Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  ‘It might be a while before you pack your bags yet,’ Egor laughs, ‘but if you end up in profit so early in your company’s existence, you should be very happy, Abby. Let’s not count our chickens though, shall we?’

  Shoes aside, Egor is lovely. Utterly so. And I don’t only think that because he’s the guy who does the number crunching that I despise, everything from filing my VAT return to preparing my accounts each quarter.

  I decided early on to take on a self-employed accountant like Egor, as well as an agency to do the payroll every month. Nobody would ever have been paid otherwise – including myself.

  ‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it,’ I tell him, ‘because frankly, the size of the overdraft being run by this company terrifies me.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds is perfectly normal for a company of your size, Abby,’ he reassures me. ‘Start-up businesses couldn’t function without an overdraft, and most of the time you’re operating in the black; we only use the overdraft at the end of each month to cover the staff salaries while we’re waiting for the clients to pay. It’s all perfectly normal.’

  My mobile rings and I ask Egor to bear with me while I take it out of my bag and glance at the number flashing up.

  ‘Oh no,’ I groan, before pressing ignore.

  I recognise the number immediately, courtesy of the fact that they’ve phoned three times in twenty-four hours and left two messages: it’s my insurance company. I genuinely haven’t had a minute to return the call.

  ‘Well, Egor, considering my feelings about this side of the business, today has been painless. Thank you,’ I say, standing to leave.

  ‘Er, just a second, Abby,’ he says.

  I pause and sit, glancing at his expression – which has suddenly shifted.

  ‘Now,’ he says with a tone I instantly recognise as tactful, ‘I know you don’t like admin, but there are certain jobs you can’t avoid. You’ve got to stay on top of your invoices, Abby.’

  ‘I send them out on time,’ I protest weakly.

  ‘The trouble is, not everyone pays on time, do they?’ he replies. ‘Look at the precision engineering company – Preciseco. We never seem to get their payment earlier than sixty days after you’ve sent the bill.’

  ‘That was starting to annoy me too,’ I mutter.

  ‘Look, I’m not having a go. Well, not really. Late payments are the scourge of the small business. But you must keep tabs on every bill you send out to a client. If they’re even a day late, get on to them with a polite reminder. That will usually do the trick, but if not, get on to them again – until they do pay.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do that in future. Though may I point out that not all my clients pay late. Diggles are my biggest and they always cough up within seven days.’

  ‘Ah yes, your garden-centre chain. They are pretty brilliant, aren’t they? So, if you can win some business from seven or eight more massive garden-centre chains who pay up before they even need to, you’ll be a millionaire by next year. Alternatively, try it my way.’

  ‘You can be such a bully sometimes, Egor,’ I tell him. ‘And here I was, thinking you were different from other accountants.’

  ‘I’m exactly the same, Abby, I promise.’ He helps himself to the last of the biscuits and takes a bite. ‘Nice cookies. Hope they didn’t cost too much.’

  Chapter 12

  If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m walking with the gait of an over-worked pornography actress, I’d enter the office with a spring in my step. Egor didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know, but it’s nice to have the fact that my business is in good shape reinforced.

  ‘Morning, Abby,’ smiles Priya. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Good, thanks, and you? How are you feeling about . . . whatsisname?’

  ‘Karl,’ she replies. ‘Absolutely fine. I’ve met someone else.’

  ‘She’s nothing if not fast,’ Hunky Matt comments, upon which she throws a pad of Post-it notes at his head.

  ‘He’s called Richard and he is very nice,’ Priya says proudly. ‘He’s a sales rep.’

  ‘He sells toothbrushes,’ Matt puts in.

  Priya narrows her eyes. ‘What is wrong with toothbrushes?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Matt says. ‘Everyone needs ’em. Well, everyone with teeth.’

  ‘Exactly!’ she replies.

  ‘In fact, I bet the date’ll be absolutely filling,’ he adds.

  ‘These puns of yours get worse,’ I sigh. ‘Now – what have you both been up to this afternoon?’

  ‘Working on the new site for Spring,’ Matt says, referring to one of our newest clients, a group of trendy delicatessens. ‘What do you think?’

  I walk round the desk to look over his shoulder. ‘This is gorgeous – I love it. Though you might want to consider a different font. How about . . .’ I lean over and am clicking on the mouse a few times when something strikes me. ‘Where’s Heidi?’

  ‘Oh, she phoned in sick,’ Priya says. ‘Apparently, she sent you an email. Thought you’d pick it up on your BlackBerry.’

  ‘I get far too many emails to do anything other than ignore them when I’m in meetings,’ I tell her. ‘I know that destroys the object, but I’d spend all day on it otherwise.’

  I sit and scan my inbox, finally spotting one from Heidi’s personal email address.

  Hi Abby

  I know this is short notice, but could we meet for coffee today? Priya had a look in the office diary and she said you’ve a slot at three. Any chance I could see you at Delifonseca?

  Heidi

  X

  I groan outwardly, but as the others are used to me doing this every time I go near my emails – and unearth another hundred things for my To Do list – they barely stir.

  My only free slot today was at three, and I was intending to use it, fresh from Egor’s chat, to chase up late-paying clients. Not just that, but I have a horrible feeling about Heidi’s urgency: my suspicion about another agency persuading her to join them suddenly feels like a real possibility.

  I am about to stand to leave when another email leaps from the computer screen – from tom.bronte@caroandco.com – and makes my stomach swirl.

  Abby, it begins and I tut at the further presumption of familiarity.

  A postscript to our accident: I have fully comprehensive insurance, so they agreed to foot the bill to fix the bike immediately. However, I’ve been dealing with a very nice but harassed lady called Joan at their call centre. Joan is a month from retiring to help look after her new grandchild Lexi, a baby I have neither met nor seen but now know everything about – from the time she has her last bottle to her mother’s method of pain relief when she was delivered.

  I suppress a smile.

  Joan has spent forty years working for my insurance company and wishes to end on a high. Unfortunately, she is prevented from doing so by my claim. Apparently, when someone other than the policyholder is at fault, they will seek to reclaim the cost of the damage from the insurance company of the person who did cause it.

  The problem is, your insurance firm are saying they have not been notified of an accident and are struggling to contact you. Consequently, Joan is on the verge of a nervous breakdown – and I am about to follow her if she doesn’t stop phoning me. Both she and I would be very grateful if you could give your insurance company a shout.

  In the meantime, I hope you’ve reconsidered a return to the running club. I was only joking about the vomiting. It happens all the time.

  Tom

  My face blanches. The insurance company have left scores of messages and I just haven’t had time to return them. I glance at my watch and quickly hit Reply.

  Dear Tom

  I will by all means get on the case regarding the insurance, so you can tell Joan that she’ll be able to sort this matter well before she goes off to devote the rest of her life to little Lucy or whatever her name is.

  Though may I add that this in no way means I am admitting liability. As I’ve already said, that’s
for our insurance companies to decide – and if it puts Joan in The Priory by the end of next week, then I’m very sorry, but it can’t be helped.

  And, no, I haven’t changed my mind about the running club. Some people aren’t cut out for that level of physical exertion and I’m one of them. You’ll all be a lot better off without me. Plus, I know you’re lying about the puke.

  Abby

  By the time I meet Heidi, I’m so frazzled that the ends of my hair are almost singed. I’ve spent the day racing between meetings, unable to pause long enough to breathe properly, never mind answer all calls (including another from the insurance company – arrgh!).

  I must confess, I use the word ‘race’ loosely. The movement is more like a frantic limp – an expeditious hobble, if you will. I suspect after my foray into running, it may be three weeks before I’m capable of putting on socks without a winch.

  When I arrive at the café, Heidi is in the corner nursing a herbal tea. She didn’t mention being off sick in her email, as Priya told me, but it strikes me the second I see her that she does look peaky. That’s at least better than the alternative – her buggering off to work for someone else.

  ‘Hey, Heidi,’ I say, switching my phone on silent. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  Heidi looks up and nods, then pauses as if to tell me something . . . but says nothing.

  ‘So,’ I say awkwardly, ‘did you get caught in the rain? Priya looked half-drowned when she came in. This sort of weather should be against the law in July.’

  ‘Um, no,’ she manages.

  I wait, giving her the opportunity to say what she’s dragged me here to say. It’d be suspenseful if there weren’t a million other things going through my mind. The looming deadline for an NHS tender; the new Spring website; the four more outstanding invoices I’ve remembered since my chat with Egor.

  ‘What was it you wanted to discuss, Heidi?’

  I notice the redness around her eyes and it hits me. She is about to quit. Bloody hell, I’m about to lose my first employee!

  In the split second before she speaks, I feel a strange combination of defensiveness – why wouldn’t she want to work for me any more? – and defiance – see if I care!

  ‘I’m ill,’ she says simply.

  ‘Oh. Well, yes – Priya said you’d phoned in sick. What is it?’ I suddenly wonder whether there’s some obscure European legislation that prevents me, as her employer, from prying into such matters. ‘If you don’t mind telling me.’

  ‘Do you know what, Abby? I hate getting even a cold,’ she says with a strange, gravelly laugh. ‘I only have to sneeze and it irritates me. I’ve got better things to do than be sick, Abs – do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I’m with Heidi 100 per cent on this, and it’s no surprise that someone as ambitious as she is should feel like that. The way she says it is weird though.

  ‘Well,’ she gulps, ‘I’ve got more than a cold.’

  A chill runs through my blood. I have no idea what she’s going to say next but there’s something about the look in her eyes that tells me it isn’t good.

  ‘It was finally confirmed yesterday,’ she continues numbly. ‘Though we – at least, my doctor and I – had suspected for a while now what the problem was.’

  ‘What is it?’ I whisper.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

  ‘Heidi,’ I urge her – and not because I’m in a rush any more.

  She looks into my eyes and swallows hard, as if a pebble is stuck in her throat. ‘I’ve got multiple sclerosis.’

  Chapter 13

  We live in an age when it’s hard to shock. When revelations on magazine stands are no longer headline news; when words that would have made our grandmothers pass out barely make us blink.

  As I sit in front of Heidi, taking in what she’s told me, the world around me zooms out of focus. All I can fix on is her pretty face. And I am shocked.

  ‘Multiple sclerosis?’ I repeat lamely.

  She sips her tea. ‘You weren’t expecting that, were you?’

  I shake my head mutely.

  ‘Don’t worry. Neither was anyone else. When you’re twenty-three and you tell people you’re ill, why would they think it was anything more than the flu?’ She almost grins. ‘A bit of flu would’ve done me nicely, let me tell you.’

  A waitress appears and removes Heidi’s empty cup. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get you a coffee, did I?’ says Heidi. ‘Fancy a cappuccino?’

  She goes to stand but I put my hand on her elbow and gently push her back into her seat. ‘Heidi. Talk to me.’

  She nods and looks at her fingers, playing with an empty pack of sweetener. ‘Do you know what MS is, Abby?’

  I clear my throat. ‘I . . . not exactly. I mean, I knew someone – a friend of my parents’ – who had it years ago. He was on crutches and . . . well, I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  That’s true – it’s been fifteen years since I saw Damian but he wasn’t in good shape then and I’ve heard that he’s worsened significantly since. The crutches he only used irregularly before are now permanent, and his speech difficult to understand. When he was Heidi’s age, he was an avid football player and a teacher. I don’t say any of this, obviously, but from the look on her face she has guessed some of it.

  ‘MS is an auto-immune disease that affects the nervous system.’ She tells me this with calm clarity – the same way I’ve seen her behave in important presentations when I’ve brought her along as back-up. ‘Those most likely to develop it are women in their twenties and thirties. Just like me.’

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘It isn’t terminal. Not most of the time anyway,’ she replies. ‘And in the years immediately following diagnosis, people can usually lead a relatively normal life. Go on working, for example. At least at first.’

  ‘Good,’ I say firmly, clinging to this. ‘Because I can’t afford to lose someone as talented as you.’

  She bites her lip. ‘But there are also a range of symptoms that you can go on to develop that . . . well, they’re not nice. To put it mildly. Spasticity, pain, vision problems, cognitive problems, fatigue – they’re just a few.’

  ‘People don’t always develop those, do they?’ I ask.

  ‘Everyone’s MS is different,’ she tells me. ‘It’s impossible to know which of the symptoms you’re going to get – and, yes, it’d be unusual to get all of them. The only thing you do know is that it tends to get worse over time.’

  ‘Are there treatments?’

  ‘There are drugs to slow its progress and manage symptoms. But the real nightmare is . . .’ she looks up. ‘There’s no cure.’

  The room swims as I take in her words. God knows what hearing this must have been like for her.

  ‘Of course, some people only ever develop the mild version. So, I’m trying to look on the bright side. I’m trying really bloody hard. But it’s virtually impossible for the doctors to give a prognosis. I have no idea whether I’m going to end up in a wheelchair with nasty complications or with some insignificant disability in my left foot.’

  I glance at her hands as she slowly folds and unfolds her sweetener packet.

  ‘You seem incredibly calm, Heidi.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Although the diagnosis has just been confirmed, this has been going on for ages. I’ve had a while to get used to the idea.’

  ‘When did it all start?’

  ‘A couple of years ago my foot went numb,’ she explains. ‘It went away after a while, but then came back again, with tingling down my leg. Then some weird stuff happened with my eyesight. I’ve had tests since the start of last year. But MS isn’t an easy thing to pin down.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’

  ‘The weird thing is, part of me is relieved to know that that’s definitely what I’ve got. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I’ve got an incurable disease and I feel relieved. But for the first time in God knows how long, I know w
hat’s wrong with me and I know what I’ve got to do about it.’

  I’m struck by Heidi’s lack of drama.

  Then I notice her lip trembling and the glaze of tears over her eyes. ‘What am I going to do, Abby?’ she says, quietly crumpling. ‘I’m not ready for this. I’m not old enough. What on earth am I going to do?’

  ‘Oh, Heidi. I’m so sorry,’ I whisper as my own eyes grow hot. ‘You’ve got people around you who’ll help.’

  I feel so weak saying this. What the hell do I know? Abby Rogers who, despite her permanently elevated stress levels, hasn’t got any real problems.

  Heidi looks up, her face so pale it’s almost ghostly. ‘I’m scared, Abby.’

  I squeeze her hand and try to think of a response. But nothing’s good enough. Not a single thing.

  Chapter 14

  My car trouble pales in comparison with Heidi’s news. Everything pales in comparison with Heidi’s news.

  So by the time I finally get round to speaking to the insurance company on Saturday morning in a bid to put Tom, Joan and little Lydia – or whoever – out of their misery, I can’t help feeling distinctly blasé about it.

  Then they deliver the verdict – or rather, Jimmy, a chirpy call centre Geordie – does. He’s friendly and polite, though he’d need the oratorical skills of Cicero to soften this blow. If Tom’s firm successfully claims against mine, next year’s premium will shoot up so high that my only option will be commuting via pushbike. Which would be environmentally friendly, but about as practical as sling-back ski boots.

  I trudge across a muddy field to Jess and the kids in time to witness a shire horse emptying his bowels at a positively operatic volume.

  We’re at Windy Animal Farm, a place that’s apparently enormously entertaining when you’re four. As well as the shire horse’s offering, the air is filled with a pronounced aroma of goat. It’s been drizzling for the past hour and a half.