeeze into my jeans.  “You need to stop eating round at your mother’s all the bloody time.”

I’d dragged my attention away from trying to tug up my zip.

“She’s lonely, babe.  She misses Dad so much and it helps her if she has somebody to look after now and then.”

Luke had looked sulky. “It’s not now and then though, Ellie.  It’s practically every day.  I’m lonely too.  I never see you anymore.”

“So come with me?” I’d suggested hopefully, but Luke hadn’t been keen on that idea.  Mum’s semi in Uxbridge didn’t have Sky Sports and her constant cooking, although delicious, played havoc with his diet.  When he wasn’t watching footy Luke liked to play for a local team and he was religious about watching his weight.  I generally cheered from the sidelines and then joined him and our friends in the pub.  This hadn’t been a problem when Dad was alive but now I was spending more time with my mother it was quickly becoming an issue. 

To cut a long and very sad story short, the choice had soon been a simple one: either I spent less time with my mother or we were over.  What kind of a choice was that?  I’m an only child; my mum was heartbroken and very soon so was I.  Luke moved out and I was left with just my regrets, grief and the biscuit tin for company.

 “You could always just bin them the food your mum sends home,” Sam suggests when I mention this idea. He licks jam from his fingers and glances ruefully at the two remaining doughnuts. “That’s what I ought to do with these.  Lucy says I need to lose two stone.”

“Is she mad?  There’s no way you’re overweight.”  Honestly, I despair of Sam’s girlfriend.  Lucy’s been with Sam since we were all at school and she’s a monumental pain.  He was the captain of the rugby team and she was the prettiest girl in the school so of course they ended up together like something out of
High School Musical.
  I don’t know why they’re still together, habit I suppose and the fact that she’s pretty.  Sam’s so easy going but Lucy always was a menace.  When we were in year seven she was the worst for teasing me for being a little bit chubby.  Mum liked to feed me up then too.  It took a growth spurt and moving out of home to get down to a size twelve.

I have a nasty feeling it will take a bit more this time…

“Thanks Els, but she does have a point,” sighs Sam while me and my thoughts meander down Memory Lane.  “Since I hurt my shoulder I haven’t been able to play rugby and the pounds are creeping on.

“I’m going to do some research into diets,” I tell him.  I feel fired up by a missionary zeal at the very thought.  How hard can it really be?  Look at all those celebs that lose tonnes of weight and bring out a DVD.  If they can do it so can I.  Watch out Davina!

I polish off my doughnut and say with great determination, “I’m going to go online and see what I can find out about the 5:2 diet.  Then on Monday I’m starting!  Just you wait.”

“Well good for you,” says Sam.  He helps himself to another doughnut and munches thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll join you?”

“That’s a great idea,” I agree. “We can motivate each other.”       

It will help me keep on the straight and narrow if Sam’s dieting too.  No more trips to Maccy D’s or late night Dominoes if he’s also calorie counting.  I know I have the will-power of a gnat, and a gnat with very little will-power too, so I need all the help I can get.

Leaving Sam to try and restore order to the Mazda I return to my desk and finish off some figures.  Actually, this is more than just figures.  It’s something I am very proud of.  Yesterday while Drake was on a tea break and Vicky admiring her reflection in a car bonnet, I sold ten Fords to a cleaning franchise.  Not the most glam deal ever but this is Cameron’s broken Britain and every sale is valued.  Ten sales should really put me in the good books.  Drake was super impressed and he gave me a kiss on the cheek.  Sometimes he does that and it really confuses me.  Would he kiss me on the cheek if he didn’t like me?  Surely not?  But then again, if he liked me in
that
way, wouldn’t he have done something about it by now?  Asked me for a drink?  Or maybe even dinner? I’ve been single for a fair while now. It’s not as though I’m not free.

Never mind men are from Mars.  Sometimes I think they’re from another universe altogether.

Anyway, once he’d finished the paperwork, Drake had said he was going to speak to our MD about my sales – which might mean a little bonus for me– if they can forgive me for the Mazda fiasco that is.  I could give Mum a really nice Christmas present then, something to make her smile.

I’m just thinking about how I could pay for Mum to have a luxury spa day when our boss, Charlie, strides into the office followed by Drake.

“Ok, Top Team,” he carols, clapping his meaty hands together. “Gather round!”

Top Team?  I catch Drake’s eye, normally we pull faces at each other when our boss talks like a total tool, but Drake is far too busy smiling to look my way.  I minimise the Weight Watchers website and paste an
I’m so interested
expression onto my face.  The rest of the Broom! Broom! team abandon
Facebook
and Twitter
to look attentive.

“This has been a very tough year for the car industry,” Charlie says, as though this is news and we haven’t all been sweating blood to make sales. “But here at Broom! Broom! we buck the trend!  Go us!  This last quarter has been the most successful in the company’s history, and that is down to the sheer grit and talent of you guys and one of our team in particular.”  He pauses for effect as a ripple of excitement flutters around the room.  “Yesterday this person single-handedly sold ten cars and that alone deserves some recognition.”