Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘No, a contact’s. A firm of accountants. I can email you the details.’

  ‘That’d be nice. Thanks.’ I catch his eye briefly and smile, but find myself unable to hold his gaze for even a polite amount of time.

  ‘There you are!’ says a voice out of nowhere as I look up at its owner.

  You know those French actresses with big eyes, tiny fragile limbs and bee-stung lips? Well, the woman who has just linked arms with Tom would make one of those look like the Honey Monster.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she grins, tightening her grip on him. ‘I’m Geraldine.’ The accent is a soft Lancastrian one, making it clear she isn’t French.

  ‘This is Abby,’ Tom tells her. ‘She’s joined the running club.’

  ‘Have you?’ Geraldine’s smile widens.

  ‘But now she’s left,’ he adds. ‘Unless you’ve had a change of heart?’

  I laugh. ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Oh, you should join again,’ says Geraldine enthusiastically. ‘It’d be brill to have another girl in the gang.’

  Oh God. She’s one of them. I might have known. ‘It wasn’t really my thing . . .’

  ‘You’d get into it,’ she insists, truly believing this. ‘Oh, change your mind – go on. We’re desperate for more members for the Ten K women’s team. And there’s a half-marathon coming up if you’re feeling really ambitious.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I assure her pleasantly. ‘Think I’ll stick with my Step classes.’ The imaginary ones.

  She shrugs, still smiling. It seems to be the only expression she does. ‘Ah, never mind – I can see my powers of persuasion aren’t working. Oh, Tom: the table’s booked for seven thirty. Nice to meet you, Abby,’ she says finally.

  ‘See you, Abby,’ adds Tom as they head for the door.

  ‘Yeah, see you. And . . . the cheque’s in the post.’

  He glances round with that amused look again.

  I remind myself that it’s just a look, his look; it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve committed a faux pas. Then I glance at the three multi-coloured rollers in my hand – and head in the opposite direction as hastily as possible.

  Chapter 16

  By nine-thirty, Hunky Matt has attracted a gaggle of admirers, entranced by his self-deprecating humour, shy smile and now-legendary behind. They don’t even seem to mind his crap jokes.

  ‘I don’t know how he does it,’ says Priya, glancing over as he stands at the bar, chatting to three women. ‘It’s not fair – he doesn’t even try. I’ve spent half the evening making eyes at a bloke only for him to leave with some blonde bimbo with knockers like beach balls. Nothing against blondes, of course,’ she adds. ‘Or beach balls.’

  ‘I thought it was going well with . . . whatsisname?’

  ‘Richard,’ she replies. ‘It was. Then he dumped me.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry, Priya.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the pink?’ she asks, twirling a finger round a strand of hair.

  I shrug. ‘I like the pink. It’s you. Don’t go all conventional, Priya, whatever you do.’

  ‘It’d please my mum.’ Then she reconsiders. ‘Actually, I think the shock would kill her.’

  Priya’s parents were forced to accept that she was unlikely to follow in the footsteps of her brother Adnan, who enthusiastically went through with the marriage that’d been planned for him since childhood.

  As well as refusing to even discuss the matter, Priya instead followed a fellow sixth-former called Simon all the way to Liverpool John Moores University – and was promptly dumped in favour of the Deputy Manageress of their local greengrocer’s. She dropped out of the course and hasn’t eaten a kiwi since.

  ‘It’s my round. Anyone else fancy tequila shots?’ Heidi is swaying as she reaches into her bag for her purse and only then do I realise how drunk she is. Priya gives me a meaningful look.

  ‘I’ll get these, Heidi,’ I touch her arm. ‘How about a soft drink first? It’ll keep us going longer.’

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. ‘I’m not having bloody soft drinks, Abby Rogers!’ she grins.

  Heidi never swears. Priya looks worried.

  ‘Well, weren’t you keen on doing karaoke?’ I suggest, looking for a diversion. ‘Let’s head over and I’ll get a round when we’re there.’

  We prise Matt from his followers and head to the karaoke bar. I have no idea what it’s called; indeed, it may not even have a name, and I certainly know that I’d never find it when sober. It’s tucked down a flight of stairs between an insurance broker’s and a newsagent. Once you’ve negotiated some stairs as steep as the galley steps of a World War Two battleship, you enter a labyrinth of rooms and are attended by a gaggle of insanely cheerful waiters, who make up for the car-crash decor and highly variable quality of noise.

  Matt and Priya put down their names for ‘I Got You Babe’, a duet I’ve seen them perform at least six times, with spectacularly little improvement.

  We find a booth and settle down as three twenty-something blokes, wearing the crumpled remnants of work clothes, launch into a competent ‘Sweet Caroline’.

  ‘Are you going back to your running club?’ asks Matt.

  ‘Not you too,’ I complain, slugging my wine. ‘Is this a conspiracy? The answer is no. Not least because I wouldn’t survive it.’

  ‘You need something to motivate you,’ continues Priya, as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘My friend got really fit and trained for a triathlon the year before she was getting married. She’d never have got into her wedding dress otherwise.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the likelihood of that being a motivation in the near future is zero,’ I point out. ‘I haven’t had a date since last year. I’m too busy. God, that sounds feeble.’

  Sadly, it’s also true. So true, in fact, that I’m starting to feel desperate to change matters. Or perhaps it’s meeting Doctor Dishy that’s prompted that. If only there was a way to see him without the pain and humiliation of the running club.

  ‘That was just an example,’ continues Priya. ‘It could be anything. Do you have any landmark birthdays coming up?’

  ‘I’ll be twenty-nine at the end of September.’

  ‘There you go!’ says Matt.

  ‘Twenty-nine isn’t a landmark,’ I tut. ‘And I don’t feel remotely motivated to exercise by that or anything else.’

  ‘How about running to raise money?’ says Priya. ‘For charity or something.’

  ‘You could raise money for multiple sclerosis research,’ Heidi says decisively. It’s the first time she’s spoken in five minutes and a silence falls on the group.

  ‘They’re desperate for funding,’ she continues, sucking the remnants of her vodka and tonic through a straw. Then she stops and looks at me. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.’

  I’m about to answer when we’re interrupted by the com-père announcing Matt and Priya’s song. ‘If no one else wants to sing “I Got You Babe” then I’d be happy to give it a go myself . . .’

  Matt leaps up and grabs Priya by the hand as they head to the stage. The music opens and Matt launches into song. He’s utterly tuneless, but compared with Priya sounds like Justin Timberlake.

  ‘The thing is, Heidi, I’m not really up to this running lark,’ I explain.

  She lowers her eyes. ‘Of course. Don’t worry about it.’ She’s slurring her words and it strikes me that she’ll probably forget this conversation in the morning anyway.

  ‘The first session nearly killed me,’ I add.

  ‘I know, Abs, don’t worry.’

  ‘And finding the time is so difficult,’ I continue.

  ‘I know, I know. You’re so busy.’

  ‘Not just for the running itself, but if I was going to raise money, that’d take up even more time. And at the moment I need to give the company one hundred per cent of my attention and . . .’

  Heidi is staring into her glass again. ‘Just forget about it,’ she says sympathetic
ally.

  I look into my drink, then I look up at Heidi, at this beautiful and bright young woman, and it makes me feel ashamed. Here I am, not yet thirty, with my perfectly healthy body – a body I don’t deserve. Strike that. I have what should be a healthy body – unlike Heidi, who’s six years younger than me and doesn’t know whether she’ll be able to walk in ten years’ time, never mind run.

  ‘I GOT YOU . . . BAAABE!” Matt and Priya reach their crescendo as wine glasses vibrate and there’s the onset of a mass migraine.

  ‘Heidi,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She looks at me, startled. ‘What for?’

  ‘For being negative. For being pathetic. For being such a wimp.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re any of those,’ she protests. ‘In fact—’

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Okay,’ she replies, looking even more startled. Then she frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking. I’m going to join the running club again.’

  ‘Don’t do it on my account! I just blurted out that suggestion without thinking. It was stupid and—’

  ‘It was not stupid,’ I tell her. ‘It was a very good suggestion. Right: I’m going to go into training, Heidi. For a half-marathon. I’m going to raise money for MS and get fit at the same time.’

  ‘Don’t say anything you might regret,’ she warns me.

  ‘I won’t regret it,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m doing it.’

  She hiccups. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ I reply, downing the rest of my wine.

  I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

  Chapter 17

  ‘What the hell have I let myself in for?’

  I say the words out loud but don’t recognise my voice, which sounds as though I’ve spent the morning drinking sawdust. I’m sitting with my head in my hands as sharp rays of sunlight stream through my window and I nurse a mug of tea that tastes, in turn, like ambrosia and asbestos.

  Jess woke me half an hour ago when she phoned to ask if I wanted to join her and the kids at the shops. I said yes, if only to prove to both of us that I was capable. Now I really wish I hadn’t.

  Closing my eyes, I try to recall how I got home this morning. I know it was some time between one and . . . six. Narrowing it down further is tricky.

  Having promised Heidi that I would become a bastion of healthy living and fitness in order to raise money for MS research, I remember convincing myself that a final fling with all things toxic and nefarious would be a fabulous idea.

  So I got plastered, snogged a guy who’d just sung ‘I’m Too Sexy’ by Right Said Fred (I thought he was terribly sophisticated at the time) and, judging by the takeaway carton I accidentally stood in as I staggered to the living room this morning, consumed a chicken tikka tandoori and a naan the size of a sleeping bag. At least, I consumed most of it. The rest ended up between my toes.

  I get up and limp to the bathroom, where I turn on the shower and slowly perform my ablutions, despite the fact that even flipping the shampoo lid takes a preposterous level of effort. Then I stand, eyes closed, as hot water bounces off my face until I can’t breathe for steam. I step out and clear a circle on the mirror with my towel, realising immediately that my failure to remove my make-up has left my cheeks the colour of a liquorice gobstopper.

  ‘You, Abigail Rogers, are a disgrace.’

  I allow the mirror to steam up again so I don’t have to look as I tissue off mascara. I dress in a clean pair of jeans and my comfiest vest top and head to the kitchen for a glass of water in a desperate attempt to quench the arid cells of my body. It is like trying to rehydrate Tutankhamun. I have ten minutes before Jess arrives and am about to collapse on the sofa again, but am drawn to my study.

  I fire up my laptop, click on Google and type in two words. Multiple sclerosis.

  Jess is twenty minutes late and looks thoroughly harassed by the time she rings my doorbell.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she says, and I know it must be bad given she spends most of her life trying to convince me of the opposite. ‘Are you ready? The kids are in the car.’

  I switch off my computer, grab my bag and head for the passenger seat of her people carrier.

  ‘Hi, kids,’ I smile, making an attempt to be bright and bubbly. Jamie looks at me as if he’s found Fifi and the Flowertots in the gutter with a bottle of vodka. ‘Auntie Abby, you look terrible.’

  I flash Jess a look.

  ‘I didn’t tell him to say that!’ she protests and I realise that, sadly, she isn’t lying.

  Have you ever had a moment of realisation that changes your life for ever? When something inside you flips and you know things will never be the same again?

  Mine happens at 1.15 p.m. on Saturday 31 July in the queue at Costa Coffee. In front of me is the choice of a chocolate muffin, a cherry and almond muffin, a lemon and orange muffin, or a carrot cake. They all look gorgeous, gooey, irresistible . . . and exactly the sort of thing that on any normal Saturday afternoon I’d choose without hesitation.

  ‘The muffins look nice, don’t they?’ says Jess.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I reply, before disappearing and returning a few seconds later.

  ‘Which one are you having?’ she asks.

  ‘This,’ I reply, and place a fresh fruit salad on the tray. She looks at it as if I’ve put a piece of Kryptonite in front of her.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asks.

  ‘Fruit,’ I reply.

  ‘I know it’s fruit; I’m wondering why you’ve put it on the tray – as if you’re going to buy it and eat it.’

  ‘Because I am going to buy it and eat it.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In Costa Coffee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you never buy fruit in Costa Coffee.’

  It’s as much of a surprise for me as it is for her. It’s not like I don’t eat fruit. But it’s a rare achievement to hit my five a day. Five a week is good going. Moreover, for me, the whole point of Costa Coffee is the cakes. I don’t do Costa without the cakes.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ I say as we pay and head for a table. Jamie tucks into his chicken sandwich and fruit juice while Jess places Lola in her highchair.

  ‘I’m all ears,’ she says.

  ‘Right,’ I begin. ‘Well, last night I agreed to do something and there’s absolutely no way I can get out of it.’

  Jess sits down. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’m going on a diet. I’m going to get fit.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ she repeats distractedly.

  ‘And I mean it this time.’

  She takes a sip of coffee.

  ‘So much so that I’m training for a half-marathon.’

  Coffee bursts from Jess’s mouth like an exploding fire-hydrant, catching me, the kids and the elderly gentleman on the table to her left.

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,’ she says, leaping up and offering the man a napkin. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  After he’s reassured her not to worry, she sits in front of me.

  ‘You’re not serious,’ she says.

  But this time, I know that I absolutely am.

  When Jess has recovered from her shock, she starts to warm to the idea. The result is that she attempts to convince me to return to the club this Monday.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say decisively as we walk through the city centre. ‘You were right. I’m giving myself a month to get to a basic level of fitness. There’s no way I’m showing my face at that club until I can do at least five kilometres without passing out.’

  She frowns. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go on a diet. Cut out . . . cut down on the wine. Start running and doing other exercise on my own. Tomorrow is . . .’ I look at the date on my phone, ‘the first of August. On the first of September that’s when I return to the running club.’

  ‘Wow,’ she grins. ‘Okay. That’s a plan.’

 
‘But there’s one mistake I’m not going to repeat. I need to sort out my clothes.’

  ‘Come on then. I know just the place.’

  Jess is such a hardcore runner, she doesn’t lead the way to any old sports shop; she goes to a running shop. There’s a big difference, apparently.

  It’s a substantial place with large volumes of Spandex garments, and is surprisingly busy. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe the number of people who feel a compulsion to do this. Run, I mean. If I’d never met Jess, the thought would never have occurred to me. It seems so odd when taxis are readily available.

  ‘Right, let’s sort out your bottoms first. These are the best.’ Jess holds up a pair of blue leggings that look incapable of fitting a seven-year-old.

  ‘They’re Lycra,’ I point out.

  ‘Which is perfect. When running, it’s much better to avoid anything that’ll flap around your thighs.’

  ‘I’ve already got cellulite flapping around my thighs, Jess. Anything else won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Take my advice – these are the ones you want.’

  ‘But Lycra is the work of the devil. I wouldn’t wear those even if I was a size eight. I need something to cover my bumps.’

  In the end, I opt for the only pair of three-quarter Capri pants that don’t enhance every protuberance on my backside. They don’t look great, just less awful than the others. The exercise is repeated with the tops. They’re lovely until I put them on – and look about as convincing an athlete as Betty from Coronation Street.

  ‘Shoes now,’ instructs Jess, and naively I make my way to the wall of trainers to see if there are any I like the look of.

  ‘Hang on, we need to do a gait analysis,’ she says.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Gait analysis,’ she repeats, as if this should mean something. ‘You get on the treadmill so one of the guys can use this machine to film your feet while you’re running.’

  ‘Kinky.’

  She ignores me. ‘It’s so they can play it back and see which part of your foot you land on when you run. Then you get a pair of shoes with support in the right area.’

  I try on a pair of running shoes and roll up my jeans to prepare for my run, something I don’t relish in my current, highly delicate condition.