Weight Till Christmas Read Online Free Page A

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