Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  ‘Are you well hydrated?’ asks Jess.

  ‘I drank the equivalent of two small swimming pools yesterday. Any more and my kidneys would have packed in.’

  ‘And have you had a good breakfast?’ she continues.

  ‘Muesli, as instructed, exactly two hours ago.’

  ‘Great. Do you feel nicely warmed-up?’

  ‘These legs are primed and ready to go,’ I say, with more conviction than I feel.

  ‘Excellent. Oops, I nearly forgot.’ She stops walking and unzips her bum bag. ‘We’ve got to have a couple of these.’ She pulls out a small handful of bright blue tablets.

  ‘Jesus, Jess, are you sure about this?’ I hiss, my face reddening as I look round in alarm.

  This is not the first time Jess has tried to persuade me to take drugs. The first time was at Damian Bennett’s seventeenth birthday party, when she casually handed me the spliff she’d been smoking in an attempt to impress Alex Khan, on whom she had a crush. I’d never smoked anything before and tried to look as if I was enjoying it; in fact its effects were comparable to swallowing a lit match and washing it down with diesel.

  I don’t remember much beyond the first two puffs; only that I woke five hours later under a mountain of marble-wash denim jackets on Damian’s parents’ bed. I couldn’t work out how Jess had come out of the experience unscathed until she said guiltily, ‘God, Abby, you didn’t inhale, did you?’

  The memory doesn’t fill me with confidence.

  ‘Isn’t this cheating?’ I whisper anxiously.

  ‘Everyone does it. They’ll just give you a little boost, that’s all,’ she winks. ‘A helping hand.’ She raises her eyebrows cheekily and pops a couple in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this, Jess. I’m not sure I want to. I mean, what if we get caught?’

  ‘Oh, Abs, stop making such a fuss.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘How many?’

  ‘However many you want. Three, four . . .’

  I gulp, thinking about my desperation to get through this race. About Mum and Dad watching from the sidelines. I can’t believe I’m even considering this.

  ‘If I was to have some, it’d only be two,’ I say.

  She pulls an impatient face and I feel like a nerd. Before I can give it any more thought, I grab two, throw them into my mouth and swallow.

  ‘Right,’ I say decisively. ‘Let’s go and run this five kilometres.’

  I head to the start line with fire burning in my chest. I suddenly feel hot and cold at the same time. Jess leans over and holds my hand.

  ‘I’m terrified,’ I confess.

  ‘You’ll be great,’ she grins, then lets go of my hand as the starter’s gun fires.

  Chapter 37

  Despite the warm-up, my legs feel creaky, as if the joints haven’t been properly lubricated. Yet, I realise quickly that I got off to a decent start. Perhaps too fast a start, but I don’t have time to think about that – and the adrenalin coursing through my veins puts paid to trying to pace myself.

  Jess is way ahead, but apart from her I don’t think about what the others are doing. Instead, I concentrate on the road, on my deep, deliberate breaths, on moving my arms and legs as hard and fast as I can.

  The tablets take hold almost immediately, arousing every cell in my body until they zing with energy. It feels like there’s rocket fuel in my blood, propelling me forwards, spurring me on at a relentless pace.

  The race goes by in a haze. Even when I’m running faster than ever before, I’m in a semi-dreamworld. I’m way out of my comfort zone, sucking air into my lungs in huge, frantic gulps, but it never crosses my mind to do anything other than keep going. No matter how hard it is, it’s as if I’m being pulled towards the finish by an irresistible force.

  When we approach the end of the race, I can hear cheers for the competitors who’ve finished before me and as I turn the corner I see Mum and Dad, next to each other, grinning and clapping.

  I get briefly lost in a childlike fantasy, where my parents are there together. Properly together. I can’t take my eyes off them as I approach, Mum becoming increasingly, and shamelessly, animated.

  ‘Come on, Abby!’ The cry comes from Jess, who obviously finished ages ago. I get an instant surge of energy and, despite my fatigue, I step up several gears.

  I’m running way beyond what I thought I was capable of and it feels terrible and amazing at the same time. As my foot hits the white line and the clock clicks round I register the time and almost die of happiness. Twenty-nine minutes and forty-seven seconds. I’ve beaten the time I’ve run in practice sessions by over a minute.

  I close my eyes and bend over, taking in my achievement as the sound and colour of the event washes over me. I did it. I really did it!

  Just as I think I’ll be overwhelmed by happiness, a realisation comes crashing down on me. It was the drugs. Could I really have made this time without them? The last of my elation evaporates instantly.

  This wasn’t a victory at all. I’ve cheated. What was the point in that?

  Jess flies towards me and throws her arms round me. ‘Abby – you did it in under thirty minutes! I’m so proud of you!’

  ‘Are you?’ I mutter despondently, between breaths.

  ‘Of course. To get that time on your first go is fantastic!’ she grins, then stops and registers my expression. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Jess . . . I wish I’d done this on my own – without those tablets. I’ve let myself down.’

  ‘What tablets?’

  ‘The ones you gave me,’ I whisper.

  ‘What are you going on about, Abs?’ She scrunches up her nose.

  ‘I’m going on about whatever those drugs were,’ I hiss.

  A look of realisation crosses her face.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ I ask.

  ‘Abby, you are as daft as a brush,’ she sniggers. ‘If not more so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, my dearest friend, you’ve just got as high as a kite . . . on two M&Ms.’

  Chapter 38

  I don’t have time for today’s online rant by the Building Services Manager, but am drawn to his email like the next instalment of a poor soap opera.

  It has come to My attention that Certain Businesses have been abusing the recycling system introduced at the start of the year. The Building Services Manager would like to remind all Employees that the green receptacles designed for the depositification of waste matter of the plastic variety are suitable SOLELY for the depositification of waste matter of that variety.

  Certain Businesses on the Fourth floor have failed to remove the labels produced out of Paper-Based Substances from the exterior frontage of their water bottles. THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.

  Henceforth, those members of a Certain Business on the Fourth Floor should consider themselves Sufficiently Warned. Could all businesses in the Building send an email to the Building Services Manager to conform that Said Warning has Sunk in.

  I delete the email before my brain explodes.

  Then I take a deep breath and look at my diary. Since the day I set up River Web Design, it’s never been empty. Yet, the volume of appointments lined up now make a G8 leader’s schedule look flabby.

  ‘Who the hell are Granger and Company?’ I ask no one in particular, flicking through my online calendar.

  ‘A fab interior design company interested in donating a few hundred quid,’ says Priya excitedly. ‘You’ve got a meeting with them on Wednesday.’

  ‘Are they interested in any web design?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She shrugs, as if the thought never occurred to her. ‘They’ve already got a decent site.’

  I made the mistake of telling the team that they could help with raising money for our now-defined target – ten thousand pounds – if they had any ‘down-time’ at work. I also said that, if any companies were interested in donating, I’d be happy to see them personally. What I hadn’t counted on was
them scheduling in so many charity meetings that I have no time for anything else.

  ‘The fundraising appointments are stacking up,’ I mutter anxiously.

  ‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’ replies Priya.

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘There are loads more to come too,’ she goes on. ‘You’re attracting so much interest, Abby. And I’m so excited about the black-tie dinner. Not least because my new boyfriend Ian’s said he’ll come. It’s been three weeks now,’ she adds, a note of pride in her voice.

  ‘Good for you,’ I say distractedly.

  ‘Well, we’ve done loads of organisation already,’ says Heidi, which doesn’t surprise me at all, knowing her. ‘I’ve booked the marquee, the tickets are with the printers and I’ve contacted some companies about auction prizes. It’s unbelievable, the number of people prepared to help.’

  ‘Wait until you hear about the donation Heidi’s got out of Smith and Moon – that posh jeweller’s,’ says Matt.

  ‘What?’

  Heidi smiles. ‘A two-and-a-half-thousand-pound diamond necklace.’

  ‘You are kidding?’ I say, looking up from my screen, genuinely stunned. ‘Two and a half grand? Tell me you’re not going to have to transport it in a taxi on the night.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that then,’ says Priya.

  ‘Our overall total is close to the five-and-a-half-grand mark now,’ continues Heidi. ‘I reckon if you go to all the meetings next week, we’ll hit it.’

  I massage my temples in an attempt to relax, but my head still feels like an undetonated time bomb. Then a concept dawns on me. Delegation. ‘Why don’t you go to some of the meetings for me, Heidi?’

  She looks like I’ve asked her to gargle with the contents of a chip pan. ‘Oh . . . no.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been to loads of presentations before. You’re brilliant in them.’

  ‘I’d rather not, Abby,’ she says. ‘I’d feel uncomfortable talking about my condition. It’s one thing in front of my friends, quite another with strangers.’

  ‘I understand,’ I sigh. But something has to give. ‘Look, I need to space out some of these appointments more, so I’ve got time for—’

  ‘What?’ asks Priya.

  ‘WORK!’ I splutter. ‘You know, the day job.’

  ‘Oh that,’ she says.

  ‘That?’ I reply furiously. ‘That is what our clients are paying us for. That is keeping this business afloat. And that is paying your bloody wages.’

  Both Priya and Heidi look stunned – and mortified. I don’t usually have a temper, but frankly, I needed to make this point. It doesn’t stop me feeling guilty though, when they start falling over themselves to apologise.

  ‘Listen,’ I tell them. ‘I’m one hundred per cent committed to this, but I’m not winning the amount of business I want – no, I need. My invoicing never lets up and I’ve got a stack of emails that I should have dealt with. That’s before we even get onto—’

  ‘Don’t say any more, Abs, honestly,’ interrupts Heidi. ‘We can reschedule them. We can cancel them. You know this business means everything to me – to all of us. We never meant the charity side of things to start taking over.’

  ‘I know.’ I close my eyes as I slump in my seat. ‘Look, don’t cancel anything. If we mess people about, that’ll put them off helping. We just need to find a balance and make sure I’ve got time to run the business. Between that and training . . .’

  ‘How is the running?’ asks Matt, stepping in diplomatically.

  ‘Not bad. I ran five kilometres in under thirty minutes at the weekend. The fact that my only stimulant was a sugar rush from a bit of chocolate makes it all the better.’

  They look at me blankly.

  ‘Is that good?’ asks Priya.

  ‘It is for me. For me, five k in thirty minutes is like running a marathon with one leg and still getting home in time for tea,’ I inform her. ‘Oh God, I’m late for my meeting.’

  I go to log out of my computer and see that six more emails have landed, three of which are marked urgent. My in-tray is straining under the weight of unopened letters and there are three Post-its stuck on my desk asking me to return calls. Under normal circumstances, I’d be able to work late and catch up – but tonight is running club and I daren’t miss it in case I fall off the wagon like last time.

  ‘How are you feeling at the moment, Heidi?’ Priya asks as I put my bag over my shoulder.

  ‘Pretty good. I had an MRI the other week and there have been no changes since my last relapse, so that’s good. And that local support group I’ve joined is fantastic; I’ve met loads of people going through exactly the same thing. Plus, everything Abby’s doing is really keeping me going.’ She looks up at me. ‘I’m so grateful, Abby. You’re a complete star. And I’m not just saying that to suck up to the boss.’

  If there were any doubt in my mind that I can’t ease up on the fundraising – or the training – this confirms it.

  I’ve got to think of a better way of doing it though. Or at least buy myself some time. If only I had a big contract to tide us over for the next few months. A really big one. Something just like Caro & Co. . . .

  Now I’m depressed.

  I pick up my car keys as the phone rings and I answer without thinking.

  ‘Abigail Rogers?’ a voice asks. My heart sinks. I haven’t got time!

  ‘No, this is her colleague Priya,’ I squeak, in what I believe is a perfectly respectable impression. Judging by Priya’s expression, it’s not a view she shares.

  ‘Oh. This is Jim Broadhurst from Caro and Company. Could you tell her I called? It’s about the contract she pitched for.’

  ‘Oh.’ My eyes widen. ‘Ooh. Yes. I mean, she’s walking in now.’ My voice goes wobbly again and Priya throws me mock daggers.

  I rustle the phone about and hold it to my ear. ‘Abby Rogers,’ I say, straining to sound different.

  ‘Jim Broadhurst.’

  ‘Oh, hello! What a lovely surprise,’ I manage, despite him being about as lovely to me as Ebola when we last met.

  ‘I’m phoning about the contract.’ He sounds far nicer than he did when I was last face to face with him. I know that wouldn’t take much, but I’d almost describe his tone as affable. Comradely even. This couldn’t mean . . .

  ‘The contract. Yes,’ I reply, feeling a swell of optimism but hoping to sound unruffled.

  ‘Well, the board reached a decision,’ he continues with a genuinely jolly ring. ‘The first thing I’d like to do is thank you sincerely for your presentation. We’re a challenging panel – deliberately so. You gave us a lot to think about.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Absolutely! We were left with the impression that, while elements of your presentation didn’t go as you’d have liked, fundamentally you’re a first-rate candidate. First-rate,’ he repeats enthusiastically.

  ‘Really?’ I whimper.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Um . . . I’m so pleased!’

  Oh. My. God. Is he telling me that I’ve won the pitch? Is he telling me that, even though I ballsed up the presentation, my talent shone through?

  ‘As you know, what we were looking for was a business with a proven track record in B2B digital marketing.’

  . . . which I’ve got!

  ‘Someone we felt could work closely with our staff and would really engage with them.’

  . . . which I would!

  ‘And, above all, someone we were agreed would take our company to the place we want to be digitally within a very short space of time. There’s no doubt that you ticked many boxes for us, Miss Rogers.’

  Hurrah!

  ‘And in the event the decision was unanimous!’ I can almost hear his teeth squeaking, that smile sounds so wide.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that, on this occasion you didn’t win the contract.’

  Chapter 39

  It wasn’t a surprise, but I still spend the day brooding about what the
Caro & Co. contract could have done for us – our turnover and reputation. This isn’t like me: normally, I pick myself up, brush myself off and look for the next opportunity.

  But this is different. This one was so big and significant, and I’m burning with an excruciating sense that it could have been mine, if only I’d given it the attention it deserved. The fact that it was won by Vermont Hamilton – a company they’ll surely regret hiring – is no consolation. And I have no one to blame but myself.

  Despite this, I also can’t help dwelling on Jim Broadhurst’s words: ‘the decision was unanimous’. I’m not saying I deserved any favours as Tom’s friend, but . . . okay, maybe I am saying that. What harm would it have done for him to fight my corner? He said himself he knew how good our work was. While I know I wasn’t brilliant in the presentation – and that the dummy incident didn’t help – I wasn’t atrocious. Not really. With a little persuasion from Tom, things could’ve been different.

  That night at running club, he marches towards me during the warm-up and my brain whirrs with clever responses to the inevitable digs I’m about to receive. I’m not expecting anything deliberately hurtful, but Tom is fond of banter – and I’m afraid I’m still too sore for that.

  ‘Abby.’ His tone is warm and rough and impossible to interpret.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply curtly.

  ‘I’m sorry about the contract.’

  I look up, startled. ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘If it means anything, it was close – we all agreed on that.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard you were all in agreement,’ I hear myself mutter.

  ‘And you can’t win ’em all,’ he grins. It strikes me that his notoriously irresistible smile isn’t irresistible to me in the slightest. The only response it provokes in me, today at least, is a desire to swipe him over the head with my handbag. Preferably with a small brick in the pocket.

  ‘Of course you can’t win them all,’ I say, ‘but I’d rather like to have won a three-grand-a-month one.’

  He stops stretching as my mood registers. ‘I hope you’re not taking this personally,’ he says.