Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  She shudders. ‘Hideous.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ he laughs. ‘You enjoyed it at the time.’

  ‘Well, a lot’s changed in thirty years, hasn’t it?’

  He looks up. ‘Some things will never change.’

  ‘You mean, some men will never change.’ Her words are small and quiet, out there almost before any of us notice. Then my parents glance anxiously at me, remembering my presence, before carrying on with their meals. I spear a piece of chicken with my fork and silently place it in my mouth as irritation rises inside me.

  They’d been getting on all right until she said that. But Mum, as ever, can’t help herself. Despite the fact that she left him, she still can’t resist comments like that, as if pointing out Dad’s imperfections somehow justifies her actions.

  The fact is, she’s right about some things: he will always be crap at remembering birthdays and getting out of bed on Monday mornings. He will always be terrible at paying bills on time and leaving the top off the toothpaste.

  But it says a lot about my mother that she can’t see these stupid little things for what they are – insignificant. She’s had a downer on him for years about these and a host of other things – and he neither deserved it then, nor now.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Mum asks me.

  ‘No,’ I snap. ‘Nothing.’

  She turns back to Dad, searching for something to say to lighten the mood again. ‘Do you remember that barman? The one who used to fancy himself as the next Sid Vicious?’

  ‘Yeah, and you as the next Nancy.’

  ‘No!’ she scoffs.

  ‘I’m serious. He had the hots for you.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t say that,’ she hoots. ‘He was horrible.’

  He grins. ‘He told me that if you and I ever went our separate ways he’d buy me a pint if I tipped him off.’

  They howl with laughter.

  ‘Perhaps you should have given him a ring,’ giggles Mum and their laughter trails off.

  They sit awkwardly, wondering what to say next. It strikes me that it must be at least two years since they were forced to be in the same room for dinner, and that was for my cousin’s wedding. I suppose it’s little wonder that the conversation isn’t entirely free-flowing.

  ‘Your mum used to have the most amazing hair when we first came here,’ Dad says.

  ‘It was terrible,’ she argues. ‘It was 1981, for God’s sake. I used to backcomb it so much it’d take six washes to get a brush through it again.’

  ‘Well, I loved it,’ he says.

  ‘You told me I looked like Siouxsie Sioux.’

  ‘That was a compliment,’ he tells her.

  Dad has to dart off early from lunch to pick up Karen from the airport, so I’m left with Mum as we finish our wine and settle the bill.

  ‘Wasn’t it nice being together again?’ I challenge her.

  ‘It was fine, Abby,’ she replies with a poker face. ‘It’ll probably be another two years before it happens again, but yes, it was fine.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Why do you give Dad such a hard time, Mum?’

  She’s rifling round her clutch bag looking for her purse when she stops. ‘Because we’re divorced, Abby, simple as that.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t be civil,’ I say.

  She frowns. ‘There aren’t many divorced couples who will agree to sit down to lunch together, you know. In case it isn’t obvious, we’re doing it for your sake. Believe me, we wouldn’t be doing it through choice.’

  I look out of the window. ‘He would.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Dad still loves you. He’ll always love you.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Not that again. I thought you grew out of this conversation when you were fifteen.’

  ‘How can I grow out of it when it’s true?’

  ‘It’s not true,’ Mum replies tartly.

  ‘Is so.’

  ‘Isn’t.’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ She slams down her bag. ‘Listen, Abby. I know it was hard on you when your dad and I split up. And I’m sorry. But get over it, love. Everyone else has.’

  ‘Not Dad.’

  She leans in. ‘Can I enlighten you about something?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘The thing about a marriage is that the only people who really know what’s going on are the ones who are in it.’

  ‘I know what went on, Mum,’ I reply calmly. ‘I know that Dad loved you and still loves you. I know that you once loved him – and that, if you’d only tried a bit harder, you’d still be together.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  She picks up her purse and looks out of the window. Then she flicks her head back and gives me the sort of stare that could see through lead. ‘No, Abby. You’re not.’

  Chapter 53

  I stop at the supermarket on the way home to pick up something for dinner, along with emergency underwear supplies. The only ones left in the store are the knickers from hell: heart-patterned belly-warmers in a gruesome shade of E-number pink i.e. worse than the ones I threw out.

  They have one thing going for them – they look nice and comfy. And while I’d usually consider myself several decades from making comfort the criteria for lingerie – surely a slippery slope to buttoned-up nightgowns – I’ll make an exception given how the top of my bum feels.

  As I tour the shop, my mind flips between the conversation with Mum to my fraudulent race performance. I can’t decide which is the more depressing. I am at the till when it hits me: I’m not going to be able to do this half-marathon. If ten kilometres nearly killed me, how will I ever manage double that?

  I’m dizzy with the implications: the money we’ve raised, Heidi’s expectations, the terminal shame of announcing I can’t go ahead. I bow my head as tears creep into my eyes. I’m shuffling along the aisle to the checkout, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ I spin round and am confronted by Tom, looking freshly showered, impossibly attractive and – in extravagant contrast to me – happy.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asks, seeing my expression.

  I stiffen. ‘Nothing. Think I’m getting a cold,’ I reply, placing my shopping on the conveyor belt.

  ‘Oh. Well, congratulations on your race. You must be delighted.’

  My cheeks explode with heat. ‘Yes. Delighted.’

  I place an aubergine on the belt as Tom’s eyes drift down to the one item left in my basket. My underwear – aka the crappest pants in the history of crap pants.

  I know he’s seen them. He knows I know he’s seen them. And part of me can’t put my finger on why they’re so embarrassing – but they truly are. I feel like I did when Graham Davey spotted me buying Tampax when I was fourteen. Except worse. If Tom is going to witness me buying underwear, I’d at least like it to be nice, sexy underwear. I bet Geraldine swans around in La Perla all day – and here am I with supermarket own brand she wouldn’t use to scrub her windows.

  ‘These are for my . . .’ The second the words are out of my mouth I regret trying to come up with an excuse. My mind whirrs with possibilities, frenziedly stumbling through the options. My mum? My gran? My imaginary sister? ‘My dad,’ I blurt out.

  Oh great. Now I’ve announced that my father is a cross-dresser.

  Tom frowns.

  ‘He uses them to . . . change the oil in his car,’ I continue.

  He starts placing his shopping behind mine. ‘Well, they’re snazzier than anything you’d get in Halfords.’

  I pay for my items silently, feeling his eyes burning my back. ‘Catch you later,’ I say in the most light-hearted manner I can muster, before striding away.

  ‘Wait, Abby. Just hang on a sec, won’t you?’ he says as the checkout girl starts changing her till roll.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to dash, Tom,’ I lie.

  I
’m out of the shop, in my car, and have the key in the ignition when I hear a knock on the window. Before I can move, Tom has the door open and is sliding his muscular thighs onto the passenger seat – minus his shopping.

  ‘What’s going on?’ His voice is softer than I’ve heard it before. I close my eyes and rub my forehead.

  ‘Tom, I feel so stupid.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  I don’t know how to answer. I can hardly confess what I did during the race.

  ‘Look, don’t say anything,’ he says kindly. ‘My house is round the corner. Come for a cup of tea.’

  I look at his face, his unfeasibly handsome features and the kindness in his dark eyes . . . and I cannot think of a single thing I’d like more.

  I yearn to be with Tom so badly this afternoon it shocks me to the core. Beyond that, I can’t define exactly what it is I want from him. A sympathetic ear? Someone guaranteed to cheer me up? Or something more?

  The second that thought enters my head, I want it out. It terrifies and appals me. Yet, once I’ve thought it, there’s no going back. I get a rush of clarity and it makes me feel nauseous: I feel something for Tom these days that I shouldn’t feel – and it’s beyond friendship. Perhaps, thinking about it now, I felt it even on the day I met him.

  Yet I can’t allow myself to feel this – I absolutely can’t.

  He’s in a relationship. A happy relationship. So I can’t have him, simple as that.

  ‘Come on, Abby.’ He reaches to touch my arm and I whip it away as if his fingers are on fire. He looks hurt.

  Another wave of lucidity sweeps through me. It focuses on a single fact, one that’s obvious but which I’ve never dared admit: there’s a part of Tom that I suspect has feelings for me too. How big or small a part I couldn’t say. Maybe he doesn’t even know. All I do know is that the way he’s looking at me now – perhaps the way he’s always looked at me – is unequivocal.

  Hope and anger bubble up inside me, fighting with each other for space. Tom can’t be attracted to me. He’s not allowed to. He’s Geraldine’s, for God’s sake!

  I feel an urge to rewind the last four months, to start from scratch – and make Tom not like me.

  ‘Do you know what I did today?’ I say defiantly.

  ‘What?’ he asks cautiously.

  ‘I cheated. At the race.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘How?’

  I swallow, feeling shame and determination at the same time. ‘I took a taxi round the course. I didn’t run it in under an hour at all.’

  My blood thunders in my ears as I watch his expression change.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ I say eventually, feeling tears return.

  He stares at me and my heart seems to swallow me up. Then he smiles. ‘I think, Abigail Rogers, that you’re hilarious,’ he replies coolly. ‘I also think you should take up my offer of that tea.’

  Chapter 54

  I said no. Of course I said no. It was the last thing I wanted to say, but I did so. And I am determined now that the strange interlude in Tesco’s car park will be exactly the same as the Ten K fiasco: I will pretend it never happened.

  I’ve got to. For Geraldine’s sake, Tom’s sake and, above all, for my sake. At least until I get to the big race itself (if I don’t kill myself before then) when I can quit the club and never have to see any of them again.

  Before then, there is another milestone, a little trip in the middle of November.

  It strikes me as the date approaches that I’ve been running for so many months that I’ve actually become accustomed to it. I’ll never say I love it, not in the way I love Sex and the City or Florence and the Machine or my new calf-length boots or Walnut Whips – especially with a huge cappuccino with enough foam to shave your legs. But running and I are developing a mutual tolerance.

  No matter how much of a corner I’ve turned, though, there are still some concepts I can’t get my head around. One of those is a running holiday. That’s running. And a holiday. At the same time. A finer example of an oxymoron I cannot imagine.

  Yet the possibility of not taking part in the running club’s annual jaunt abroad is approximately nil. Because Doctor Dishy is going.

  Despite my weird feelings about Tom, I know that Oliver and I are meant to be. And, after months of longing for him, I’m finally starting to believe that things will happen between us.

  At least, I hope so. Because while it’s lovely that Oliver feels confident enough to start flirting so openly with me, frankly, it’s not enough. Matters between us have to be decided – not least because I’m sure this uncertainty is what is fuelling the stuff in my head about Tom.

  So here I am, preparing to put myself through the same levels of punishment I do at the running club thrice or four times weekly, only now I’ll be doing it somewhere warmer (Tenerife) and paying several hundred quid for the privilege.

  Actually, the cost of the holiday was only the start. I’ve also had to stock up on chic new vacation-wear, from cleavage-enhancing swimsuits to leg-lengthening sarongs – anything, in fact, that makes my body parts look as far from the reality of them as possible.

  The date of departure finally arrives and Jess and I meet the rest of the group at Manchester Airport. As we board the plane, the scrum detaches me from her and I find myself pressed against a short, round man who smells of BO and Lockets. It is not a pleasant experience. So when I feel a nudge in my back, I spin round feeling less than charitable. Only I come face to face with a rolling bicep.

  ‘Feels like a school trip, doesn’t it?’ says Tom. I’m not just close enough to smell his skin, I can almost taste it. I shift away.

  ‘I hope not. The most exotic ours ever got was to Alton Towers, which I couldn’t stand,’ I tell him.

  ‘Really?’ he says, incredulous. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I hate roller-coasters.’

  He suppresses a smile. ‘You’re not one of life’s thrill-seekers, are you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I snap, offended.

  ‘Well, you don’t like roller-coasters, you don’t like motorbikes . . . I bet you’ve still got stabilisers on your bicycle.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t had those since I was twenty-five. Anyway, if you’re trying to suggest that just because I don’t like roller-coasters or motorbikes or anything else that involves regular near-death experiences I’m therefore boring, you don’t know what you’re talking about. My life is highly exciting.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he replies as I sit next to Jess. Her choice of seats is excellent – with a spectacular view of Oliver ahead on the adjacent aisle. But the second I sit down, I realise Jess has things on her mind.

  She’s been like this a lot since she confessed about her fling. Not that she’ll talk about it – but I’ve known Jess long enough to sense that it’s on her mind. Permanently. Which is why I continue to gently remind her that I’m here to talk to whenever she feels ready.

  ‘How are things with you and Adam?’ I ask.

  She looks up from her handbag. ‘Fine. I think.’ But the despondent look in her eyes says otherwise.

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking more and more about what you said,’ I tell her. ‘About you thinking I didn’t get on with Adam.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Jess, I was so wrong about him. He’s a great guy. Really great. The more I think about you and him, the more convinced I am that you have to make it work.’

  ‘I am trying,’ she says unenthusiastically. ‘For the kids’ sake and—’

  ‘Not just for the kids’ sake. For yours. He’s a good man and he loves you – and you love him too. Whether you tell him that or not.’

  She studies my face, perplexed. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. I already told you after the ball that I saw him in a new light – just after spending a bit of time chatting.’ Clearly, I can’t mention that it was the necklace that confirmed this view. ‘If I haven’t been as nice ab
out him before, that’s my problem.’

  ‘Well, it’s great that you like him now,’ she says, ‘and I’m glad, because Adam is a very nice person. A wonderful person, in fact. But I don’t know if . . . I don’t know if my respecting and liking him is enough.’

  She sighs, gazing out of the window. ‘I keep looking back on our years together and asking: where’s the romance? Adam’s lovely, but he’s all slippers and pipe, not diamonds and champagne. Does it make me horribly shallow to want a bit of the latter?’

  Her expression is a mess of emotions. I want to say: ‘Wait, Jess – be patient and you’ll get your champagne and diamonds.’ But I’d never ruin the surprise. Besides, I made a promise to Adam.

  ‘You never know, Adam might surprise you. Isn’t it your anniversary soon?’ Even this feels perilously close to betrayal.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles weakly. ‘And I know already what I’ll get because it’s the same every year: a renewal of my World Wildlife Fund membership.’

  ‘Well, that sort of stuff isn’t important anyway, is it?’ I remind her.

  ‘Of course not,’ she shrugs. ‘I suppose it’s . . . what it represents.’

  ‘Don’t throw away what you’ve got, Jess,’ I warn her.

  She looks me in the eyes. ‘But what if I’m not in love with him any more?’

  I pause. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replies, with quiet exasperation. ‘That horrible, corny phrase keeps popping into my mind: I love him – but am I in love with him? And . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about . . .’

  ‘John?’

  She nods.

  ‘You haven’t slept with him again, have you?’

  ‘No,’ she assures me. ‘But I’m plagued with thoughts of what would happen if . . .’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘What? You left Adam for him?’

  She looks straight ahead, her eyes empty. ‘It’s a stupid thought anyway, because I know I didn’t mean anything to him. I’m one in a long line of women.’