Free The Stepmother by Carrie Adams

I stared at the place where he used to lie and wondered where on earth he’d gone. I tried to tell myself the diet was making me feel so light on my toes, but I knew it was something else. I denied it was happening at first, because it was (a) so ridiculous and (b) so quick. But the fact of the matter was that Jimmy consumed my every waking thought. I took mundane chores in my stride, since they were perfect opportunities to daydream. He called me every few days to see how I was doing, and we’d have lovely friendly conversations. I had to remind myself not to get too flirty.
    A couple of days before Luke’s party, I was making and freezing a zillion cheese straws when the doorbell rang. It was 11:32 a.m. I nearly didn’t open it, because 11:32 meant carpetbaggers, chuggers, Hari Krishnas, or bailiffs. But I was finding it easier to look on the bright side of life, so I went to the door.
    A courier in a big black helmet stood squeaking in leathers on my doorstep. I would have been alarmed, except he seemed to be offeringme a large Harrods bag. Stapled to it was a white envelope with my name on it. I signed. I had recognized the handwriting immediately. Was one of my increasingly erotic fantasies going to play out? The one with the evening dress and the invite to dinner and me playing the dish? Didn’t matter how my fantasies began, they ended the same. Me shuddering with the feel of a man entering me. I’m sorry if it sounds perverse but, my God, this was something I needed. And not just any man. My man. Jimmy. My stomach lurched with wanton desire. No wonder the pounds were falling off me. How could I eat when I had a swarm of butterflies in my belly?
    I took the bag through to the sitting room and pulled off the envelope. With a shaking hand, I drew out the note.
    Darling Bea,
    I know how much you hate shopping. So I’ve done it for you. You shall go to the ball.
    All I ask is save one dance for me.
    Love, Jimmy.
    P.S. I am so proud of you. We all are.
    I held up the Diane von Furstenberg dress. It was a midnight blue silk jersey knee-length wrap dress with a swirling ivory pattern. It looked tiny. I sighed. It would have to stretch some to cover me. I returned to my cheese straws, reluctant to ruin my happy mood with another disastrous trying-on session.
    But eventually curiosity got the better of me and I took the dress upstairs. I put my best bra on, took off my knickers—nothing like seeing elastic cut a ravine through flesh to get a girl running to the fridge—and slipped it on. I couldn’t believe how well it suited me. The wrap hid a multitude of sins, the cleavage distracted from the rest, and the material floated over my bottom in a way that made me think more of “Jell-O on springs” Marilyn Monroe and less of Harvey Fierstein. I ran to the loo. The top half looked okay. I jumped up and down to get a better look. It was no good. I needed full-length satisfaction.
    Scraping back a mound of dirty clothes, I prized open Amber’s bedroom door and, having slipped on some very high heels, opened her wardrobe. The color was perfect. It made my hair look blacker and my eyes more blue. But it was more than the color. It was the cut. The shape. The fit. Actually, it was even more than that. It was me. I looked…I caught my reflection in the mirror and smiled. I looked…okay. I looked okay! I turned to look at my bum. The swirling pattern confused the eye so much even that didn’t look too bad. I turned back grinning and did a celebratory jump. Oh, my God…I really looked okay!
    I tried to ring Jimmy, but he was in a meeting, so I sent him a text. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. X.” A couple of hours later I got one back. “You’re welcome. Glad you like it. See you Saturday. XX.” Two kisses. Two kisses! What was happening here?
    After that it was easy not to eat, and by Saturday