Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  There are thirty seconds to go and, my insides churning with nervous energy, I look ahead into a blur of runners, poised and ready.

  At twenty seconds, the charged atmosphere surges up a notch, so that by the time the final ten seconds are counting, adrenalin is bursting from every cell in my body.

  My eyes begin to focus on the runners in front, all of whom are facing straight ahead.

  All, that is, except one.

  One is twenty metres in front, looking the wrong way. He’s a lone face in a sea of hair and his eyes burn into mine for three seconds that last for ever.

  The gun fires.

  And Tom Bronte turns and runs.

  Chapter 87

  Maybe it’s the electricity surging through every runner in the race. Maybe it’s the wintry sun breaking through the tumbling clouds ahead. Maybe it’s just that my brain has decided I’ve overloaded it with too many thoughts, issues and conundrums to process any of them for a moment longer.

  Whatever it is, as I begin to run my mind clears of anything but the blood pumping through my veins, feeding the muscles in my legs. As I pound along, I marvel at the mechanisms of my body propelling me forward.

  There’s something primitive about it. I’m doing one of the simplest and most beautiful things my body was made for, something people have done since the dawn of civilisation. I’m running.

  The first five miles pass before I even notice, and when I grab a bottle of water from a drinks station I can hardly believe I’ve run so far already.

  The next two are more of a challenge; my lungs burn slightly as if reminding me to be steady, but not complacent.

  Miles eight and nine allow me to settle back into a rhythm; I run slower than at first, letting myself recover as I approach the final third. Then, I force myself to accelerate. My ambition had been just to finish this race, but I’m feeling so positive about it that I owe it to myself to try that little bit harder.

  By ten and a half miles I realise my push has been too fast. The wind scratches as it hits the back of my throat and a blister begins to form between two toes.

  By eleven miles I want to give up. I’d give anything to just stop. Rogue thoughts seep into my mind like poison . . .

  Come on, Abby, you were never cut out for this. Whatever made you think you were?

  Enough’s enough; you’ve proved your point. Eleven miles is great – and everyone would still give their donations anyway.

  You can give up. No one would think any the less of you.

  It’s all true. Nobody would think any the less of me. Except me.

  I take in an enormous breath and from somewhere find reserves of energy I never knew I had. I zone out of my surroundings, concentrating on nothing other than keeping my legs going, my breath steady, my arms pumping.

  I’m so focused on the task that by the time I hear Daniel calling from the sidelines I can hardly believe I’ve got less than half a mile to go until I reach the finish line, just next to where we started.

  ‘Come on, Abby! Come on!’

  Knowing the finish is so close gives me a renewed energy. Then I hear other voices cheering my name.

  ‘Go on, Auntie Abby!’ Jamie shouts as loudly as his little lungs will allow. I manage to wave, before realising why Jess isn’t shouting too: she’s behind Jamie and deep in conversation . . . with Adam.

  My already hyperactive heart does a somersault, but I can’t allow myself to concentrate on them. I have to keep running. Just keep running. Every step hurts now – hurts my feet, my legs, my chest. My whole body is begging for mercy.

  Then I hear my mum’s dulcet tones, overlapping those of my dad: ‘Go on – that’s our girl! Go, Abby!’

  Emotion rushes through me as I approach the sign that tells me I’m a quarter of a mile from the finish – so close that I can see it faintly in the distance.

  I’m about to go for my final, glorious push, when I spot something that makes my feet slow before I can even think about it. Priya and Matt are at the side of the track, but unlike the other friends and family I’ve passed, they’re kneeling on the ground, huddled, as other spectators gather round.

  I instinctively slow to a walk as runners push past, knocking my shoulders from side to side.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I shout, my chest heaving up and down. ‘Matt – what is it?’

  He turns to look at me anxiously. ‘Heidi,’ he mouths.

  I dart between runners until I reach them.

  ‘Someone called an ambulance, didn’t they? Please? Tell me someone called an ambulance?’ Priya is hysterical, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Someone did,’ Matt assures her, then turns to me. ‘We were struggling to get a signal here, but a lady went to find one. I’m sure she won’t let us down.’

  ‘But what if she does?’ Priya cries. ‘I should have gone myself.’

  ‘Go now,’ Matt instructs her. ‘I’m here. I’ll stay with her.’

  As Priya sprints away to try to phone an ambulance again, I look at Heidi, sitting on the ground, her ghostly face streaked with tears. ‘Heidi, what is it?’ I ask.

  As she looks up, I see the blood on her head, matted into her hair in an angry knot. ‘It’s my leg,’ she replies, bafflingly.

  ‘Your leg?’ I ask.

  ‘It feels so weird, Abby,’ she sobs. ‘I’ve lost control of it. It was as if someone came along and kicked me in the back of my knees . . . and I just . . . fell. I banged my head on the pillar over there.’

  I bend down and examine her forehead, trying to stay calm. ‘It looks nasty,’ I hear myself mutter.

  ‘It’s not my head I’m bothered about, Abby,’ she replies. ‘If you just knew what my leg felt like . . . it’s so weird.’

  ‘What – still?’

  ‘It’s hard to describe . . . I can’t control it properly. It feels almost hollow. It’s horrible.’

  The next five minutes feel like an hour. There’s no sign of an ambulance and Heidi can do little except panic and beg for her mum. Eventually, I persuade Matt to follow Priya to see if she’s had any luck, and phone Heidi’s mother while he’s at it.

  ‘But you’ve got to finish the race,’ Matt argues as he heads to the road. ‘You’re only a quarter of a mile away.’

  I turn to Heidi and put my arm around her as he disappears. ‘The ambulance won’t be long, I promise.’

  It takes a few minutes for a paramedic to appear and push his way through the crowd before he starts asking Heidi questions. Her wide eyes seek out mine as she is lifted onto a stretcher.

  I glance to the side, at runners whizzing past and straight to the finish line. Then I turn back to Heidi’s eyes, heavy with fear, and I know there’s only one choice.

  Chapter 88

  I clutch Heidi’s hand as the ambulance heads to hospital at high speed.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ I ask.

  ‘Not great,’ she whispers. ‘I wish I knew what was happening to me.’

  ‘I can’t believe this has happened so quickly,’ I say. ‘It seems to have come out of nowhere.’

  ‘Not entirely out of nowhere,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been bumping into things and feeling really clumsy for a couple of days. I was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening – it’s one of the classic MS symptoms.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t come to work?’

  She nods and her face crumples. ‘Oh God, Abby . . . this is just the beginning. What the hell is my life going to be like?’

  I squeeze her hand. It feels small and cold. ‘You’re going to be fine, Heidi.’

  As the words escape my mouth, I regret their flippancy. Then I pause, scrutinising my statement, thinking about every word. And I say it again – slowly, but with conviction. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  I am hit by an overwhelming sensation that my assertion is absolutely true.

  Heidi senses the shift in my demeanour. ‘How do you know, Abby? You’re not a doctor.’

  She’s right, of course. But
I do know, I really do. I understand that Heidi has multiple sclerosis, an incurable, debilitating disease. She has no idea what the future holds, except uncertainty. I also know that she is on her way to hospital, having experienced some physical symptoms that would be terrifying by anyone’s standards. And while I don’t know what the doctors will say, I am 100 per cent certain of something.

  ‘Heidi, you’re right. I have no idea – medically – what will happen to you. But I know one thing: you are not going to let this crush you.’

  She lingers on my words, holding her breath.

  ‘You’ve never taken anything lying down, and that’s not going to change,’ I continue. ‘How could it? You’ll still be the same brilliant, vivacious, gorgeous and determined person you always have been. And your life will be absolutely as fulfilling as you deserve.’

  Her lip stops trembling.

  ‘Do you know how I know this?’ I ask. ‘I know it because you, Heidi Hughes, would not have it any other way.’

  As she closes her eyes, tears spill down her cheeks. When she opens them seconds later, she’s smiling. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t, would I?’

  I smile too, though I realise as I do that my own cheeks are wet. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  She laughs, slightly hysterically. ‘Yeah, why are you crying? You’re not the one who can’t stand up properly.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t really know what to say to that.’

  ‘I always knew I’d find some way to shut you up,’ she jokes sadly. Then she looks at me, as if something has struck her. ‘You didn’t finish the race.’

  I shrug. ‘I never thought I would anyway.’

  ‘Come off it. You never thought you would six months ago. You must have been a minute from the finish today.’

  ‘People will honour the donations,’ I reassure her.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m just sorry you didn’t finish it – for you.’

  ‘Some things are more important than a daft race, aren’t they?’

  Before she gets a chance to answer, the ambulance pulls in and we’re at the hospital. The next hour is a whirlwind of temperature-taking, monitors, doctors and nurses – who, it turns out, are concentrating more on making sure Heidi’s head injury isn’t serious than on the MS relapse that led to it. Eventually, Heidi is whisked off and I go outside to make a few calls.

  The first is to Jess. I let her know why I’m not there, and she briefly fills me in on the fact that Adam turned up today after getting her message, assuming she would be running in the half-marathon.

  Their conversation was brief, snatched sentences shielded from Jamie’s ears, but Adam ended it by whispering: ‘If it’s all right by you, I’d like to come by this evening.’

  ‘Are you collecting your things?’ she asked him.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I just miss you.’

  They have one hell of a lot of talking to do, of that there’s no doubt. But at least they’re talking. And I’m praying that leads to the right conclusion.

  My next call is to Priya, to update her on Heidi’s condition. She’s with Matt in a taxi on the way to the hospital and is beside herself. I can hear Matt trying to calm her down in the background, but to little avail.

  ‘Priya, please don’t worry. I’m not going to let her out of my sight,’ I reassure her.

  ‘Abby, you’re going to have to,’ she replies. ‘You’re due to fly to Paris in less than an hour.’

  Oh God. Paris. Daniel. I’d forgotten about both.

  ‘Daniel has taken your bag to the airport and has said you should go straight there from the hospital. Give him a ring on the way if you get a chance. Matt and I will be there in less than five minutes to take over.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say firmly.

  I’m about to put down the phone when Priya stops me again. ‘Oh, Abby? That guy from Caro and Company was looking for you.’

  ‘Caro and Company?’

  ‘Yeah – not Jim Broadhurst, the other one. He said he was in the running club with you.’

  I hear myself gasp. ‘Tom.’

  ‘That’s him! He seemed very eager to see you. I told him where you were and he went all funny. I hope I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  I look up at the precise moment that a tall, dark man turns the corner of the hospital grounds and strides purposefully in my direction as he removes his motorcycle helmet.

  ‘No, Priya,’ I say as my heart thrashes in my chest. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  But I have no idea whether that’s true or not.

  Chapter 89

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I’d like to say I ask the question with an air of cool and calm indifference. Instead, I am as giddy as a first-time parachutist – and not entirely confident that I’m capable of forming a coherent sentence.

  ‘I wanted to come and say hello.’ His face is stern, as if fearing my response.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, before I have a chance to think.

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’ He frowns as if this is as much a mystery to him as it is to me. ‘It’s just been so long since we’ve spoken, and . . . when I saw you today . . . at the risk of repeating myself . . . I’m not some sort of stalker but . . .’

  I can’t help but smile, not least because seeing Tom less than composed is a strange experience.

  ‘I want to be friends again, Abby,’ he says finally.

  I realise I’m holding my breath as I look intently in his eyes.

  ‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ he continues. ‘Even if you don’t have feelings for me. Even though you’ve got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Friends?’ I manage, through trembling lips.

  ‘I want you to know,’ he says, ‘that you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ I reply, my voice spontaneously rising by an octave.

  ‘I have no intention of trying to win you over.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ he replies, clearly believing this to be reassuring. ‘Much as I once thought I’d like to.’

  I freeze at his last words. ‘What?’

  ‘But I would like to resume our friendship. If that’s okay by you.’ He studies my face. ‘Are you all right?’

  The knot of emotion in my stomach unravels as I gaze into his eyes. ‘Tom,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  We are interrupted by a clatter of footsteps and I look up to see Priya and Matt running towards us.

  ‘Where is she?’ Priya demands.

  ‘Oh, Heidi’s with a doctor in one of the rooms off the reception,’ I reply. ‘The nurses said she’d come and tell us when we could go back in.’

  ‘Right,’ says Priya anxiously. ‘Right.’ Then she looks at her watch. ‘ABBY! You’ve got to go!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Daniel’s waiting for you! At the airport! God, Abby . . . a taxi’s never going to get you there on time at this rate.’

  Matt looks at the clock. ‘Priya’s right, Abby. You’re cutting it horribly fine.’

  I glance at my phone and register that there are two missed calls from Daniel’s number, and a voicemail that he must have left while I was speaking to Jess and Priya.

  I look up at Tom, his words spinning round my head. ‘It’s too late,’ I announce, desperate to continue my conversation with him – and to hell with the repercussions. ‘I’ll have to phone Daniel and tell him I’ll never make it. A taxi won’t get me there fast enough.’

  ‘A taxi won’t,’ Tom says, grabbing me by the hand. ‘But I will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, struggling to keep up as we march across the hospital grounds.

  ‘I mean,’ he turns and grins, ‘that you’re about to have your first ride on a motorbike.’

  Chapter 90

  My inner thighs press tightly against Tom’s buttocks, a position that could, to anybody not witnessing it, sound absolutely delightful.

  Delightful, however, it is not.

/>   As his motorbike darts between cars, whizzes round corners and whooshes through amber lights, I couldn’t feel less relaxed if I was on a blind date with Hannibal Lecter.

  As Tom circumnavigates a roundabout – with precisely no regard for the speed limit – I wish that his vehicle of choice had been a golf buggy. Yet as my arms grip his muscular torso, my helmet-clad head pressed against his back, a plethora of other thoughts crash through my mind.

  About this journey being horrible. And terrible. And just plain wrong. Yet, I must admit, there are moments when it’s also electrifying. And – particularly when I close my eyes and feel the contours of Tom’s body against mine – it is undeniably, gloriously . . . right.

  My rush from being on the bike is one thing: that I can feel every muscle in Tom’s torso contract and release as he moves is another. And that’s before we get onto my emotions, pinging from one extreme to another.

  First, repeatedly, there’s my fear that we’re about to crash, or I’ll fall off, or something horrific will happen. It’s a feeling I simply cannot shake, no matter how many times Tom reassures me.

  Then there is desperate, unquenchable longing – a wish to end all wishes – that this isn’t going to be the last time I’m this close to him. No matter how much I try, I cannot accept the idea of him not being a valid part of my future.

  Then my mind races to Daniel – lovely, perfect Daniel; the innocent in this tangled mess – who’s waiting at the airport for me, ready to treat me to a weekend in Paris. To treat me as every woman wants to be treated. How I want to be treated.

  And in the middle of it all are Tom’s words. ‘I have no intention of trying to win you over. Much as I once thought I’d like to.’

  So . . . he once wanted me – but now he doesn’t? Does that mean he could again?

  ‘Which terminal?’ asks Tom, looking back for a second.