Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  ‘Oh no.’ I’m being sarcastic, but my heart is beating wildly as he glares back.

  ‘There’s no need to be like that, Abby.’

  ‘Tom, if you’d ever run your own business, you’d understand why I’m upset.’ I wish my voice would stop wobbling. ‘Particularly when I lost out to a firm whose average employee is barely intelligent enough to tie his own shoelaces.’

  ‘They came across very well,’ he replies firmly.

  ‘And especially when someone I thought was a friend was partly responsible.’ I’m aware as I’m saying this that I’m probably being unfair. I wouldn’t have even had the opportunity if it hadn’t been for Tom. But I can’t help myself. And he could have fought my corner.

  ‘I was responsible?’ he says incredulously.

  ‘I said partly. You voted for Vermont Hamilton, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think you’ll find as “someone who runs your own business” that you were responsible, Abby. Even you said your presentation was awful.’

  ‘Can I tell you something, Tom? Slagging off a girl’s presentation is like slagging off her parents. Only I’m allowed to do it.’

  ‘Fine.’ He throws up his arms in exasperation. ‘Blame everyone but yourself.’

  My heart is assaulting my ribcage, pounding with indignation, when Geraldine appears next to Tom, oblivious to our exchange, and kisses him on the cheek.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she beams. ‘How’s it going?’

  His eyes dart away. ‘Fine. Great.’

  ‘Ooh, Abby,’ she smiles, turning to me, ‘I’ve got to show you the pic of my new nephew.’ She removes a personalised key ring from her bum bag and holds it out proudly. Studiously ignoring Tom, I gaze at the young baby with wide eyes, chubby thighs and an explosion of vanilla-coloured hair.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ I say. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Three weeks. Oh, he’s gorgeous, Abby – I adore him. But then, I have to – there’s no prospect of my own on the horizon,’ she says meaningfully. Apparently, open references to her obsession have become mutually acceptable.

  As the three groups prepare to set off on their run, I head to join the others. As I’m about to start, I look up and get the one and only pleasant surprise of my day: Oliver is looking at me.

  I mean, really looking at me.

  In fact, this is the most overtly flirtatious glance he’s managed, a gloriously brazen signal of interest. It sends a shot of euphoria through my heart that lasts well beyond our break of eye-contact – and for much of my run.

  By the time I return to the sports centre, I’ve cheered up no end and am dying to see him again. I stretch self-consciously, catching my breath, when I feel a hand on the small of my back.

  ‘I’m told you did well on Sunday.’ Oliver looks shy again now we’re face to face, but as he’s gorgeously sweaty and, well, just gorgeous, I’ll let him off.

  ‘Oh! I’m sure it was slow compared with most competitors. But I got under thirty minutes, so I was pleased.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ When he smiles, his dimples appear and I struggle to take my eyes off them. ‘You deserve it. You’ve worked so hard.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply, noticing a bead of sweat the size of a pear drop on the end of my nose. I wipe it away surreptitiously. ‘I definitely need to keep working on it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Running club wouldn’t be the same without you these days.’

  Having cooled down since I stopped running, a shot of heat is propelled to both cheeks.

  ‘I’m sure you’d cope,’ I mumble. ‘Besides, I’m not going to be giving up in a hurry. I want to make sure I’m in good shape for the race.’

  He holds my gaze, his confidence visibly returning. ‘You look in pretty good shape to me.’

  Chapter 40

  ‘Why on earth have you brought us here?’ I ask as Jess squeezes past a group of students to the bar at the Willow Tree. ‘Is your premature midlife crisis rearing its ugly head again?’

  This isn’t an obvious student pub: it’s cosy and well-maintained with oak panels and beer pumps so shiny you could use them to pluck your eyebrows. It’s also the place I realised, if there’d been any doubt, that Jess and I would be friends for ever.

  When we applied for universities, we’d both hoped to end up at Glasgow. But having missed out on a single A-level grade, Jess ended up at her second choice, Reading. We phoned each other nightly at first, something I anticipated eagerly.

  Then I settled in, made new friends and started to enjoy my curious new world. And remembering to phone Jess all the time suddenly became a chore, something I’m not proud to confess.

  Before I knew it, it was two weeks since we’d spoken, then three. Between studying, partying and Poetry Society (though I didn’t last long in that one) I came to the conclusion that Jess and I had moved on.

  It was halfway through my second term that I met Kristoffer, a Norwegian Geography student with lips I could happily have kept moist all day – and I fell hopelessly, obsessively in love.

  Jess phoned one night – out of the blue – sounding vague and awkward, but all I could concentrate on was Kristoffer nuzzling my neck at the payphone. Instead of realising something was wrong, I returned to my room where he peeled off my clothes as I sank onto the bumpy mattress of my single bed. We spent weeks under that duvet, surfacing only for a rare lecture and to consume nutritionally vacuous foodstuffs.

  I didn’t want it to end. Only it did – abruptly – when he left me two weeks before my exams for a six-foot Sociology student with a cleavage you could lose change in. Predictably, I failed all but one exam and had to resit the lot.

  I couldn’t face staying in Glasgow to revise, so I returned home to study so hard that some nights there must have been smoke coming out of my ears.

  I travelled back to Glasgow for the resits and after my last one phoned Mum at the station, as I was about to board the train home. She said Jess had been in touch, asking if I wanted to catch up. The timing of her call had been sheer coincidence, but when I walked into the Willow Tree that night, I’d have cried with happiness if I hadn’t been so ashamed at how much I’d neglected our friendship.

  ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said breezily. ‘Come on – do you still drink snakebites?’

  She wouldn’t let me dwell on it. That night was for getting drunk and picking up where we’d left off. So I told her about Glasgow, Kristoffer, Killer Cleavage Woman and the exams I’d failed. She told me about Reading, Ethan, Killer Legs Woman and the exams she’d almost failed.

  It was an emotional reunion. And a drunken one. But it underlined a fact that I’ll never question again: we’ll always be there for each other – no matter what.

  Jess and I only intend to stay for one drink – it is midweek and I am supposed to be off the booze. But after having one of those days, it also turns into one of those nights, when we talk about everything and nothing. Yet, despite the abundance of conversation, there is an elephant in the room. It’s only when I’m on to my third drink that I decide to bring it up.

  ‘Are things any better between you and Adam?’

  She sighs. ‘Things between Adam and me are fine.’ She pauses and gives a resigned shrug. ‘Adam and I are – by most standards – a happy couple. We love our kids. We have a stable home. We don’t row a lot.’

  ‘I know. Bit unnatural, if you ask me,’ I joke.

  She suddenly looks serious. ‘That’s what I think too.’

  ‘Jess, I was only joking!’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ she swirls her wine glass around. ‘I read once that if you have to think about whether you still love someone, then you’ve already stopped. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so uncomfortable telling him I love him. Not because of the repressed streak I’ve inherited from my mum, but because I don’t any more.’

  ‘But Jess, you never told him you loved him even when there was no dou
bt in your mind about how you felt. Even when you told me you loved him. You always thought it was naff.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she shrugs.

  ‘And that stuff about sometimes questioning your feelings – that’s natural after such a long time together. Seriously,’ I tell her. ‘We expect perfection these days, but nobody can be perfect. We expect the excitement and thrill and lust of first love to last for ever. It doesn’t. It can’t. Just because someone doesn’t give you goose bumps after ten years doesn’t mean you should stop loving them.’

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘Take my mum and dad,’ I continue. ‘All that crap my mum spouted about her and Dad having “grown apart”. How bloody annoying! Couples only grow apart if they let themselves. In my parents’ case, my mum let herself. If it’d been up to Dad, they’d still be together. They should still be together.’

  I stop and take in the look on Jess’s face.

  ‘I don’t know what went on between your mum and dad, I can only speak for myself,’ she says quietly. ‘And while I don’t entirely disagree, you’re speaking from the perspective of someone who hasn’t been in a relationship that lasted, what . . . more than two years?’

  ‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ I say. ‘Besides, Harry and I were together for two and a quarter. Admittedly, he was also with someone else for six months of that, but still.’

  ‘I’m not trying to rub it in. You know I’m not. Look, ten years ago I’d have agreed. One year ago, I’d have agreed. But now . . . oh, maybe I’m just having a wobble.’ She blinks. ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  It’s then that I notice the creases on her forehead and the red swell around her eyes. I touch her elbow, unable to believe how upset she’s become so quickly.

  She looks at me, then glances away, her lip trembling.

  ‘I wish I could turn back the clock,’ she whispers shakily, but she’s not talking to me now. She’s talking to herself.

  ‘Jess, you can get the excitement back in your marriage. Perhaps you just need a couple of romantic nights out or a weekend away or—’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘What do you mean, then?’

  ‘Abby,’ she sniffs, taking a huge, shuddery breath. ‘I slept with another man.’

  Chapter 41

  It takes me a second to realise I’ve heard her correctly. ‘You did what?’ I ask, but don’t really need her to repeat it. ‘When?’

  Her breathing is shallow and tearful. ‘The night before we went out for dinner – a couple of weeks before your birthday,’ she mumbles. I knew she’d been acting strangely that night; you’d think that asparagus had been laced with arsenic, she was so reluctant to eat it. I hadn’t appreciated how strangely until now.

  ‘But how?’

  She raises an eyebrow solemnly. ‘The usual way.’

  ‘Jess, for God’s sake, I’m your best friend.’ I reach over and clutch her hand. It feels fragile and cold from the ice in her drink. ‘If you can’t talk about this with me, then who can you talk about it with?’

  She squirms. ‘It’s more complicated than you think, Abby.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ I concede. ‘But . . . who was it?’

  She briefly closes her eyes and swallows. ‘Someone at work. John. Maxwell. He works in our Sales Department.’

  ‘Have I ever met him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He started while I was on maternity leave.’

  My mind is spinning with questions and they spill from my mouth before I can think straight. ‘Is he married too?’

  ‘No,’ she responds numbly, as if talking is causing her physical pain. ‘Don’t make me tell you the details, Abby. All I can say is . . . I was, momentarily at least, captivated. I suppose part of me still is.’

  ‘Oh my God! Is it still going on?’ I hiss, trying not to attract the attention of the other drinkers. ‘Is it . . . an affair?’

  ‘No,’ she leaps in. ‘I slept with him once. That’s it. I’ve been resisting his advances ever since. But, I’ll be honest – it’s difficult, especially when I have to see him all the time.’

  ‘One of the many downsides of an office fling,’ I mutter.

  In the minute and a half since she dropped this bombshell, I have been swinging violently from one emotion to another. While he’s perfectly harmless, I find Adam has all the charisma of an over-cooked root vegetable.

  But I’m as saddened by this business as I am stunned. Not just for Adam’s sake, though I’d never wish this on him, but for Jess’s. If she thinks she’ll find happiness in the arms of some smooth-talking salesman, she’s mistaken. Yet I hesitate about sharing this view. Maybe she’s finally found someone more suited to her. With a bit more spark and personality and—

  Oh, but she’s married! And has kids! Little kids. If Jess left Adam, it’d be even worse for them than it was for me when Mum left Dad, since at least I was a bit older.

  ‘Does Adam know?’ I ask.

  ‘God, no.’ She takes a slug of her wine. ‘The ridiculous thing is that, before this happened, I never questioned how much I felt for Adam. I don’t know how I got myself into this situation. And now, I can’t help wondering whether I did it on purpose. There must have been problems. Why would I have done it otherwise?’

  ‘This guy must have serious charm,’ I say.

  She looks at her hands. ‘I suppose. I guess just being with him made me feel special and sexy and . . . alive. I can’t tell you what that feels like, Abby. I can’t tell you how good it feels. But how bloody awful too.’

  She searches my expression, her eyes becoming tearful again. ‘You disapprove, don’t you? Because of your mum and dad.’

  ‘I only want the best for you. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.’

  She looks at me intently. ‘But even you don’t think Adam and I are right for each other.’

  I look up in shock. ‘Who, Adam? I think he’s great!’

  ‘Come off it, Abby. You think he’s stuffy and boring. It shows in your face every time you’re with him.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she sighs. ‘Why would I have become infatuated with another man if I hadn’t suspected you’d been right all along?’

  ‘But I’m not right,’ I argue illogically. ‘What I mean is, just because I’m not on Adam’s wavelength as much as I am on yours, doesn’t mean I don’t think he has some . . . excellent qualities.’

  Jess looks at me, seeing through my euphemisms so clearly they could be double-glazed. ‘Even if Adam was the most boring person on earth, it wouldn’t matter, would it? I’ve betrayed him. Worse, this fling might be over, but I still can’t stop thinking about a man who isn’t my husband. Adam doesn’t deserve that. He’s too good.’

  She collapses in a heap of tears, her face contorted with misery.

  ‘Oh Jess,’ I say, putting my hand on her back.

  ‘It’s not just him either,’ she sniffs. ‘I’ve betrayed someone else.’

  ‘Who?’ I frown, taking her words at face value – as if there’s a third party she hasn’t mentioned.

  ‘Myself,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve betrayed myself.’

  Chapter 42

  We don’t discuss Jess’s confession in the days that follow. Not through lack of trying on my part, far from it. I repeatedly attempt to get her to open up about her infidelity, but all she’ll say is she’s pretending it never happened and getting on with life. Which I honestly hope she manages to pull off.

  As for me, several matters are looking up at the moment: running, my love-life and work.

  The Seaside Run was such a boost that I now look forward to the club sessions for a reason other than just Oliver. I’m starting to believe that I may actually complete this half-marathon – something that once seemed about as achievable as a Nobel Prize nomination.

  That said, seeing Oliver three times a week is a fringe benefit to end all fringe benefits. I
never thought it possible for him to become sweeter, cuter and more attractive, but that’s exactly what’s happened.

  Plus, he’s always making eye-contact these days, almost brazenly so. Which I love. Yet at the same time, I can’t help wishing that, if things are really going to happen between us, they’d get a move on. Is that too much to ask?

  I fleetingly considered the idea that he is stringing me along, but the concept of someone whose brand of sexiness is so gentle and low-key doing that is inconceivable. Oliver is simply a slow burn and, frustrating as that is, I know he’ll be worth it in the end.

  The only downside to running club is that things remain a bit weird with Tom after our tiff. We still chat – but infrequently, and it’s not the same as it was. While part of me wants to broach the subject and say, ‘Let’s forget about that contract business, Tom. Friends?’ there’s another part that’s too much of a wimp to make a fuss.

  On the work front, I’m so busy I can barely think straight. But I won a couple of small clients recently and Egor’s satisfied about my level of growth. Between that and the loyalty of current customers (Diggles are now more like a benevolent uncle, more than a client), the message from him is clear: Don’t take your foot off the gas, Abby – but you’re doing okay.

  I’ll have more time on my hands when the black-tie event is over, of course, because despite Heidi and Priya having done much of the organisation themselves, I’ve still found myself sucked into helping more times than I can afford. We all have.

  There’ve been florists to chase up, seating plans to construct, a swing band to pin down, caterers to liaise with, champagne suppliers to contact. All supposedly in between the day job. It’s been so relentless that on the day of the ball itself, at the end of October, I feel as if I’ve been swept into a whirlwind for the last month and spat out only now.

  I’d anticipated going home early to spend a couple of hours tarting myself up. Instead I’m caught up in a plethora of work issues, then sucked into Priya’s nervous breakdown over the news that the trumpet player has oral thrush and has been instructed by his GP to play the triangle.