Weight Till Christmas Read Online Free Page B

five a day, so it’s actually good for me.  Besides, what Lucy doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
    I don’t say anything.  Lucy, diet Nazi, can probably sniff out pepperoni from a mile off.
    Sam finishes his slice and licks his fingers happily. “Do you want me to fetch you a bit?”
    Normally nothing could have kept me from a pizza but today I have to think very carefully about my dress.  I feel like one of those Victorian women who were laced into corsets.  God, no wonder they were always fainting.  I’m feeling quite giddy myself, although that could be all the alcohol hitting an empty stomach.
    I shake my head and enjoy the unusual sensation of being virtuous.
    “No thanks, Sam.  I’m fine.”
    He looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ellie Summers?  Come on, El!  It’s double pepperoni – your favourite.”
    I glance at the buffet and it’s all I can do not to drool.  My stomach rumbles again, so to distract myself I have another class of champagne.  Everyone knows champagne isn’t fattening.  Kate Moss lives on the stuff and she’s the size of a sparrow.  I glug the drink gratefully now I know it’s practically calorie free.
    “I can’t eat,” I explain to Sam, as we head back to the buffet table and he piles his plate high with potato skins, kettle chips and pizza. “This dress was way too tight already.  I’m in agony!”
    He looks up from the very important business of stacking Pringles up on his paper plate. 
    “So why didn’t you wear something more comfortable?”
    Sam’s so sweet and such a mate that I sometimes forget he is still a bloke. 
    “Because it’s my best party outfit and this is a party,” I explain patiently. “I wanted to look my best.”
    “Ellie, you always look great,” he says loyally.
    “Mate, you need to get yourself to Specsavers,” I say, in surprise.  What’s got into him?  Sam isn’t usually one to comment on the appearance of anything that isn’t edible.
    He sighs. “Why can’t you take a compliment?  You do look lovely.  You’re Ickenham’s version of Isla Fisher.”
    Stealing a look at my reflection in the showroom window, I wince.  Isla on a bad day maybe and if she’d lived on my mum’s macaroni cheese for a month!  It’s sweet of Sam to be nice to me.   Maybe I could get a refund on those Spanx?  I don’t feel like Giselle at all, more like a load of slow drying cement poured into a dress.  Vicky, currently draped all over Drake like a toga, is looking lithe and toned and amazing in something that’s little more than two hankies stitched together.  Seriously.  I don’t think it could even contain one of my sneezes. 
    Life really isn’t fair.
    “You do always look great,” Sam insists loyally.  “I don’t understand why you put yourself through this agonizing.  Why don’t you just go and get changed into something that won’t slice you in half and then come and have some fun?  It’s just some drinks and nibbles for Fake Drake’s leaving do, not Miss bloody World.”
    I choose to ignore the ‘Fake Drake’jibe and open my mouth to tell Sam that tonight is supposed to be the night where Drake spots me across the Twiglets, realizes that underneath the billowing midriff is the girl of his dreams and sweeps me off into the sunset, but then shut it quickly.  Not only is this dream totally ridiculous but also Sam likes Drake as much as Tom likes Jerry.  I’ve heard quite enough barbed comments lately to have gathered this much.  I don’t want to fall out with him.  Instead I splash some Cava into a paper cup.
    “Don’t go too mad on the booze,” Sam warns.  “We all know what happens when you get drunk!  Remember the firm’s Christmas party when you—”
    “All right!  All right!” I say quickly.  Why is it that my friends always remember the embarrassing things I do rather than the super cool ones?  Granted, the ratio of cock-ups to