Weight Till Christmas by Ruth Saberton Page B

like Aero.
    Sam looks surprised.  For the past two years that he’s worked at Broom!  Broom!Vicky has hardly deigned to speak to him; grease monkeys are totally below her usually.  In the last month she seems to have forgotten this, or at least managed to turn a blind eye to Sam’s spanners and overalls, and is constantly seeking him out or asking him to look at imaginary faults on the cars. 
    “We could exercise together, if you like?” Vicky continues, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulders and flashing him a winning smile. “I always hit the gym after work.  I could help you with your weights?  I know a really good exercise for your biceps.”
    Sam looks taken aback.  Until lately the only exercise his triceps ever got was lifting pints.
     “That’s really kind of you but I’m a bit busy tonight,” he says kindly. “Ellie and I are going Christmas shopping.  Are you ready, Ells?”
    “I’ll exercise with you,” Rick offers. “Horizontal jog?”
    Vicky throws him a look that practically withers his pot plant.  Leaving Rick cowering behind his computer, I grab my coat, wind my scarf around my neck and follow Sam out of the warm office and into the cold night.  The sky is clear and high above the roof tops stars glisten like glitter on a Christmas card.  As we walk through Ickenham, towards the station, all the shops windows are lit up with their Christmas displays and twinkle in the darkness.  The stained glass in St Giles church glows with jewelled hues and as we pass the strains of Christmas carols drift into the night air.  I shiver with delicious anticipation.  Only five days to go until the party!  This Christmas is going to be the best ever!  I just know it!
     
    If I’d thought Oxford Street was crowded the last time I visited, this evening is twenty times more manic.  The tubes are rammed and as the Jubilee Line wiggles its way towards Bond Street more and more people squeeze themselves in until my spine’s pressed against the door and my face shoved into a stranger’s armpit.   As the train jolts and sways we all cannon into one another and stumble awkwardly.  Somebody’s laden carrier bag bashes into my leg and I flatten my palms against the glass in a desperate attempt to remain upright.  Sam, several bodies away in the crush, looks over.
    “Shall we give it a miss?” he mouths.
    A miss?  No way.  I know I’ve chosen to visit the West End on one of the last shopping days before Christmas, so my sanity’s probably in question, but apart from that and several bruised toes I can safely say that I’m going to buy that dress or die in the attempt.  I have no idea why Sam keeps trying to put me off.  I’m only minutes away from gliding that escalator, buying my dress and having it loving folded into tissue paper and placed in a yellow bag.  I know exactly how those cord handles will feel in my gloved hand and how excited I’ll be when I unwrap the dress again, this time to hang it in my wardrobe.  Yes, it’s hideously expensive but I’ve been carefully setting aside money each week and finally I’ve saved enough and it’s going to be worth every calorie counting, Snickers - avoiding minute.  In just a moment’s time that dream dress will be mine, step one in my plan completed, and I’m so excited that even playing sardines on the underground can’t spoil my mood.
    The train pulls in to Bond Street and we all spew forth, pour through the tunnels, surge up the escalator and emerge into the magic of the West End at Christmas time.  The air of excitement is palpable, mixed with the panic of last minute shopping, and as we mingle with the crowds my heart races.  The shop windows glitter and beckon to me: Gap, Zara, Next and co all filled with wonderful treasures and promises of perfect Christmas Days cuddled up in tartan pyjamas and fluffy Uggs or maybe of partying the night away in a sparkly frock.  This is the first Christmas in years that I’ve been