Jess is what my grandma would have termed a ‘fitness fanatic’, for she is sporty to a preposterous level. At school, she captained the netball and rounders teams, ran cross-country for the county, was a junior hurdles champion in 1991 and 1992 – and had a volleyball spike that I’m convinced was capable of beheading spectators.
While others approaching their thirties become distracted by work and social lives, she progressed effortlessly to running marathons and the odd triathlon. Between this and her elfin features, azure eyes and self-effacing charm, technically I should hate her. Fortunately, she’s a brilliant friend and makes me laugh more than anyone else I know, so I can forgive her all the other stuff.
I don’t like to think of myself as unfit exactly. I’m not horribly obese, or plagued with diet-induced acne, or anything glaringly obvious like that. In fact, I rarely fluctuate from a size 14 (or 12 at Wallis – God bless ’em), despite eating like a public health warning on some days, and hardly at all on others. I also drink too much, unable to resist a glass or three of wine at the end of a hard day.
I haven’t always been like this. At school, I too was a member of the rounders team (though I did spend a lot of time hovering behind fourth base hoping the ball never came my way). As recently as last year, I’d go to the odd Step class and rode my bike when the mood took me – though I’ve never been particularly moody, it’s true.
Since I started the business, though, my health has well and truly taken a back seat. If I went to the gym now, my abs would go on strike.
‘Are you going for a run today?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ Jess replies, smirking because she’s aware of the bewilderment with which I view her membership of a running club.
‘Don’t you ever have a day off?’ I ask, already knowing the answer.
‘Oh, the club doesn’t meet every day – just a few times a week.’
‘But you run every day.’
‘Not at Christmas. Though I managed to slip in a Five K last year while Adam was peeling the sprouts.’ She winks. ‘How did you leave things with your motorbike man last week?’
‘Oh, him.’ I roll my eyes. ‘He’s got my email – I’m waiting till he contacts me so I can pass on my insurance details. I’m surprised I haven’t heard, actually. Given how irate he was, I expected to have the bill before the day was out.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I’m dreading it. It’s going to cost a fortune, Jess. I’ve made myself virtually uninsurable.’
‘Was it definitely your fault?’
‘I’m afraid so. Much as I’d love to blame it on him, grumpy sod.’
‘I thought you said he was gorgeous?’
‘They’re not mutually exclusive,’ I tell her.
‘You did almost kill him, didn’t you?’
I wince. ‘I did not.’
‘You told me that.’
‘Did I? Oh. Well, that’s not my official line.’
She giggles, pulling out a baby wipe and attempting to clean Lola’s nose.
‘How are you feeling about starting work again next week?’ I ask, contemplating whether I’ve got enough change for crisps.
‘Good, actually,’ she says, as if almost surprising herself. Jess is returning to her job as a senior manager at a telecommunications company after maternity leave. ‘I’ve got to brush up on a few things first, but then I’ll be away.’
‘Bet you’ll find it strange not having the kids around twenty-four hours a day.’
‘I’m ready for it,’ she confesses. ‘This week I found myself driving to Sainsbury’s on the other side of town instead of the Tesco two minutes away – just for a change. If that’s the best a person can do to get their kicks, something’s got to give.’
Lola loses her rattle and starts to whimper. I scoop it up to return it and am rewarded with a beaming smile. I can’t resist unstrapping her for a cuddle.
‘Who’s a cutie?’ I grin, nuzzling my face into her tummy as she giggles with delight.
‘Are you getting broody?’ Jess asks, raising an eyebrow.
‘Give me four or five years, please,’ I reply. ‘I know you managed the husband and kids before you hit thirty – but some of us are a slow burn. Besides, I can’t even manage a work–life balance when there’s only me to worry about.’
‘Once you’ve met the right man there’ll be no stopping you.’
‘Well . . . that’s another matter, isn’t it?’
Jess flashes me a knowing look. ‘Your dry run is over, my friend, I promise. Tonight will be a triumph. I can feel it in my bones.’
I remain unconvinced. ‘You were able to feel it in your bones before all three blind dates you set up – and each one was about as successful as a Malaysian Eurovision entry.’
Jess is determined to partner me up with someone and, as a result, I’ve had a succession of her husband Adam’s work colleagues paraded in front of me. There’s been nothing wrong with any of them, exactly, apart from me not fancying them – a fact that Jess seems to think makes me insanely picky.
Tonight, however, there’s a shift away from Adam’s chums. I will be dining with her, Adam, and a bloke from the running club. She’s even more determined that it will be the start of a beautiful relationship, resulting in marriage, children and a lifetime of foursomes to Center Parcs.
‘Well, perhaps,’ she concedes, ‘but Oliver’s Italian. At least, his grandfather’s Italian. Or maybe a quarter Italian. Or something.’
‘I’m more Italian than that,’ I point out, ‘and I’m about as Italian as Rab C. Nesbitt.’
‘He’s just stepped in as Acting Captain of the running club after the previous guy picked up an injury,’ she continues, ignoring me. ‘He’s only been with us for a few months so I don’t know him that well yet, but you’ll like him, I’m sure. He’s very good-looking and, more importantly, one of the nicest people you could hope to meet.’
‘If that’s the case, why did you parade me in front of three different men before you settled on him?’
‘He’s only just single. He split up with some woman he’d been seeing the other week.’
‘So he’s got baggage?’
She smiles. ‘Like you haven’t?’
There’s no answer to that. Kit Kat and Diet Coke finished, I reach into my pocket and dig out fifty pence. I definitely need some crisps now.
Chapter 6
For the record, I don’t have baggage. Not really. Compared with some people, my romantic history is positively straightforward. Or maybe I’ve watched too much Jeremy Kyle.
As someone who’s been happily married for six years, Jess has an unreasonable view of what constitutes a normal love-life for a late-twentysomething woman.
I can’t deny I’ve had my ups and downs, but who hasn’t? I’ve had steady relationships (two) and my heart broken (once). I’ve had a long period of celibacy (ongoing). And a holiday romance (which I thoroughly enjoyed – until I found out about his wife). So far, I haven’t pictured myself growing old with any of them, and in the last frantic year in particular, looking for Mr Right has been the last thing on my mind. The result is it’s been over a year since I’ve had anything approaching a romantic liaison. How it got to that long I have no idea, but it has.
And on nights like this, when I’m away from work, and have washed its issues from my hair and replaced them with several tons of Elnett, it reminds me acutely that there’s more to life than winning clients. Like flirtation and fun, impromptu nights out and a reckless amount of eye-contact.
Perhaps it’s how the evening is panning out that’s reignited my enthusiasm for a social life. I don’t know what I was expecting from Oliver-whose-grandad-is-a-quarter-Italian, but it wasn’t this: a down-to-earth, modest and outrageously cute guy, with a smile so dazzling it could supply the National Grid.
‘Why didn’t you tell me he was so attractive?’ I hiss as Jess empties potatoes into a colander.
‘Didn’t I?’ she replies innocently. ‘I was s
ure I did. I definitely told you he was a nice guy.’ She transfers the potatoes to a bowl and grinds on some rock salt.
‘That’s like saying Barack Obama has a moderately good job. Jess, he’s lovely. He’s perfect. He’s—’
‘Out there talking to my husband and not you,’ she leaps in. ‘Now get back into the dining room, won’t you?’
‘I will, I will,’ I say, leaning on the island of Jess’s kitchen to build myself up to the moment.
I love this room. Actually, I love the whole of Jess’s house, but the kitchen is particularly great. It’s contemporary and classic all at the same time, with high gloss surfaces on soft, cherrywood furniture. It started out like something that could comfortably grace the pages of a homes magazine, but has evolved with its own idiosyncrasies – from the explosion of kids’ paintings on the fridge to the enormous, rambling bookshelf on one wall.
‘I’ve never dated a doctor before,’ I muse, taking a sip of my wine. Oh yes. Did I mention that? Oliver is a seven-years’ qualified cardiologist. As if he could get any better.
He arrived an hour and a half ago with a frisky Valpolicella, flowers for Jess and – though he seems mortally embarrassed every time I’ve spotted this – an apparent inability to keep his eyes from my cleavage. A fact which, frankly, has made my week.
‘Yeah well, Doctor Dishy could be the first,’ she replies. ‘But nothing’s going to happen if you keep standing here.’
She’s right, of course. Besides, I should go out there if only to rescue him from Adam. So far, Oliver has manfully resisted Jess’s husband’s attempts to force him into a catatonic state with his political ramblings, but how long that will be the case, God only knows.
‘I wish I’d prepared for this more,’ I tell Jess. ‘I mean, look at me. My nail polish has more chips than Harry Ramsden’s and I haven’t had time to shave my legs.’
‘So? You’re wearing trousers.’ She hands me a bowl of steaming potatoes.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Why? Are you planning on taking them off?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I was hoping for a game of Strip Poker before the night’s out?’ I grin.
There’s a cough from the door and when I look up Oliver is standing there, looking slightly stunned. My cheeks flush. ‘That was a . . . I didn’t mean it about the . . .’
‘How are you getting on, Oliver?’ Jess steps in.
‘Um . . . fine,’ he replies, as his eyes flash to mine then glance away shyly. ‘I came to see if I could help.’
‘All under control,’ says Jess.
Conscious that his eyes are on me again, I am unable to look back until, eventually, he wanders over to the notice-board.
‘You’ve got beautiful children,’ he tells Jess, scanning the photos. ‘Are they in bed?’
I turn to Jess in anticipation of her answer and register that she’s pointing manically to her eyes, whirling round her fingers in front of her face as if doing a miniature version of the hand-jive.
‘Hmmm?’ she says shiftily, finally registering the question. ‘Oh, yes – bedtime’s at seven. Got it down to a fine art now.’
‘I love kids,’ he continues. ‘I just can’t wait to have them myself. I became an uncle recently.’
‘Oh really?’ says Jess, only half-concentrating as she frantically starts pointing at her face. I shake my head in bewilderment, wondering why she’s chosen now to launch a game of charades.
‘Yeah, my sister had a little boy – Jonah. Adorable.’
‘How old is he?’ I ask.
As he turns to answer, Jess grabs me by the elbow and spins me round as if launching into a flamenco.
‘Four months, I think,’ he says. ‘He’s crawling.’
‘That’s advanced for four months,’ coughs Jess. ‘They usually do it at eight.’ I go to turn when she grabs me by the arm again and snatches the potatoes from my hands. ‘Oliver, sorry to be a pain, but could you take those through before they get cold?’
‘My pleasure,’ he grins as Jess grips me with such force I’m wondering if a Chinese burn is next.
‘What’s with the ju-jitsu practice?’ I ask when Oliver disappears through the door. She opens her kitchen drawer, pulls out her compact mirror and thrusts it in my face. The steam from the potatoes has left mascara running down my cheeks like a North Sea oil spill.
‘Oh, brilliant.’
‘Don’t worry – he didn’t see. Have a tissue. Then get out there and flirt like your life depends on it.’
Adam is determined. No matter how often Jess attempts to steer her husband’s conversation onto Come Dine with Me or Amanda Holden’s Botox, he’s having none of it.
‘The apathy over Europe in this country is unbelievable,’ he says, finishing a mouthful of vegetables. ‘There are three hundred and seventy-five million citizens in the EU and hardly anyone appreciates the influence the European Parliament has on our lives. The budget it controls is phenomenal and yet—’
The baby monitor crackles into life as Lola wakes up crying. Everyone pauses to see if she settles. After a few seconds, it becomes apparent that she isn’t going to.
‘I’ll go.’ Adam slides back his chair and heads for the door. I have to stop myself from sighing out loud with relief.
‘What do you reckon to next week’s half-marathon, Oliver?’ Jess asks, topping up my wine. ‘Are you going to beat your personal best?’
‘Well, I’ll try,’ he replies. ‘Though usually I don’t drink for two weeks before a race. I’ve blown that rule tonight.’ He grins, looking at me, and I notice a little dimple in his chin for the first time. It is unbelievably sexy, a quality he seems entirely unaware of.
‘Well, if ever I needed another reason not to take up running, that’s it,’ I smile.
Jess giggles, but as I glance at Oliver it strikes me that self-deprecation might not be a wise move in this case. I’m never going to get him to fancy me if I let on I’m as lardy as the pastry on a steak and kidney pudding.
‘Don’t you like running, Abby?’ He’s smiling with wide, kind eyes – but something makes me stop buttering my roll. I suddenly despise its enticing fluffy dough, its lavish smear of butter – and what it and its kind have done to my love handles.
‘I used to do a lot of exercise,’ I tell him. Jess bites her lip and looks away.
‘Oh?’ he replies as I take in his forearms: they – like the rest of Oliver – are lean and muscular, without an ounce of spare flesh.
‘Hmmm. Cycling mainly. A lot of swimming. I was always at it.’
‘Right,’ he nods. ‘Well, both are very good for you.’
‘Abby’s so busy with her business these days it’s difficult,’ Jess interjects. It comes to something when it needs two of you to come up with pathetic excuses.
‘I know everyone says that, but in my case it’s true,’ I add, pointedly passing on the potatoes and helping myself to fibre-packed green beans.
‘Oh, come on.’ Oliver laughs softly, his dimples appearing again. ‘I don’t believe anyone’s too busy to exercise. Everyone can build an hour into their schedule a couple of times a week. Even you, Abby.’ He says it with a glint in his eye, but there’s no doubt that he’s convinced.
I manage to hold his gaze for longer than I would without three glasses of wine. But as heat spreads up my neck, I’m forced to look away.
‘Well, you’ve obviously never met anyone who’s just started their own business,’ I manage.
‘You might be right,’ he concedes. God, he’s cute. ‘What’s your line of business? Jess mentioned it’s something to do with websites.’
‘We’re a web-design company.’
‘Abby has already won an industry award and has some really big clients,’ adds Jess. ‘It’s only been going eighteen months.’
‘Well done you,’ he smiles. For the first time this evening, I get a sense that he likes me. Yet, it’s obvious that flirting isn’t something that comes naturally to him – he seems too
genuine, too boy-next-door. For some reason, that makes him even more desirable.
Jess stands with a satisfied grin. ‘I’m going to clear the dishes,’ she says. ‘Oliver, don’t get up.’ She pushes down his shoulder with the force of a pneumatic press. ‘You wait and chat with Abby.’
As she disappears through the doors, Oliver and I glance around the room, awkwardly searching for something to say.
‘Nice bracelet,’ he says eventually. It’s as if he’s trying to make the right moves because he likes me, but that he’s far from practised in the art. ‘Looks like it came from somewhere exotic.’
Claire’s Accessories, to be precise. It was £4.99. He doesn’t have to know that.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble shyly. He reaches for the wine and as his arm brushes against mine I explode with nerves.
We catch each other’s eye again and I suddenly feel slightly faint. ‘You know,’ he muses, ‘now your business has been up and running for eighteen months, perhaps you should make a bit more “me time”.’
My heartbeat doubles in speed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. What did you have in mind?’
He leans back and smiles, looking bolder than he has all evening. ‘Join the running club.’
That wipes the grin off my face. ‘I don’t really think it’s my cup of tea,’ I say.
‘Really? If you used to swim a lot, it won’t take you long to get into condition.’ I can tell from the look on his face that he really believes what he’s saying.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ll think about it,’ I lie.
‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ he says, looking unbelievably sweet and sexy at the same time. ‘But it’d be great if you did.’
I realise I’m holding my breath as the door bursts open and Adam strides to the table. ‘She’s very snuffly tonight,’ he says. ‘I’ve given her some Calpol but – Oh. Where’s Jess?’
‘In the kitchen sorting out the next course,’ I reply, hoping he’ll join her.
Girl on the Run Page 3