by Peter James
So now she could offer her clients the extensive range of the gym’s equipment, and her business was growing. At times, though, especially late afternoon when it was dark, she found the silent hotel just a bit creepy, and the oddball caretaker added to her unease. The place reminded her of the Overlook Hotel in the Stephen King novel The Shining.
Roger had come to do the check-round with her a few times, and they’d laughed about it together while he’d teased her about her ‘overactive imagination’. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he’d said. And she had. Besides, Jersey was a really safe place. And she didn’t believe in ghosts, not in real life.
There was enough to worry about in real life anyway, without ghosts. As she ran, she patted her tummy again. ‘How are you doing, Bump?’ she asked.
Bump was a tad too small to respond. But she smiled, thinking of Bump moving with her.
From her PT training she was aware she could continue running right up to term, if she was careful. She’d also trawled the internet for any differing opinions and, of course, there were loads.
Fine. OK. She’d learn more when she saw the midwife.
And it was the weekend tomorrow. She’d been looking forward to a quiet time with Roger, catching up on a couple of box sets everyone was talking about, but they’d had a last-minute invite to a dinner party from a doctor Roger flew occasionally on business and had become friendly with. It was something Roger did, although it wasn’t strictly legal without a full air-operations certificate, to supplement his income and to help people out when the island was fog-bound – as it sometimes was in the winter months – preventing commercial airliners getting in. With his experience, he could take off in most conditions. And his background, as a former RAF test pilot, gave his clients confidence.
Roger had harboured an ambition to become a commercial pilot, but at fifty-two the only employment he’d been able to secure, other than a position as first officer with a low-grade turbo prop airline he did not rate, was as a flying instructor in Jersey. Still ambitious, he was now trying to build up a local clientele, particularly in the medical profession, many of whom made regular trips to Southampton, with a view to eventually starting his own air taxi business.
A few years before he and Georgie had got together, Roger had been through a heart-wrenching divorce after trying for years, just like she had, for a baby. Georgie adored him and, despite knowing just how good a pilot he was, she couldn’t help feeling nervous every time he left to fly his little plane, whether it was to take a student up for ‘touch and goes’, or to ferry people to mainland England or France.
Normally, Georgie enjoyed meeting new people, but now she was pregnant and couldn’t have alcohol any more, she wasn’t happy about the idea of spending an evening with a bunch of people, most of whom were strangers, stone-cold sober. But, hey, she thought, a tad gloomily, she was going to have to get used to not drinking for many months to come.
And there was at least one small positive – they’d save money on taxis, as she could drive them home. With Roger no doubt well-oiled as he wasn’t flying again for three days.
8
Saturday 8 December
The twins raced around the kitchen table, amusing and annoying Claire Valentine in equal measures. Then they ran into the living-room area, perilously close to the Christmas tree that she and her husband had spent the previous evening decorating, in preparation for tonight.
‘Rhys! Amelia! Stop it! Mummy’s trying to do something. OK?’
‘Yaaaaaaa!’ shouted Rhys.
‘Yaaaaaaa!’ shouted Amelia, snatching several of the white place cards Claire had carefully laid out, and throwing them in the air as if this was a huge joke.
‘NO!’ Claire shouted, turning towards her husband in desperation.
Dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, Marcus was standing by the island unit, a partially eaten banana beside him. He was staring up at one of the antique clocks on the wall, a round, wooden, nineteenth-century Shoolbred of London, which was running two minutes slow.
Annoyed by its inaccuracy, he pulled up a chair, climbed onto it, opened the glass face and, checking against his watch, moved the minute hand.
‘Marcus, can you give me some help? We need to do the seating plan.’ She knelt and scooped up the cards from the floor, glancing at the names. ‘Tonight we have a vegan, a peanut allergy, someone lactose intolerant and another I’m pretty sure is a pescatarian, so I’ve got some salmon en croûte as backup. Whatever happened to the days when you could just have a dinner party and everyone ate everything?’
‘They all died!’
She grinned. Marcus looked around in disapproval at the floor of the large kitchen–living room littered with toys, along with Cormac’s play mat, playpen and the mobiles suspended above it. Cormac was feeding plastic food discs into the mouth of a roaring green dinosaur with a red flashing light on its head.
Marcus climbed back down. Then he saw to his alarm that Rhys was about to topple an antique wooden stand. ‘Rhys, no!’ he yelled, running over and just rescuing the situation in time. He went through into the dining room, joining Claire at the table, and looked down at the place tags.
‘Who do you want to sit next to?’ she asked.
He studied the names on the white rectangles. ‘Not Lizzy Lawrence – all she can ever talk about is how awful everything is – I feel like I want to go and hang myself after half an hour listening to her.’ He looked at the other names. ‘I like Matt and Aron – I honestly don’t mind. Oh, but please not that woman – the one I got stuck with at the Aldridges’ drinks party last week – she nailed me in a corner and spent an hour telling me the entire plot, chapter by chapter, of the dreary novel about a doctor she’s been writing for the past five years.’
He glanced over the rest of the names. ‘Did we really invite all these others?’
‘You were the one who said we should ask some of the people who’ve had us to dinner in the last year, to be polite. Stop being a sourpuss. You like the Pedleys, too.’
He nodded.
‘Why are you in such a grumpy mood?’
He shot a glance up at the wall. At the clocks. ‘Why can’t they keep proper time?’
‘For God’s sake!’
‘You just don’t understand, do you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually, I don’t.’
He shook his head. ‘So who do you want to sit next to?’
‘Any of them!’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m actually looking forward to tonight, even if you’re not. Someone to have a conversation with – you don’t have any idea, do you, what it’s like being stuck home all day making baby talk? I’m looking forward to having a proper conversation, with adults.’
‘What do you mean? You’re on the phone to your clients every day. And you should be bloody grateful for the time you have at home with our kids. You know damned well that when I was a child my mother was a drunk and my father had sodded off. You’ll look back at this time with affection one day. Seeing the kids grow up much more closely than I do – and you’re still able to work as well. My mother—’
‘I know about your mother,’ she said, stopping him in his tracks. ‘I’ve heard it all before so many times and I’ve told you repeatedly: you can’t let that dictate your whole life.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘Have you sorted the wines?’
‘All done.’ He huffed, pointing at a row of flute glasses. ‘Champagne cocktails when they arrive – get everyone in a festive mood. I could do with one now.’
‘What’s Roger’s new lady called?’ she asked.
‘Dunno,’ he replied. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. He emailed to say she doesn’t eat shellfish.’
‘Shit. We’re doing prawn cocktails as starters.’
‘There’s some mackerel pâté in the fridge, I bought it last week – she could have that, perhaps?’ he said. He shot a glance at the television, at a cookery programme, the sound muted. Then peered into a large carrier bag on the island unit. ‘What
’s this?’
‘Party poppers! Must remember to put those out.’
He looked at her as if she was mental. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Poppers? We’re not having a children’s tea party, Claire.’
‘It’s Christmas, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ve got these and a cracker for everyone – really classy crackers. What’s your problem? You wear your Christmas hat in theatre.’
‘Sterile cap,’ he corrected her. ‘That’s different.’
‘So, you’re Father Christmas when you deliver babies, but turn into Scrooge when you come home?’
‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘I know why you don’t like the idea: it’s because you don’t like mess. But we have Debs coming Monday so anything we’ve not cleaned up she can do then. Chill, relax, enjoy. Anyway, I need your help – can you nip to Waitrose and get some French bread or Melba toast for the pâté? And there’s some other bits and pieces we need – those olives are out of date, we need some more, and some vegetable crisps.’
‘I was planning to go for a run – I’ll go straight after.’
‘A run? I thought you were taking the kids to Aqua Splash?’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘Later.’ He patted his belly. ‘I need to get rid of some of this.’
‘Are you sure it’s sensible to go running after your medical report? You’ve only been jogging a few times lately – and even then you had to power walk most of it.’
‘What do you mean? He told me to start exercising more.’
Claire tossed hair from her face. ‘From the way his report read, he’s suggesting a gentle jog – not a run.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not quite ready for a Zimmer frame or a mobility scooter. I thought that was why you gave me the sports watch, to encourage me to start running more again.’
‘That was before your check-up.’
‘Meaning what?’
Claire looked at their daughter, who was about to snatch another place card. ‘Amelia, NO!!!’ Then she grinned at her husband. ‘Meaning that the man I love and the father of our children is not in great shape. Meaning that he is in the prime early heart-attack band. You need to be careful if you want to get back into running seriously. Build up to it. Maybe a brisk walk first would be more sensible.’
Ten minutes later, Marcus left the house and stopped at the bottom of their steep driveway to do some dynamic stretches. As he swung his leg, he was thinking about what presents to get his wife for Christmas. He had hardly any time to go around the shops, so he’d have to order stuff online. Claire had been wanting a tennis bracelet for some time and had hinted at one she’d seen in a jeweller’s window in town. But it was a ridiculous price. He also needed to get her a few other, smaller gifts, and a card, as well as some stocking fillers for the kids.
After power walking down the road towards St Brelade’s Bay, Marcus stopped by the church to do some more warm-up exercises. The tide was even further out than yesterday. He began jogging down to the promenade and turned left. A bearded man in running shorts, at least his age if not older, loped past him at an easy gait, at probably twice his speed.
He upped his pace, determinedly, but almost immediately was aware of a slight pain in his right calf muscle. The other man was way in front of him now and for a short while disappeared as he headed along the old railway track to St Aubin. Marcus managed a few hundred yards more before stopping and limping for some yards, getting his breath back.
Jesus, I’m unfit.
As he began a slow jog again, two men, running and talking, passed him. Then a woman running with a baby in a pushchair shot past.
Overtaken by a sodding pram. No way, José!
As he approached St Aubin, ignoring the twinge in his calf, he began to run fast again, and despite his body telling him to stop and walk, he forced himself to keep going. And keep going. No way was he going to let other runners see him flagging.
Especially not the gorgeous Lynette! The island was so small, and from where he’d seen her before, it was likely this was one of her routes.
His pace was slowing, but he kept on. Doggedly. Kept on. More runners raced past him, as well as intermittent cyclists. His heart was bursting. Keep going! He kept on until he had nothing left in the tank. Lame-spirited, he walked again. Glanced at his watch. His heart rate was over 180. His head was light. Giddy. He needed to sit down.
But that would be defeat.
He continued, past the turn-off to the harbour, around the yacht basin, with dozens of boats lying on their sides on the mud.
Finally, he stopped, panting, getting his breath back. He turned around and ran again for a short while before stopping and then walking, his heart rate now up in the 180s again.
Arriving back home at last, he entered the front door, removed his trainers and tucked his laces, tidily, in the shoes. He saw Claire, across the open-plan area, giving the twins their breakfast, Cormac in his high chair, food spilled on the floor around him. A cartoon was playing on the television on the wall.
‘How was it, darling?’ she asked.
He nodded, almost too tired to speak, and boiling hot. Holding the banister rail, he hauled himself up the stairs and into their bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, closed his eyes and lay there, gratefully, for several minutes. I really am out of shape, he thought.
When he had recovered enough, he limped through to his den and plugged his watch into his laptop to download his stats.
The RunMaster app, which he didn’t fully understand yet, appeared. It gave him his overall time and then a section-by-section time for parts of the area he had covered, together with a comparison to others in each section.
He was dismayed – although not surprised – to see he was the bottom of each recorded segment for his age group and then for all age groups. Out of interest, he tapped on the number one for the St Aubin to St Helier section.
And stared as a photograph of the current record holder appeared. Thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds faster than him.
It looked very much like the jogger he had nearly mown down yesterday.
And it gave her running name: Rocket Girl.
Plus the timings of her run.
He checked her other recorded runs. Many of them started and finished at the same point – and time.
Could it be her? Could it?
Was that start-and-finish point her home?
Almost certainly.
9
Saturday 8 December
‘What do you think?’ Georgie said, walking into the living room in a slinky black dress, giving a twirl, then provocatively raising part of it above her right thigh.
‘I want to take it off.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I like it too much,’ Roger said with a grin. He was tall, fit and ruggedly good-looking, with short, salt and pepper hair, the kind of person who inspired confidence, who looked like he could take care of any situation. Tonight, he was dressed in a black jacket over a sharp white shirt, dark chinos and loafers.
‘Too much?’ she frowned.
‘You know what they say about dresses?’ he said, going to the drinks cabinet.
‘No, what?’
She watched, enviously, as he poured a large slug of whisky into a tumbler.
‘That the dress a man really likes to see his lady wearing is the one he’d like to take off the most.’
He carried the tumbler to the fridge and dropped several ice cubes into it.
Georgie grinned. ‘Really? Well, you are just going to have to wait. And perhaps stay sober enough to appreciate your bride-to-be later!’
‘I’m up for that!’ He took a step towards her and said, jokily, ‘We could just have a quickie now!’
‘Hands off! I’m all made up. But I like your thinking!’ She smiled.
‘I think it was Henry Miller who said something like, a dirty mind is a perpetual feast!’
‘He must have
been writing about you! You are full of quotes tonight – have you been boning up to impress all the posh guests we’re going to meet?’
He laughed. ‘Marcus and his wife are lovely – he’s a hugely respected medic, I’ve flown him many times and we’ve played golf together a couple of times. Enough about them, you look absolutely stunning. Though as I’ve said before, you’d look stunning in a bin liner!’
‘I don’t feel stunning, I’m a bag of nerves. I spoke to Lucy earlier and she said to get some champagne down me and it’ll be fine. I can’t wait to tell her about the baby. Champagne would be nice right now. Do you really think we’ll get on with the other guests?’
‘Darling, they wouldn’t have invited us if they didn’t think so – and at least you’ll have Kath there.’
‘Really? So why didn’t they invite us weeks ago, when they invited all their other guests, rather than late yesterday evening?’
Roger had been phoned by their host, saying they’d had a last-minute cancellation from a couple down with flu, and were they free tomorrow evening by any chance?
Their host and a number of the guests attending were medics, some of whom Roger flew regularly to England. It was a chance, he had convinced her, to network and help build up his client list for his air taxi business. And, of course, he had told her, a chance for her to meet some possible new clients herself.
‘My hair up – is it OK like this?’
He cocked his head one way then the other in mock appraisal, and with pursed, smiling lips, gave her his approval. ‘More than OK.’