face did not change. ‘And if I described her,’ he said carefully, his eyes not letting her go for an instant, ‘as...let’s see...like a scrawny chicken, what would you say?’ Deliberately he chose as harsh a term as she had used about herself to make his point.
She said nothing. Only stared at him, not understanding. Incapable of understanding, Max realised with dawning comprehension. He shook his head slightly. ‘You wouldn’t believe me, would you?’ His voice changed, becoming incisive, incontrovertible. ‘Do you not realise,’ he demanded, ‘that it is only you who thinks you are like an elephant?’
She stared at him. Her face was expressionless. Her voice as she answered him toneless. ‘Chloe thinks so too.’
She revels in thinking it. Taunts me endlessly. Is viciously gleeful about it. Goes on and on about it! Has tortured me ever since she and her vulture of a mother smashed my life to pieces—going on and on at me about how big I am, how heavy I am, how clumping and lumping and pathetically, pitifully plain and repulsive I am, how I’m just an embarrassing joke! Someone to laugh at and sneer at and look down on! Elephant Ellen...
Max made a sound in his throat and his dark eyes flashed. ‘And has it never dawned on you that Chloe, with her tiny size zero frame, would consider a greyhound to be the size of an elephant?’ He took a heavy breath and his eyes bored into her. Something in Greek escaped his lips.
Ellen could only stare at him, her face stricken at the ugly memory of Chloe’s years of merciless cruelty about her appearance.
‘I fully appreciate,’ he said, now speaking in English, spelling out each word carefully, emphatically, so that they would penetrate her skull, reach deep inside her where they needed to reach, ‘that for whatever reason—the fashion industry, the prevalence of eating disorders and God knows what else!—extreme thinness is currently regarded as beautiful. And I fully appreciate,’ he went on, not letting Ellen do anything except sit and stare at him with blank eyes full of helpless misery, ‘that Chloe happens to fit the current description of what makes for a “fashionable” figure. But—’
He held his hand up now, silencing any retort she might have been likely to make.
‘That is entirely and completely irrelevant. Because you, Ellen...’ He paused, and a new timbre suddenly underlaid his voice, resonating through words that echoed in the sudden shift in his expression. ‘You,’ he breathed, and his eyes were boring into hers, never letting them go for an instant, an iota, ‘have the body of a goddess. A goddess, Ellen.’
There was silence—complete silence. Max let his eyes rest on her, saying nothing more. Watching her react. It was like a slow-motion sequence in a movie. Red washed into her face like a tide, then drained out, leaving it white and stark. Her eyes distended, then shut like the shell of a clam.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’
But he did. ‘The body of a goddess,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t—because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen damn nearly all of it. And believe me...’
Suddenly his long, long lashes swept down over his dark, dark eyes and Ellen felt a kind of hollowing out in her stomach that had nothing to do with the tide of misery that had been drowning her and everything to do with the hot, humid memory of how she’d been wearing only a sports bra and brief shorts when he’d seen her out running that time.
‘I liked what I saw. I liked it, Ellen...’ and now there was a huskiness in his voice ‘...a lot.’
He shifted in his seat, relaxing now, his broad shoulders moulding the back of the chair, a smile starting to curve his mouth. ‘I’ve seen a lot of women with fantastic figures, Ellen—and my time with Tyla Brentley, especially when I was out in LA with her, supplied that amply!—so I promise you, you can trust my judgement on these matters. And you can trust my word, too.’
His expression changed, and so did his voice.
‘My word,’ he announced, ‘is that I will donate five thousand pounds to your city kids charity today if you will agree to the following. To put yourself into the hands of the team of stylists this afternoon and let them do whatever it is they do. When they’ve done it, if you still don’t want to come to the ball tonight I will let you off and double the five thousand pounds. If you do want to come, however, I’ll triple it.’ He gave a brief, slashing smile. ‘Deal?’ he posed.
Ellen stared back.
Five thousand pounds... Ten—because of course it would be ten! Of course she wouldn’t want to go to the ball tonight. No way on God’s earth would she volunteer for such an ordeal, however desperately she was scrubbed at by whatever professional make-up artists and the like he had lined up. Yet even as she made that mental averment she could still hear his voice echoing in her head.
The body of a goddess, Ellen.
She heard it, felt it—felt its power. Its temptation.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
He was holding his hand out across the table. His large, square, strong hand. Into which slowly—very slowly—her own hand seemed to be placing itself, though her head was still reeling with what he’d said to her.
‘Good,’ said Max. ‘So that’s all settled, then.’ Satisfaction was blatant in his voice. He sat back, withdrawing his hand, moving it towards the coffee pot and starting to pour. ‘Cream?’ he asked, with a lift of his eyebrow, and poured it in anyway. With a honed, toned body like hers she could drink cream by the bucketload and it would never turn to fat.
Goddess body sorted. Now all that was needed was to sort out the rest of her appearance. Happy anticipation filled him.
* * *
People were doing things to Ellen. She had no idea what, and she didn’t care. Even about the painful bits that involved tweezers and razors, hot wax and skin peels. She shut her eyes mostly, and let them get on with it, focussing her mind on what she’d do with the ten thousand pounds she’d get for the charity when they’d finished with her.
There were three of them working on her, stylists, beauticians, hairdressers. Whatever they were, they were chattering away. They were all stick-thin, just like Chloe, all wearing ultra-fashionable clothes and four-inch heels, with sharp hairstyles and loads of make-up—which was par for the course, Ellen reasoned, if one worked in the beauty industry. Their conversation seemed to be about clubs and bands, film stars and fashion brands, about which they were intimately knowledgeable.
They looked about twenty and made her feel like thirty. She hoped they were getting paid generously by Max, considering the impossibility of what they were attempting—making her look good enough to go to a ball. Because of course that was impossible. How could it be otherwise?
Dear God, how Chloe would laugh like a hyena if she could see this. She’d be filming it on her phone, posting it to her bitchy friends on social media, and they’d be squealing with laughter. Elephant Ellen, trying to look glamorous! How hilarious! How beyond pathetic!