A Cinderella for the Greek

Chloe, with her long blonde tresses, her supercilious air of sophistication and her worldly experience of boys and smoking and alcohol and fashion and music and make-up, had been instantly accepted into a bitchy, cliquey set of girls just like her, effortlessly becoming the meanest of the mean girls, sneering at everyone else. Sneering most of all at her hulking, clumping, games-loving stepsister, who’d so stupidly tried to befriend her initially, when she’d actually believed that her father’s remarriage might bring him happiness instead of misery and ruin.

Max’s eyes rested on Ellen, seeing her expression close up. Had he hit home? he wondered. He hoped so—because it was for her own good, after all, getting her to face up to what was keeping her trapped in the bitter, resentful, narrow life she led, refusing to move on from the past.

She has to let go of her resentment against her stepfamily, stop using her share of their inheritance as a weapon against them. Stop clinging to the past instead of moving into the future. I need to bring her out of herself. Show her the world beyond the narrow confines she’s locked herself into—let her embrace it...enjoy it.

And what could be more enjoyable than a ball? A glittering, lavish affair that she might enjoy if only she would give herself a chance to do so! But for now he would not press her. For now he just wanted to keep her in this unselfconscious, relaxed zone. So he didn’t wait for an answer to his pointed comment about Chloe, but turned the subject back to an easier topic that she clearly found less uncomfortable.

‘What kind of workout routine do you do?’ he asked. ‘You must use weights, I take it?’

To his surprise she flushed that unflattering red that he’d seen all too frequently on his first visit to Haughton.

‘That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ she mumbled, knowing he’d have spotted her developed muscle tone—so mercilessly mocked by Chloe, who jibed at her for being more like a man than a woman—when he’d seen her in running gear. ‘But I’m good at them and I enjoy it.’

Was there a defensive note to her voice—defiance, even? If so, Max wondered why. She obviously had a fantastic physique—he’d seen that for himself, and had very much enjoyed doing so! But she was speaking again now, and he drew his mind back from that tantalising vision of her fabulous body when she’d been out running.

‘I balance weights with cardio work, obviously, but I’d rather run than cycle. Especially since it’s such a joy to run in the grounds at home—’ She broke off, a shadow in her eyes. Those glorious early-morning runs she loved to take would become a thing of the past if Haughton were wrenched from her...

‘What about rowing?’ Max asked, cutting across her anguished thoughts. ‘That’s a good combo of cardio and strength work. It’s my favourite, I admit. Though only on a machine.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘When I’m on the water I’d rather swim, sail or windsurf.’

She made herself smile. ‘Well, you’ve got the weather for that in Greece!’ she riposted lightly, glad to be away from the subject of her overdeveloped muscles, which so embarrassed her. She knew she was being stupid, feeling self-conscious about it with a man who couldn’t care less what she looked like as a woman. Inevitably she was invisible to him in that respect. Much less stressful to blank all that and just talk to him as she’d been doing, about sport and exercise, without any connotations about the impact on her appearance.

‘It must be great not to need a wetsuit,’ she said enviously.

‘Agreed.’ Max smiled, glad that he was getting her to relax again.

Deliberately he kept the conversation going along convivial lines, asking her about her experiences in water sport, which seemed to be mainly focussed on school trips to the Solent—definitely wetsuits required. Equally deliberately he waxed lyrical about how enjoyable it was to pursue water sports in warmer climes, recommending several spots he knew well. He wanted to open her mind to the possibilities of enjoying the wider world—once she had freed herself from the self-inflicted confines of her past, stopped clinging to the house he wanted her to let go of.

But with the arrival of the dessert course he steered the conversation back to the reason for her presence here.

As they helped themselves to tarte au citron Max was pleased to see Ellen tucking in with obvious enjoyment. It’s a sensual pleasure, enjoying food. The thought was in his head before he could stop it. And the corollary that went with it. There are more sensual pleasures than food for her to enjoy...

The words hovered in his head, but he put them firmly aside. They were inappropriate. All he was doing was introducing her to the delights that could be hers if she embraced the world instead of hiding away from it.

Starting tonight.

He pushed his empty plate away and glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve time for coffee, then a team of stylists are arriving and I’ll leave you to them.’ He smiled at Ellen.

Her fork promptly clattered to the plate. She was looking at him, her former ease vanished, her expression now one of panic. Panic that changed to a kind of gritty stoniness. He’d seen that look before, and knew it meant she was locking herself down into herself again.

She began to speak, her voice as tight as her expression as she bit the words out. ‘Mr Vasilikos—look, I’m sure you mean well, in your own way, but I really, really don’t want to go to this ball tonight! It would be...’ she swallowed ‘...horrendous.’

He levelled his gaze at her. ‘Why?’ he demanded simply.

Ellen felt her hands clench the edge of the table as if it might support her. Then she forced herself to speak. To spell out the brutal truth he seemed oblivious to for reasons she could not fathom. She had to disabuse him of any notion that going to a ball would be anything other than unspeakable torment for her.

‘Because,’ she said, and it dawned on him that she was speaking as if she were talking to a particularly intellectually challenged pupil, ‘you said it to me yourself at Haughton, when you saw me running. You said, “You’re nothing like your stepsister Chloe.” You couldn’t have made it plainer. And you’re absolutely right—I am nothing at all like Chloe and I never have been. I accept that completely—I’ve no illusions about myself, believe me. I know exactly what I look like. That is why going to a ball, or anything resembling a ball, or any social gathering of any kind at all is anathema to me. The very thought of dressing up and trying to be...trying to be...trying to be anything like Chloe—’

There was a choking sound in her voice and she broke off. She felt as if the blood was curdling in her veins—as if Chloe herself were standing there, her mocking peal of derisive laughter lashing at her at the very thought of her going to a ball—and with Max Vasilikos of all men! Her eyes tightened shut again, screwing up in their sockets, and her fingers indented into the wood of the table as she gripped it. Then her eyes flew open again.

‘I know what I am. What I’ve always been. What I always will be. I’m pushing six foot tall, I’ve got size eight feet and I’ve got muscles that can bench fifty kilos. I’m like some gigantic elephant compared with Chloe.’

The misery and the self-loathing in her face was contorting her features. Consuming her. Across the table Max had sat back, gazing at her with a new expression on his face. Abruptly he spoke.

‘Tell me, do you think Chloe beautiful?’ There was a strange note in his voice. Enlightenment was dawning in him like a tsunami in slow motion. Was this what was screwing up Ellen Mountford?

Ellen stared. ‘What kind of question is that? Of course she is! She’s everything I’m not. She’s petite and incredibly slim, and she has a heart-shaped face and blue eyes and blonde hair.’

The new expression on Max’s