Weight Till Christmas by Ruth Saberton

Christmas pudding as I like and watch rubbish telly all day long.”
    “Not too much Christmas pudding,” I warn but Sam’s not listening, he’s far too busy jumping to his feet and shrugging on his leather jacket.
    “Come on, slowcoach!” He chivvies, as I sip the dregs of my coffee. “Talking of Christmas, isn’t time we got on with our shopping?  Somebody said something about a green dress in Selfridges?”
    I abandon my drink and follow him out of the warm fug of the coffee shop and into the gloom of a December afternoon.  The scent of roasting chestnuts hangs heavy in the air as we cross the covered market and in the piazza a living statue has dressed as Santa much to the delight and curiosity of the crowds.  We plunge back down into the tube and surface twenty minutes later in the mayhem that is Oxford Street on a December Saturday.  Crowds throng the pavement, buses lumber past and high above us the famous lights shimmer in rainbow hues.  There’s a festive, almost carnival, atmosphere as the shoppers surge towards the stores, eyes firmly trained on the glittering window displays and hands clutching those famous yellow bags.  I pause at the exit of Bond Street tube and drink the atmosphere in.  Oh my goodness.  It really is Christmas time!  Soon I’ll be at Pendleton Manor for the big party and I’ll see Drake in the flesh for the first time in almost two months.  Will he notice a difference in me? 
    Will he notice me, full stop?
    “Come on, Ellie!  Stick next to me!”
    Sam tows me across Oxford Street, through buses and pedestrians alike, and then into Selfridges.  We meander through the perfume department, doused liberally in scent by smiling shop assistants, sniff the candles in Jo Malone and then ride the escalator up to the designer section.  The store has been transformed into a winter wonderland, even the escalators glide through whirling silver and gold mobiles while an opera singer trills carols at us.  By the time we arrive at the Emily Rose section Sam and I are feeling very festive.
    “Here it is!” I cry in relief as I retrieve the dress from the rail.  Hello old friend!  Thank goodness that all the skinny women who shop here would be drowned in a size fourteen!
    “Are you going to try it on?” Sam asks.  “I don’t mind waiting, if you are.  I’m actually very good at shopping with girls.  Lucy trained me well.  If you look outside the changing room in Next Uxbridge you’ll actually see the dent my feet have made in the floor!”
    I’m not sure about this.  What if I put the dress on and it looks hideous?  I’d be devastated.
    “Go on, I’ll hold your shopping,” he continues, giving me a little shove. “Try it.”
    So I do.  A helpful shop assistant materializes as if by magic, scooping up the dress and escorting me into the most sumptuous changing room imaginable.  Honestly, it’s so swathed in folds of peach silk and ribbons that it wouldn’t look out of place in Louis XIV’s Versailles.  I feel guilty about draping my tatty leggings and duffle coat on the quilted stool. 
    I slip the dress over my head and it slithers over my skin, a soft velvet waterfall exactly as I imagined.  Normally I avoid changing room mirrors like the plague – who wants to look at porridge-textured thighs and more spare tyres than Kwik Fit unless they have to? – but this must be a magical changing room or something because this time I can’t stop looking.  Although the zip won’t quite do up at the back and the fabric is a little light across my chest the dress still looks amazing!  And the girl in it nothing like me.  The rich emerald green sets off the hazel in my eyes and makes my skin glow.  My squishy bits don’t need Spanx to hold them in anymore because the clever drape of the fabric hides every flaw while accentuating the curve of my hips and the swell of my cleavage.  Even my hair looks like flame.  I could be a Disney princess.  Cinder Ellie, going