‘What exactly is MS?’ asks Jess as she battles to negotiate Lola’s pushchair through the mud. ‘I know hardly anything about it.’
Since Heidi broke her news, I’ve spent three days obsessing. Women of twenty-three aren’t supposed to get incurable illnesses. Except they do.
‘Damage to the protective sheath surrounding your nerve fibres,’ I tell Jess. I’ve read so much about this in thirty-six hours I could start editing Neurology Weekly. ‘That interferes with messages between the brain and other parts of the body. For most people, it’s characterised by relapses: the symptoms appear then they go into remission and you are back to normal. And then the symptoms reappear. It gets worse as you get older, but how much worse is down to the luck of the draw. It’s completely unpredictable.’
The cow next to us lets out a rambunctious moo and prompts Lola’s bottom lip to wobble. ‘Oh dear,’ soothes Jess, producing a dummy and popping it in the baby’s mouth. ‘So there’s no way of knowing whether Heidi will have the serious or mild form?’
‘Not yet. Though there’s one good sign: people with fewer lesions on the brain tend to fare better. Heidi only has one – for now. But nothing’s certain. Ever.’
We head to the café to give Lola her lunch, since if she doesn’t eat at exactly twelve noon she throws a tantrum that would make Mariah Carey look like Mother Teresa. Jamie has a sandwich and I can’t resist buying us all one of the gorgeous-looking chocolate cakes with Smarties on top.
‘They’re meant for the kids,’ Jess grins as we find a table.
‘So I’m reliving my childhood. How’s Adam?’ I’ve found over the years that asking Jess about her husband helps to give the impression that I’m fond of him.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ she replies, looking a bit forlorn as she lifts Lola into her highchair. ‘Same as usual.’
I frown, sensing something amiss. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing,’ she replies, too innocently. ‘Nothing at all. I mean . . . he’s fine. Simple as that.’
‘Mummy,’ interrupts Jamie after taking a single bite of his sandwich. ‘I don’t want this. It tastes like ham.’
‘It is ham,’ she informs him.
‘But I don’t like ham,’ he says.
‘Since when? You’ve always loved it.’
‘I like chicken now,’ he argues.
‘Well, they had chicken, but you chose ham. You chose ham because you like ham.’
‘Not any more.’
‘You’re going to have to eat it, I’m afraid, Jamie. Some children are starving in this world, you know.’
He looks at her sorrowfully. ‘They could have my sandwich if they liked.’
Jamie spends ten minutes dissecting his food into infinitesimal pieces before Jess finally relents and allows him to play in the ball pool while she feeds ravioli to Lola.
‘What did you mean about Adam before?’ I ask, now Jamie is out of earshot. ‘You went . . . funny.’
‘Did I?’ Jess is wiping Lola’s mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to. It’s nothing, honestly.’
I glare at her. She looks at my face and caves in.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Well . . . can I ask you a question?’
‘Fire away,’ I reply, picking off a corner of cake and popping it in my mouth.
‘Do you think Adam and I are well matched?’
I cough back crumbs and, between splutters, finally bring myself under control. ‘Of course.’
‘That’s not a very convincing response,’ she points out huffily.
‘Honestly, I do,’ I protest. Jess has always been Adam’s biggest advocate – determined that he’s the most intelligent, funny and kind man she knows. Personally, I can’t see it but there are some things you can’t say even to your best friend.
Despite her insistence about his qualities, however, there’s still a part of Jess that holds back, though I have no doubt that this is one of the many consequences of her emotionally confused upbringing.
She and her younger sister Sarah were raised by an austere mother, who never showed the girls affection, while their more demonstrative father was forever disappearing to enjoy his sole recreational pursuit: womanising.
Despite his philandering, part of Jess has always adored her father. And a part of her is exactly like him.
Before Adam, Jess struggled terribly with commitment; she loved the idea, but couldn’t manage the practice, which meant virtually every relationship she had ended in infidelity – hers.
When her mum died of breast cancer, she made an overnight decision – one she’s determined to stick to. Much as she loved her dad, she didn’t want to turn into him: she wanted stability, monogamy and a family. There’s no doubt that Adam has delivered all that.
Yet I still have a nagging suspicion that she chose him because he represented all those things and not necessarily because she was head-over-heels in love. This suspicion was reinforced a few years ago when, one drunken night out, she confessed she’d never told him that she loved him.
She narrows her eyes as if sensing my thoughts. ‘You don’t, do you?’
‘It depends what you mean by “well matched”,’ I say as diplomatically as I can. ‘You’re very different in some ways, but lots of people think different’s good. You know, opposites attract.’
‘Are we opposites?’ She says this as if it’s news to her.
‘Well, I suppose on the one hand you’re intelligent and outgoing and fun, and . . .’
‘And Adam?’
‘Well, he is intelligent and . . .’ I take a bite of cake.
Jess decides to change the subject. ‘Have you had any second thoughts about returning to the running club?’
I nearly choke. ‘Jess, if you think there’s any way I’m going back, you’re insane. I turned up dressed like someone you’d give your spare change to, trudged round hopelessly, then regurgitated the contents of my gut in front of a fellow member with whom – to top it off – I happen to be in an insurance dispute.’
She laughs. ‘You make things sound far worse than they are sometimes. At least you didn’t throw up in front of Doctor Dishy.’
‘If that’s the best you’ve got to say on the issue, God help me. Has he said anything about me?’
‘Um . . . yes.’
‘Liar.’
‘I’m not,’ she replies. ‘He asked whether you were coming back. I told him it was unlikely.’
‘What did you say that for?’
She looks at me incredulously. ‘Because that’s what you’ve spent five days telling me.’
I bite my lip. ‘Fair enough. I wish there was a way I could see him again, but without any running being involved. Can’t you throw another dinner party?’
‘Sorry, but our weekends are crazy for the next couple of months,’ she tells me. ‘Look, don’t bite off my head, but why don’t you do as I suggested in the first place? Get a bit fitter – then join. I know you felt it was a disaster on Monday, but that’s only because you were with people who were way above your abilities. And there’s no shame in that, by the way. They’ve been doing it for years.’
‘Bully for them. I got home and considered having a Stannah Stairlift fitted.’
‘Oh, come on, just start again. You can go in the slow group this time. Plus,’ she says, nudging me, ‘I’m sure if you asked nicely, Doctor Dishy would help you limber up.’
There is no doubt Jess knows how to push my buttons. Because by the time I get home, I’ve thought about nothing but Doctor Dishy and his lithe body in that running gear. I push the thought out of my mind as I sit down at my computer and reluctantly compose the following email.
Dear Tom
At the risk of destroying every shred of sanity Joan has left, I wondered if I could put a proposition to you. While this does not mean I’m saying our little collision was solely my fault, I have no doubt that things would get messy if our insurance companies started fighting.
I would therefore like to do the honourable thin
g and pay for the damage – if it’s not too late. Would it be possible to phone Joan and tell her your insurance claim is off? Then if you could let me know your address, I’ll send you a cheque. Thanks.
Abby
I press Send and feel a bitter lump in my throat. A thousand pounds. I click onto my internet banking site and check out my savings account – otherwise known as the Australia Fund.
I’ve been putting money into it for years, the intention being to visit my Aunt Steph in Sydney at some point. I haven’t seen Steph – my mum’s younger sister – for years, but she used to email me all the time to say I should plan a trip.
Mum’s never been close to Steph, for no other reason than their personalities are polar opposites, something you can tell just by looking at old photos.
There’s one picture of the sisters outside their terraced house in Anfield, Mum plastered in lipstick and with a feather boa round her neck, while little Steph – who can only have been seven – gazes up solemnly with wide eyes. You get the feeling that even then she’d accepted it was her destiny to live in Mum’s shadow.
Which is part of the reason I’ve always wanted to take the plunge and visit her one day. She has no family of her own, never having married, and it’s as if she’s become an irrelevance in our lives. This isn’t a situation Mum engineered on purpose, but it still doesn’t feel right.
I’ve always told myself that if it means digging out my bikini to soak up some Bondi Beach atmosphere at the same time, then all the better. Except I might be waiting rather a long time now.
I click on the balance and the figure appears: £1,036.
‘Great,’ I mutter. That leaves a grand total of thirty-six quid.
At that rate, by the time I reach Bondi I won’t be in a bikini, I’ll be in a FiftyPlus catalogue swimsuit.
Chapter 15
‘I see Building Services are on the offensive again,’ says Heidi, picking up the latest memo to drop through the door.
‘What have we done now?’ asks Matt. ‘Surely nothing can be worse than the toaster?’
Heidi clears her throat. ‘“It has come to the attention of the Building Services Manager that Certain Employees of Certain Businesses are regularly failing to bring their Swipe Card into Work and still expect to be permitted entry to the building Willy Nilly. The Building Services Department would like to remind All Employees of All Businesses that No Employees of Any Businesses will be permitted entry to the Building without a validificated Swipe Card. It is no good relying on Building Services to let you in as Building Services has better things to do. A Certain Business on the Fourth Floor is doing this disproportionately. Signed, The Building Services Manager.”’
‘We really are in the naughty corner,’ I say.
‘Call yourself a company director, Abby?’ teases Heidi. ‘You haven’t even validificated our swipe cards.’
I don’t know what I expected of Heidi when she returned to work the week after telling me about her MS, but it wasn’t this. There are no tears, no dramas. One week on, Heidi is just the same old Heidi.
‘I feel totally normal,’ she tells Priya and me in the Ladies on Friday lunchtime. ‘Honestly, I’ve no symptoms at all at the moment. Plus, I’m relieved to have told people. You’ve all been so much more supportive than I imagined.’
‘You must have had low expectations,’ I point out, and she laughs.
It’s clear that neither Priya nor I can make out whether this is a front; whether, deep down, Heidi is tortured and hiding it well. At the moment, everybody else seems more tortured than she is – constantly glancing at her to check she’s okay and being ultra-cautious that we don’t say the wrong thing.
Although nothing has happened this week – nothing at all – I feel the need to take the team out for a drink. So at five on the dot, I prise them from their computers and order them to the swanky new hotel that’s opened close to the office.
I spend half an hour finishing up, dealing with emails as I wolf down the crisps and ploughman’s sandwich I forgot to eat for lunch, before chucking its packaging in the bin and noting its depressing contents: crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and enough triangular sandwich cartons to create a detailed plastic replica of the pyramid at the Louvre.
When I return to my emails, I notice one landed this morning from Tom.
Dear Abby
Sorry to only just get back to you, but I’ve been out of the country with work. That’s the first thing I wanted to say. The second is congratulations. You did something I never thought possible: made me feel guilty about the bike. Not sure how you managed that, given the circumstances. Still, if you want to foot the bill instead of your insurance company, then of course I have no objections. I’ll give Joan a ring and let her know the good news. No doubt she’ll crack open a bottle of the exclusive-but-reasonably-priced cream perry she’s intending to serve at her leaving do.
Best wishes
Tom
I shut down my computer and head to the toilets to attack my appearance, only to discover the mirror dominated by three girls from the solicitors’ office upstairs. They appear to have transformed this grim, grey space into Champneys, such is the volume of make-up, hair and skin products scattered above the sinks.
I squeeze into a gap next to the hand-dryer, causing it to erupt into a noise comparable to a Cape Canaveral launch, while emitting but a whisper of cold air on my shoulder.
I examine myself critically, then the girls next to me, with their curling tongs, flawless make-up and eyelashes that look like something that’s crawled out of a tarantula house.
It hasn’t been a good week for me, lookswise. If I’m honest, it hasn’t been a good year. My hair has received as much attention as my waistline since I started the business – and it’s been so long since my roots were highlighted that if I’m not careful I’ll soon look like a Fab Ice Lolly.
I sheepishly pull out my powder compact and dab it over the shine on my nose. But as the girl at the other end of the mirror starts waxing her knees, I realise that my efforts are woefully inadequate. So I sprint back to my desk to open what Matt refers to as my ‘Mystery Drawer’.
‘This,’ I told him once, ‘contains the most important equipment in the office.’ I open it and remove my Velcro rollers, hairdryer and styling spray, before getting to work.
Half an hour later, as I cross the road outside the office, I hear someone calling my name.
‘Hey – wait!’
Oh God. It must be the bloody Building Services Manager! On a Friday night, for heaven’s sake. There’s no way I’m discussing my failure to ‘validificate’ the swipe cards now. I steam across the road as fast as I can without obviously breaking into a gallop, and head single-mindedly to my destination.
‘Wait!’
I quicken my step to the front of the hotel, where I spin through the revolving doors so fast that one slaps me on the arse as I exit. Then I stumble across the lobby, determined to get to the bar around the corner, before he can catch me. My footsteps quicken and, courtesy of a lackadaisical porter pushing a rail of coats and some perilously slippery floortiles, I somehow manage to outrun him.
‘Abby!’ he cries, before I dart round the corner and confirm to my satisfaction that I’ve given him the slip. When I’m certain the coast is clear, I straighten up. I’m striding coolly across the lobby towards the bar to meet my colleagues, when I feel a gentle tug on my hair.
I spin round and am confronted, not by the Building Services Manager, but by Tom. In a suit.
It’s a sight that seems wrong in some ways and yet . . . unbelievably right. I’ve only ever seen him either in his biking jacket or running gear – the latter with his muscles on show. In a suit, he had the potential to look stiff and uncomfortable, yet he looks anything but. The grey-blue hues of its fabric make his eyes appear deeper and darker, and his crisp white collar cuts cleanly against the tanned skin of his neck.
‘Oh. It’s you.’ My face flushes. He really isn’t my type at all
, yet he’s so excessively good-looking that again I’m self-conscious in his presence.
‘What a greeting,’ he smiles. ‘I know you’re about to hand over a thousand pounds to me, but I hadn’t thought I deserved that.’
‘I thought you were our Building Services Manager,’ I explain.
‘Okay,’ he says. A hint of a smile, but no more, appears on his lips. It’s very disconcerting, as if he constantly finds something amusing about me. ‘I was trying to alert you to this.’
He holds out his hand and presents me with a Velcro roller, tangled up with so many split ends you’d think it had been used to perm a Collie.
I try not to faint. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It was stuck on your back. I’ve chased you halfway up Dale Street to tell you.’
My cheeks suddenly feel as though they’ve been blow-torched.
‘Oh! You didn’t need to do that,’ I whoop.
‘As it happens, I was on my way here anyway.’
I glance at my roller. ‘Well, how strange,’ I say as casually as possible. ‘How on earth did that get there? I don’t even use the things.’
I whip it from his hand and stuff it into my bag so decisively that two other rollers – ones I’d cleverly decided to bring in case my fringe flops – leap out and ping on the floor like two oversized jumping beans. ‘What I mean is, I don’t . . . um, normally use them.’
I bend down to retrieve them and a pain slices through my brow as he does the exact same thing and we bang heads.
‘God, sorry,’ I mutter.
He rubs his head, frowning. ‘It’s okay. Listen, it’s probably a good thing I literally bumped into you. I forgot to give you my address.’
My heart starts racing. ‘What did you want to give me your address for?’
‘The cheque,’ he replies.
‘Oh. Of course.’ I root in my bag for a business card and pen, which he takes from me and starts writing. He’s about to hand it back, when he examines the card.
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten your business was web design. I know a company looking to redesign its website at the moment.’
Girl on the Run Page 7