Weight Till Christmas

Weight Till Christmas

Ruth Saberton

Copyright page

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 Ruth Saberton

Cover Illustration copyright © Carrie May

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Also by Ruth Saberton

Rearranged (with Sofia Latif)

Katy Carter Wants a Hero

Ellie Andrews has Second Thoughts

Amber Scott is Starting Over

Writing as Jessica Fox

The One that Got Away

Eastern Promise

Hard to Get

Unlucky in Love

Always the Bride

Writing as Holly Cavendish

Looking for Fireworks

Writing as Georgie Carter
The Perfect Christmas

About This Edition

Weight Till Christmas
has been written and edited in British English rather than American English, including spelling, grammar and punctuation.

Chapter 1

OK Ellie, don’t panic.  You can do this.  Of course you can.  It’s just a car and all you have to do is sell it.  It’s not like you don’t do this every day of the week.  Just ignore the fact you’ve never been near the sports cars before and only sell the little shoppers.  So what if it’s a brand new Mazda MX5 with all the flashy gadgets and toys?  It still has wheels and an engine, doesn’t it?  This is your big chance to show the boss what you can really do.  Get this one right and it’s goodbye lady cars, pink seats and boots that fit the shopping, and hello supercars! Your dream of being promoted to sell the sports cars could be only seconds away from coming true!  If you make this sale, surely the boss will see that you’re more than capable of being promoted.

I glance around the showroom.  It’s noon on a sunny autumnal day and everybody else has pushed off for lunch, leaving me alone to man the showroom of Broom! Broom!, Ickenham’s premier car dealership. 

While a young couple circle the car and whisper excitedly, I break a chunk off my Dairy Milk and chomp thoughtfully.   I’ve been working towards a promotion for months, putting in all the overtime and doing my best to prove that I’m more than capable.  I’ve sold loads of little shoppers and I’ve helped the team reach our sales target.  Stick insect Vicky, the other junior sales woman, is adamant that she’s going to be promoted and never misses an opportunity to put me down.  Why she has to be such a cow I really have no idea.

  Sam, the Broom! Broom! mechanic, childhood friend and my partner in Krispy Kreme runs, says it’s because she’s rubbish at her job and I’m not, but I’m not convinced.  What does it matter whether Sticky Vicky is good at selling cars or not when she’s skinny and blonde?  I might pull in more sales but I’m a size sixteen on a good day, wearing control pants and with the wind behind me, which renders me invisible to Drake and practically the rest of the male species.  I’m no threat to Vicky.  Other women, usually the middle-aged or those with several kids in tow, are more than happy to chat to me over the Fiestas and Micras, which is probably why I sell so many.  But I know that deep down inside me is a thin Ferrari-driving Ellie Summers just screaming to get out – or rather she would be if I didn’t keep shutting her up with huge mouthfuls of Dairy Milk.

 To be honest, I’m not sure when this chocolate habit really took hold.  Maybe about the same time Dad died?  Or perhaps a few months after, when Luke had enough of a girlfriend who spent more time with her mother than she did at home with him, and moved out?  I’m sure a shrink would have all sorts of fun making connections and figuring it out and good luck to them.  All I know is that when things are grim there’s nothing quite like a Snickers.

I hide my chocolate underneath my paperwork.  Firstly, it’s melting and, secondly, if Sam comes by he’ll pinch it.  I cast another cursory glance around the Broom! Broom! showroom.  It’s still empty.  The young couple are looking at a Micra now, but she isn’t interested, I can tell.  Her partner looks enthusiastic but she keeps glancing back towards the Mazda.  I won’t approach them just yet.  They need to talk so she can persuade him that a sexy sporty car is far preferable to a practical little shopper.  Car sales are all about timing and tact; if I go over and wade in like a bull rampaging through a china shop they’ll leave before you can say Mazda
.
  Seriously, I know how these things go.  That’s why I’m good at my job. 

While I give them a couple more minutes, I click the mouse on m
y computer and bring up my favourite web page.  Up it pops, all pinks and lilacs and flowing italic script intertwined with white ribbons and green ivy.
Emily Rose Design:  New to Selfridges!
the web page declares proudly.   I glance across at the couple, still deep in conversation,
and return my attention to the screen,
scrolling through until I arrive at the item I’ve been admiring for the last few days.   There it is,
my dream dress.  Cut on the bias and from the smoothest, softest fabric imaginable, it falls in elegant folds from two diamond clips on the shoulders.  The front is a deep V, designed to show off the collarbones and cleavage, while the back is draped towards the small of the back. 

Everything about this dress cries simple sophistication and ever since I first saw Isla Fisher wearing it at a premier I have longed for it with all my heart.   I know it would suit me because Isla and I share the same colouring; red curly hair, pale skin and cinnamon freckles but sadly for me, this is where the similarity ends.  Isla is a gorgeous, delicate wisp of a girl who probably lives on salad whereas I clod hop through life and have Nutella for blood.   My collarbones are hidden under a good layer of flab, if indeed they exist at all, and the Michelin Man would envy my spare tyres.  So while Isla easily fits into designers’ samples I’ll be lucky if one of my thighs squeezes into this.  Even if the price tag wasn’t so astronomical there’s no way I could buy this dress.  It would never fit me.

I sigh and quit the page.  This is the dress that I long to wear to the company’s Christmas party.  Although it’s only September the date is already circled on the showroom calendar and Vicky has been planning her outfit practically since the end of June.   The Christmas party is the highlight of the year and only this morning Charlie, our boss, promised that if we meet our sales targets for the quarter we’ll be treated to the biggest bash in the company’s history.  I’d love to wear this dress to the party but first of all I’d have to lose some weight and, secondly, save enough money to afford it.  Which brings me neatly back to being promoted…

Over by the scarlet MX5 the young couple are deep in discussion.  She looks smitten but he isn’t so sure, I can tell from his body language.  Perhaps he thinks the car is too expensive?  Or maybe he’s worried that it’s a bit too girly for him to drive?  Who knows?  Either way it’s up to me to prove he’s wrong and make the sale.  This is it.  My big chance!

 Right deep breath, Ellie.  The customers don’t know that Drake handles the performance cars and you only sell the hatchbacks
. 
All they know is that they like this red phallic symbol. All you have to do is sell it to them.  How hard can that be?  I’ve been top saleswoman here for two years running. I’ve sold more Micras and Kas than I’ve had Big Macs – which is saying something – so it’s high time I had a turn at selling something a bit more exciting.  I
know
I can do it.  I just have to be given the chance.  The others going for lunch at the
exact
moment customers want to see the Mazda is my big opportunity and I can’t wimp out now.

I pin a big smile onto my face and join them.  “Hi there!  It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

The woman nods excitedly. “I love it!  I’ve wanted one of these for ages, haven’t I, Steve?”

 Steve smiles indulgently. “Yes, you have, angel, but when I said I’d buy you a new car for Christmas I had something a bit more practical in mind.”

Blimey.  What must it be like to live in a world where your boyfriend calls you ‘angel’ and buys you a car for Christmas?  That’s like living in a parallel universe or something.  My ex called me Chubs and couldn’t understand why I had an issue with being given an iron for Christmas.  Just my luck I live in the crappy parallel universe. 

 “This Mazda is the very latest model,” I tell them, crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping I’m getting this right. “I know it looks small but it’s the perfect combination of style and substance, as well as featuring the very latest in performance technology.”

And just like that, I’m off.  As I tell them all about the MPG and the sophisticated braking systems, Steve looks impressed and Angel is blown away by the range of colours she could choose from.  When I mention the option of cream leather seats she looks as though she’s having a religious experience.

“Why don’t you take it for a test drive?” I suggest.  The sun is out, in the golden syrup light Ickenham’s at its suburban best, and once they’ve popped the roof down I know there’ll be no turning back.  I’ll have sold the car and my boss will have to let me have a crack at the Ferraris and Audis!  Result!

Angel is bouncing with excitement but Steve is still looking worried.

“I’m not sure I’ll fit inside,” he says doubtfully. “Look at me, I’m six foot two and this car is tiny.”

Aha Steve!  I am ready for this! 

“This model comes equipped with the very latest in electronic memory seats,” I assure him. “I know the driver’s area looks pretty cramped but actually it’s really spacious.  There are several settings to ensure maximum leg room.”