Katy Carter Wants a Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

bread as well. I’ll do some extra sit-ups to make up.
    Extra sit-ups? Who am I kidding? I’ll do
some
sit-ups.
    En route to retrieve the number, I happen to pass the biscuit tin, which I take as a sign from God to help myself to a couple more. Once I’ve ordered us a pizza, I’ll get on with unpacking the shopping, and I’ll even sweep the floor. That’s got to be a workout in itself.
    Perhaps I’ll even have
cheesy
garlic bread.
    But you know what they say about the best-laid plans and all that. Just as my eager little fingers are poised over the phone, ready to dial, the kitchen door flies open and in sweeps my future mother-in-law.
    Picture Cruella De Vil’s meaner older sister and you’ve got a pretty good picture of Cordelia St Ellis. Groomed and plucked and waxed and suctioned to within an inch of her life, she looks pretty much like a desiccated skeleton, albeit one dressed in Joseph and with Chanel-tipped talons. It costs a lot of money, apparently, to look this well preserved, so Mrs St Ellis is lucky her son still has a well-paid job. Cordelia doesn’t work. Blimey! There’s no way she could fit in earning a decent crust. Keeping her ageing body embalmed is a full-time occupation.
    Either that or she has a pact with Satan.
    As I guiltily try and swallow my biscuit, Cordelia pauses elegantly in the doorway and regards me in the same way you might regard a lump of gum that’s stuck to your foot. Her eyes are flinty grey and her mouth is pursed like a cat’s bum. I’m in the bad books.
    Again.
    She didn’t like me when I was seven, and time hasn’t altered her opinion.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hisses, sounding as horrified as if she’d caught me torturing babies. In fact I’m pretty sure she’d rather I was torturing babies, instead of stuffing my face with calories. It would be a minor crime in comparison.
    ‘I’m just having a snack,’ I try to say, but sound instead like I’m speaking Klingon and spray the pristine marble work surfaces with regurgitated HobNob. ‘Just the one biscuit.’
    ‘Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my son’s wedding? ’ she demands, hands on hips so bony they could grate rock. ‘Do you want to be even fatter than you are already? Well? Do you?’
    It’s a tough question, because I really want those biscuits. Funny how I never used to think I was overweight till I met James. A little cuddly in places, and I have boobs for sure, but fat? Still, Mrs St Ellis, professional body fascist, has seriously disabused me of any misconception that I might be acceptable.
    ‘But I’m starving!’
    ‘You are not.’ Cordelia tips the contents of the biscuit tin into the bin. ‘Children in Africa are starving. You are merely greedy. If you want to eat between meals then have an apple.’
    Is she mad? Who eats apples rather than chocolate biscuits?
    ‘If you carry on eating at this rate, we’ll never get you into that size eight Vera Wang.’
    Quite frankly I have more chance of flying to Mars than I have of fitting into a size eight wedding dress. I’m size twelve on a good day, breathing in and wearing granny knickers.
    ‘Er, Cordelia,’ I venture, ‘I’m not entirely sure about that dress. I’ve seen one in Debenhams I really like—’
    ‘Debenhams!’ echoes Cordelia, as horrified as though I’d said I wanted to get married stark naked and with tassels on my nipples. ‘Debenhams! Are you insane? A high-street store?’
    To be honest, until I met Cordelia St Ellis, I was under the impression that high-street stores were
exactly
where most people bought their clothes. She’s never had to eke out a teacher’s salary, though, and if it’s not Harvey Nicks or Harrods then she won’t give it house room.
    She must be gutted to be gaining a daughter-in-law whose idea of heaven is a trolley dash in Top Shop. If she wasn’t such an old boot I’d almost feel sorry for her.
    ‘Yes,’ I say bravely. ‘It’s a lovely dress and only six