Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  ‘You didn’t consider the possibility that something or someone might have been in the way. In fact, from what I saw beforehand, you were too busy talking to yourself to consider anything.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to myself, I was practising—’

  ‘You just slammed your car into reverse, and off you went. At forty miles an hour.’

  We lock eyes.

  ‘It was not forty miles an hour,’ I fire back, through gritted teeth. ‘And as for the talking to myself thing . . . fine.’ I cross my arms. ‘I was talking to myself. So what? It was a significantly more pleasant conversation than this.’

  A second passes and I’m sure his lip almost twitches into a smile.

  ‘Look,’ I say, deliberately breaking eye-contact, ‘I already said I was sorry.’

  ‘Did you? I don’t remember that.’

  ‘As I recall,’ I say patiently, ‘my exact words were: I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.’

  He looks genuinely perplexed. And it hits me: he was unconscious when I said that. ‘Look, perhaps we could get things moving,’ I say hastily. ‘I need to be on my way.’

  ‘Get what moving?’

  ‘Swapping phone numbers.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m busy for the next couple of weekends. Besides, I already have a girlfriend.’

  ‘I meant for insurance purposes! Not because—’ I stop halfway, realising he’s winding me up. ‘Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Not on me.’ He pats his pockets. ‘You?’

  ‘Wait here.’ I return to the car, where I look for a biro in my handbag, but have to make do with my new Bobbi Brown lip pencil. As I straighten up, I can feel his eyes on my legs and spin round. But his glance has shifted and I can’t work out if I imagined it. Or whether I want to have imagined it. I start writing, but pause almost immediately.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asks.

  ‘I can’t remember the name of my insurance company,’ I tell him – truthfully, stupefied by the development myself. I’ve dealt with them on three separate occasions in the last year; I can tell you the names of at least six members of their call centre staff – and most of their children too. I was actually invited to someone’s Silver Wedding Anniversary last year.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ he says.

  ‘Look, here’s my address – and email address. Drop me a line and I’ll forward you the details.’ I thrust a business card into his hand, with my home address written on it. As he takes it from me, my skin brushes against his and I blush, cursing myself again. The thought of fuelling the ego of somebody who (a) clearly doesn’t struggle to attract the opposite sex and (b) is about to take me to the cleaners on my insurance, is almost painful.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says curtly, taking another card from me and writing his own email address on it. My lip pencil now looks like it belongs in a four-year-old’s colouring box. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Great,’ I mutter sarcastically.

  This apparently isn’t the right thing to say.

  ‘I didn’t ask for this,’ he informs me coolly. ‘For someone to drive into me, almost write off my bike, and nearly kill me.’

  Anger rises in my chest. ‘I did not nearly kill you.’

  ‘What’s a little concussion between friends, eh?’

  ‘We’re not friends,’ I say flatly.

  He heaves up his bike and looks at its crumpled remains. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘We’re not.’

  Chapter 3

  I make it to the offices of Max Crane Law with a minute and a half to spare. Which would be fine if I looked respectable, but my hair in particular looks horrendous. It was already too long (down way past my shoulders) and not blonde enough, thanks to my having no time recently for a trip to the hairdresser’s. Now the exertion of getting here has left it looking as if it was styled with a leaf-blower.

  As well as that, and the sausage-pink tone my complexion has taken on thanks to all this exertion, my knees look as though I’ve tried to shave them with a rusty scalpel.

  Checking I’m alone in the Ladies, I hoist up my skirt and jam my leg in a frosted-glass basin – frantically splashing off traces of blood and grit with lavender-scented hand cleanser – when the door springs open. Standing there is Letitia Hooper, Head of Business Development and Marketing – aka Ms Big. At least as far as today’s pitch is concerned.

  Letitia, who I frequently bump into at networking events, is only thirty-seven, but dresses like the headmistress of a girls’ boarding school, so much so that each time I see her I expect to be put in detention.

  ‘Oh, Letitia!’ I whip round my leg and spray water across her face. She blinks twice, dislodging beads of hand mousse from her eyelashes, and looks me up and down. ‘Sorry about that.’ I hobble barefoot to the paper towels. ‘How are you?’

  I begin ripping towels from the receptacle and pat dry my legs.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Abby,’ she replies. ‘I bumped into one of your employees at a luncheon last week – Heidi Hughes?’

  ‘Oh Heidi.’ I smile, pleased at this development – I know she won’t have let me down. ‘She’s been with the company almost since the start.’

  ‘Impressive young lady,’ says Letitia. ‘She certainly did a good job of promoting your services.’

  I make a mental note to thank Heidi when I see her, though this is absolutely typical of her, and is one of the reasons why I promoted her to Chief Designer a few weeks ago.

  Heidi’s first day at work, more than a year ago, wouldn’t have impressed a Human Resources manager.

  It wasn’t Heidi who was the problem. Heidi’s never been a problem. It was her boss, who’d recently embarked on a roller-coaster ride of a career move that was bound to calm down soon.

  As I opened the door to our office on the fourth floor on that first day, I noted Heidi’s eager smile and open, friendly face. She was a pretty twenty-five-year-old with strawberry-blonde hair, a cherubic mouth and a smattering of freckles on her nose.

  She’d arrived early and responded to my chit chat with high-speed babble, betraying nerves as we walked the eight flights upstairs. I’d thought at the time that she’d gone the extra mile with her chic smoky-grey skirt-suit because it was day one, but now I know she always dresses like that for work.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she beamed, glancing round the office, a well-located broom cupboard in Liverpool’s business district. Her interview had been in a coffee shop across the road so this was the first time she’d seen her new workplace. ‘Where will I be sitting?’

  I’d rather hoped that this wouldn’t come up.

  ‘Eventually . . . there.’

  I pointed to an empty stretch of carpet. She frowned.

  ‘This is a bit embarrassing,’ I said apologetically, ‘but your desk and computer are being delivered tomorrow. It’s my fault – I was late ordering them. I’ve had so much on and, because I’ve been on my own until now . . . look, I won’t bore you with the details. I’ve got to dash out soon, so you can sit at my desk.’

  I swept aside a mountain of paperwork and Revels packets, muttering more apologies. She hid any concerns well.

  Heidi’s CV had been great. She’d gained a decent degree and had worked for a big marketing agency – just like I had. But her CV wasn’t what had got her the job; she was enthusiastic, unassuming, pleasant and, I’d hoped, full of initiative.

  When I returned to the office later that day, she’d researched our current clients, produced a list of potential clients, drawn up suggestions for new office equipment and tidied the stationery cabinet, which had previously looked like the scene of a WBA title fight between two chickens. I’d only been gone four hours.

  I must admit, it struck me at the time – rather uncharitably – that Heidi might be too good to be true. There were only the two of us in this office and I didn’t want a Stepford Employee. I wanted someone to have a laugh with too.

  At the end of the day, I had to tell her it was time to go home.

 
‘Thanks for a brilliant first day,’ she grinned, standing to put on her coat. ‘I’ve really enjoyed it.

  ‘No – thank you. It’ll be easier tomorrow when we don’t have to perch at the same desk together. Hey, how about a quick drink?’ I suggested.

  Her expression suddenly looked earnest. ‘Does the company not have a policy on alcohol?’

  I laughed, but was a little scared she wasn’t joking. ‘Not so far. Why? What do you think the company’s policy on alcohol should be?’

  ‘That it should be compulsory.’

  We spent the rest of the evening laughing, discussing previous jobs and comparing our love-lives (each of which were as dire as the other’s).

  And that’s the thing about Heidi. She’s always been full of surprises.

  Chapter 4

  I have no idea whether Heidi’s groundwork had anything to do with how well my presentation goes to Letitia and two company partners. But it proceeds like a dream.

  ‘Well done, Ms Rogers,’ says the partner called Boris Keppelhammer, whose elaborate moniker is at odds with his distinctly average appearance. ‘My colleagues and I need to discuss your proposal, but you’re the last agency we’re seeing and . . . well, it’s safe to say we’re impressed.’

  I smile, making an effort not to overdo it, when what I really want to do is to fall on my poor, grazed knees and smother his feet with kisses.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Keppelhammer,’ I reply, shaking his hand as he sees me out. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

  I’m not even back at the office when I get the call telling me the contract’s ours.

  And that, it appears, is how it’s done.

  Though, believe me, the fact that I can do it is a source of constant wonderment. No matter how dysfunctional other parts of my life are, at work I have an ability to switch to my other persona: to cool, confident and competent Abby. The Abby people want to do business with.

  I have to keep reminding myself how many clients I’ve won since I started the business, because if I don’t then I have one of my ‘moments’ – the ones that make me wonder how I could possibly be responsible for all these customers, three staff members and a turnover of about £170,000 per year.

  I know this doesn’t make me Alan Sugar, but I’m assured by those in the know that this is good going for a company in year one. Of course, I’m barely making a profit, but the potential – I’m told – is there. Especially since, of the clients I’ve won, there are one or two seriously impressive ones. My crème de la crème includes a national company, a chain of garden centres called Diggles.

  God, I love Diggles. I want to have their babies. When we won that contract, I skipped home grinning like a woman who’d inherited a shoe shop on the day she was cast alongside Ashton Kutcher in a film about snogging.

  ‘Hi, Abby,’ says Priya, my junior designer, as I enter the office.

  ‘You’re still here? It’s gone six-thirty.’

  ‘We’re heading to the Cross Keys in a minute,’ she replies.

  ‘Meeting whatsisname there? Karl?’

  ‘Whatsisname dumped me.’

  ‘Oh no. Sorry, Priya,’ I say awkwardly. Though I must admit it’s getting less awkward these days as Priya is dumped at least once a month – sometimes twice – so sympathy is a quality her colleagues and I get to practise a lot.

  This baffles me as much as everyone else. Because Priya, my youngest member of staff, is lovely. She’s also enthusiastic, brimming with personality and very attractive, if unconventionally so.

  Her hair has been the subject of various outlandish experiments over the years and is currently sporting a shade of neon pink that we discovered, during a recent power cut, glows in the dark. It may not ever feature on the cover of Vogue, but it was highly effective at helping us reach the fire exit. And Priya somehow carries it off in a way I can’t imagine anyone else doing.

  Others, however, aren’t quite so open-minded – and between that and the nose ring, she was turned down for about six jobs before I took her on. They don’t know what they’re missing. She’s only twenty and one of the best graphic designers I’ve come across: fast, bursting with creativity, and completely original. Of course, her love-life is about as straightforward as the Lisbon Treaty – but that’s another story.

  ‘Wait until you see the letter we’ve had from Building Services,’ she tells me.

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’ I slump in my chair.

  She clears her throat. ‘It says, and I quote: “It has come to our attention that Certain Businesses located within the immediate environs of the Building have been failing to follow the Official and strictly imposed Building Regulations as per those set down clearly, plainly and for all to see by the Building Services Department . . .”.’

  I suppress a smile. ‘It must be serious.’

  ‘“We have indications and other evidence (including a Witness who happens to simultaneously be a Senior Manager from within the Building Services Department) to believe that the primary culprit is a Certain Business on the fourth floor which shall remain Nameless.”’

  ‘Do you think we’re the business that will remain nameless?’ I ask.

  ‘I suspect so. But wait – it gets worse.’ Her eyes widen. ‘“That Business, we believe, has been utilising an Unapproved Toaster within the environs of the Office Space itself as opposed to the Approved Toaster in the fourth-floor Food and Beverage Consumption Quarter. This is a Health and Safety Issue, a Breach of Contract and a Grave Haphazard. Please refrain or Action Will Be Taken. Signed, the Building Services Manager.”’

  ‘All I can say is: Crumbs,’ says Hunky Matt, my other junior designer, grinning at his own joke.

  ‘Oh God,’ Priya groans, rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t give up your day job.’

  Hunky Matt was given his sobriquet by Brenda, a barmaid at the office local who, despite not being in the first flush of youth, isn’t afraid to comment on the perkiness of his bum at every opportunity. The title stuck – something Priya made sure of, arguing that he secretly likes it.

  This is despite Matt not being ‘hunky’ in the traditional sense; his biceps don’t bulge and he’s recognisable more by his specs than his pecs. But he’s gorgeous in his own way: tall and softly spoken, fond of skinny jeans, vintage T-shirts and a fashionably edgy fringe with which he perseveres, despite it dangling in his eyes when he’s working on a computer.

  ‘How did the pitch go?’ asks Priya.

  ‘It went well,’ I say coolly, checking my emails. ‘Really well.’

  ‘When will you hear?’

  My mouth twitches. I’d have been an abysmal secret agent. ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we’ve got it!’

  ‘Whoohoohay!’ Priya leaps up to hug me. ‘Does this mean the drinks are on you tonight?’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’ I tut. ‘I suppose so. Though God knows what my accountant will think. Every time we win a pitch I end up authorising half the first payment in celebratory drinks.’

  I open my inbox and, yet again, it’s groaning under the weight of unread emails. I use my only spare five minutes of the day to attack them, even if the limited time-frame means my approach is more cursory than usual.

  The door opens and Heidi walks in. She looks particularly chic today in a Jackie O two-piece and gorgeous duck-egg shoes.

  ‘Heidi, I owe you a drink,’ I declare. ‘I don’t know what you said to the people at Max Crane, but it worked.’

  ‘Oh – you won the pitch? Well done.’ She smiles vaguely and I note, not for the first time in the last couple of weeks, that this is a more subdued response than I’d expect from Heidi. Her reaction to our wins have never been as hyperactive as Priya’s – no one’s are unless they’ve overdosed on Tartrazine.

  But I’ve never doubted that she’s this business’s strongest advocate.

  It’s not a big issue, of course, except for the fact that a number of our competitors woul
d snap Heidi up tomorrow. I often wonder whether the salary and career path that a big company could offer might tempt her one day.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head, as if breaking from a daze. ‘Sorry, Abby. Yep, fine. Have you put out a press release about your win? I’ll rustle one up if you like.’

  ‘It wasn’t my win, Heidi, it was ours.’

  She smiles. ‘If you say so. I’m still quoting you in the press release. Oh, and can I grab five minutes from you at some point to discuss a potential new client? They’re a trendy new Botox clinic. I’ve spoken to the owner briefly and I think you’d be able to twist her arm to come on board.’

  Now that is the Heidi I’m used to. Someone pro-active, eager and one step ahead – of everyone.

  ‘I’m free at four,’ I tell her, hammering the Delete button on my emails. ‘Are you joining us for a drink later?’

  She scrunches up her nose. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I need an early night – I’m zonked. Have one for me though.’ She winks. ‘And try to keep Brenda’s hands away from Matt’s hindquarters, won’t you?’

  Chapter 5

  Only one thing will make me feel better about being surrounded by fit, sporty people and that’s a Chunky Kit Kat.

  I return from the foyer of the sports centre with my chocolate and Diet Coke, as my best friend Jess tries to control herself at the side of the indoor soccer pitch.

  ‘Come on, Jamie!’ she whispers as her four-year-old prepares to score. ‘Yayyy!’ she shouts, clapping as he finishes.

  As the game resumes, she passes a rattle to nine-month-old Lola, who gurgles contentedly. ‘Do not let me turn into one of those pushy, competitive mums, will you?’ she says.

  ‘You’re precariously close,’ I tease, taking a bite of Kit Kat.

  ‘This is nothing,’ she protests, removing an apple from her bag. ‘I sat next to a woman at the nursery sports day who hollered instructions to her toddler as if she was Fabio Capello.’

  Jess and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. We share all sorts of interests, from a love of reading to a mutual admiration of Italian men. There’s just one thing on which we are poles apart, something that our respective choice of snack demonstrates.