by Fiona Gibson
‘Well …’ Rob hesitates before shutting down his computer. ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Great, everyone else is down there already …’
‘Er, so where are we going?’
‘Jack’s.’
Rob nods approvingly, wondering how to negotiate this. He’s not a member of Jack’s, but feels obliged to point out that does in fact belong to another private members’ club – the one in which he and the old team used to have the odd meeting or drinks after work. But now he’s worried that even a casual mention of The Lounge will remind Eddy of his vintage, and he’ll make a mental note to bung him over to Horticultural Digest first thing on Monday morning.
When did life become so worrying? The move to the Shorling, too – that’s stressing him out. Oh, it makes sense in theory: great primary and secondary schools (must think ahead, right?), all that bracing sea air and a pretty house with a garden instead of their gloomy two-bedroomed terrace with a back yard no bigger than a tablecloth. But is he really ready to leave London?
‘I’m not actually a member of Jack’s,’ Rob says breezily as the three men head for the third floor lift, as if this is a mere oversight, something he’s forgotten to attend to.
‘That’s fine, you’ll be my guest.’ Eddy pushes back his geeky black glasses and jabs the lift button.
‘Great. Thanks.’ Rob’s mouth forms a tight line. The lift doors open, and they ride down in slightly awkward silence (despite the invitation, Rob suspects Eddy’s only asked him out of politeness) and it’s a relief when they step out in the early evening bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue. The warm September evening, and the good-natured hubub around him, raises Rob’s spirits a little. He experiences a small pang of missing Kerry and the kids, and reminds himself that this time tomorrow they’ll all be together in Shorling. Maybe he’ll even treat his family to special lunch on Sunday at that glass-walled seafood place, see what Freddie and Mia make of the crustacean-crushing implements.
At Jack’s, just a few streets away from the office, Eddy and Frank make a big show of being on first names with Theresa on the door, who hands Eddy her clipboard so he can sign Rob in. Just one drink, Rob tells himself as the three descend the narrow stairs to a basement bar where the young people go. Just a quick one so I don’t seem like a stand-offish old bugger, then I’ll head home and give the place a good scrub and hoover and make sure yesterday’s boxers aren’t strewn on the bedroom floor. Then I’ll call Kerry …
Despite Kerry and the kids only having moved out three weeks ago (Kerry wanted them to be all settled in before school starts), the Bethnal Green house has started to look a bit sad. It’s acquired a single-man-living-alone vibe, a barely perceptible staleness which Rob notices only when showing around potential buyers and suddenly seeing it through their eyes. I’ll clean it from top to bottom tonight, he tells himself. I’ll make a really good job of … His thoughts are cut short as he follows Eddy and Frank into the bar and realises that all of the Mr Jones editorial team are here – even Nadine, the unnervingly attractive young temp with the cute gamine haircut who doesn’t seem to like him that much. And they’re not only just here, having a casual drink after work, but assembled before him in a rabbly semi-circle, all grinning and staring as they burst into song: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Robbeeeee …
Robbie? It sounds as if he’s in a boy band. Rob’s never been a Robbie, but never mind that because here comes a cake, ablaze with candles and dusted with sugar (clearly, Jack’s is too cool for the kind of garish iced creations Kerry makes) carried on a white circular board by a beautiful girl with red hair tumbling down her back. Shock has morphed into pleasure as someone hands Rob a drink (how did they know he likes vodka and tonic?), and his colleagues cluster around him as the cake is cut.
‘Well … God!’ he blusters, shaking his head. ‘This is very. … I mean, I didn’t think … thank you so much …’ He is handed a sliver of cake on a napkin, and there are back-slaps and hugs. Ava, the icy new fashion editor, even kisses him sweetly on the cheek.
‘Hope you don’t mind us hatching this little surprise,’ says Stuart, the features editor whose baby-soft face suggests he’s barely acquainted himself with a razor.
‘No, not at all,’ Rob says, laughing in disbelief. ‘I’ve never had a surprise party before. I’m touched, to be honest …’
‘Feel okay about the big four-o?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine …’
‘And I hear you’re going to be our new sex columnist!’ exclaims Ava, her eerie, daylight-starved face glowing almost fluorescently in the dim light.
‘Well, it hasn’t exactly been decided yet,’ he chuckles, a little less freaked out by the prospect now he’s quickly downed most of his drink. How did she know, though? Eddy must have discussed it before he’d even asked him.
‘Eddy seems to think it has,’ Ava chuckles. ‘Once he gets and idea in his head, there’s no shifting it …’
‘Well, I suppose I’ll manage …’
‘You’ll do a great job,’ declares Nadine-the-temp, startling Rob as he doesn’t recall her speaking to him before. Usually, she regards him with cool indifference as if he’s only there to fix the computers.
‘Thanks, Nadine. I’ll give it my best shot, I suppose …’
She giggles. ‘No pun intended?’
‘Er … haha …’ He feels himself blushing, even more so when her gaze appears to be fixed intently upon him. Her eyes are incredible, he can’t help but notice; piercing blue, elongated and feline, emphasised with the kind of flicked black eye liner which makes him think of French girls in arthouse movies. Her short, dark hair is precisely cut, exposing a slender neck, and her full lips are parted in amusement. Rob wonders briefly if she’s teasing him. Perhaps she finds it hugely amusing that the oldest man in the office – the Grandaddy of Mr Jones – has been chosen to write a sex column, and he’s faintly relieved when Frank beckons him over to share a filthy joke.
No, he’s just being paranoid, Rob decides, which is understandable, considering all the dramatic changes Eddy’s been making to the staff and magazine. Anyway, he feels better tonight, now buoyed up by his second vodka and tonic in half an hour. Nadine has reappeared at his side, and is telling him about her history of working with Eddy – ‘I follow him around like a little limpet,’ she explains with a smile – and Ava is complimenting his jacket. As the evening continues with much banter and laughter, Rob makes a deal with himself to socialise more often, and to try to remodel his work persona, which he suspects comes across as too earnest for Eddy’s ‘dynamic’ regime.
Rob not might be a member here at Jack’s, and he may be hanging onto his job by the tip of his neatly-filed fingernails – but right now, he thinks, taking a small bite from a slice of lemon cake in the hope of soaking up some of the booze, turning 40 doesn’t seem so bad after all. And hours later – even though Rob is no longer the stay-out-late sort – he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t go along when someone suggests continuing the party at Nadine’s Baker Street flat.
If you’ve loved The Great Escape, here’s a taster of another Fiona Gibson treat for you. Out now.
Mum on the Run
A novel by Fiona Gibson
Chapter one
‘Thank you, everyone, for coming along to our Spring into Fitness sports day. Now, to round off our afternoon, it’s the race we’ve all been waiting for …’
No it’s not. It’s the race that makes me consider feigning illness or death.
‘… It’s the mums’ race!’ exclaims Miss Marshall, my children’s head teacher. She scans the gaggle of parents loitering on the fringes of the football pitch.
‘Go on, Mum!’ Grace hisses, giving me a shove.
I smile vaguely while trying to formulate a speedy excuse. ‘Not today, hon. I, um … don’t feel too well actually.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I … I think I’ve done something to my … ligament.’
‘It’s, er …’ My mind empties of all logical thought. This happens when I’m under stress, like when a client started to blanche when I’d cut in layers – even though she’d asked for layers – and insisted that what she’d really had in mind for her ginger puffball was ‘something, y’know, long and flowing, kinda Cheryl Cole-ish …’
‘It’s in your leg,’ I tell Grace firmly.
‘What happened to it?’ Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘I … I don’t know, hon, but it’s felt weird all day. I must have pulled it or stretched it or something.’
She sighs deeply. At seven years old, rangy and tall for her age, Grace is sporting a mud-splattered polo shirt festooned with rosettes from winning the relay, the three-legged race and the egg-and-spoon. I’m wearing ancient jeans and a loose, previously black top which has faded to a chalky grey. Comfy clothing to conceal the horrors beneath.
‘Come on, all you brave ladies!’ cries Miss Marshall, clapping her hands together. Here they go: Sally Miggins, casting a rueful grin as she canters lightly towards the starting line. Pippa Fletch, who happens to be wearing – like most of the mums, I now realise – clothes which would certainly pass as everyday attire (T-shirts, trackie bottoms) but are suspiciously easy to run in. No one would show up at Spring into Fitness in serious running gear. That would be far too obvious. The aim is to look as if you hadn’t even realised there’d be a mums’ race when you’ve been secretly training for months.
‘Come on, Laura,’ Beth cajoles, tugging my arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘No it won’t,’ I reply with a dry laugh. Beth, the first friend I made on the mum circuit around here, is athletic and startlingly pretty, even with hair casually pulled back and without a scrap of make-up. I was presentable too, back in the Iron Age, before I acquired a husband, three children and a worrying habit of hoovering up my children’s leftovers. Waste not want not, I always say.
‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,’ Beth teases. ‘It’s only to the end of the field. It’ll all be over in about twenty seconds.’
‘Yeah, you promised, Mum,’ Grace declares.
‘I can’t, Grace. Even if I was feeling okay, which I’m not with this ligament thing, I’m wearing the wrong shoes for running.’
Beth glances down at my cork-soled wedges. ‘Good point,’ she sniggers. ‘I’ll let you off … this time. But next time you forget your kit I’ll be sending a note home.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ I snigger. Beth grins and strides off towards the starting line.
‘Take them off,’ Grace growls.
‘What? I can’t run in bare feet! I might step on something like broken glass or poo or …’
‘No you won’t. It’s just grass, Mum. Nice soft grass.’
‘Grace, please stop nagging …’
‘Amy’s mum’s taken her shoes off. Look.’ Grace points towards the cluster of super-fit mums, all laughing and limbering up as if this is something one might do for pleasure. Sure enough, Sophie Clarke has tossed aside her sandals and is performing professional-looking leg stretches on the damp turf.
‘Any more mums keen to join in?’ Miss Marshall calls out hopefully. A trim thirtysomething, she exudes kindness and capability. I find it an almighty challenge to raise three children. She manages to look after 270, five days a week. I am in awe of her.
‘Anyway, I didn’t promise,’ I add. ‘I said I might …’
‘You did! You said at breakfast.’
Hell, she’s right. She and Toby were bickering over the last Rice Krispies, despite the fact that our kitchen cupboard contains around thirty-two alternative cereal varieties. ‘If you stop arguing,’ I’d told her, ‘I’ll do the mums’ race today.’ She’d whooped and kissed me noisily on the cheek. It’s okay, I’d reassured myself on the way to school and nursery. She’ll forget.
I’d forgotten that children never forget, unless it’s connected to teeth-cleaning. I know, too, that I’m a simmering disappointment to her, making promises I can’t keep. Pathetic mother with her colossal bra, non-matching knickers and carrying far too many souvenirs of her last pregnancy (stretch marks, wobbly tum) considering the fact that Toby is now four years old.
Across the field, Finn, my eldest, is sitting on a plastic chair between his best friends Calum and James. He, like Grace, is of athletic build: rangy with well-defined arms from drumming, and strong legs from playing football in his dad’s junior team every Sunday. Even Toby exhibits signs of sporting prowess. Only this morning he bowled my powder compact across the bathroom and into the loo where it landed with a splash. Shame there’s no medal for that. And he’d denied responsibility. Told me that Ted, his hygienically-challenged cuddly, had done it.
Finn glances at me, then at the clump of mums all eagerly poised at the starting line. While Grace is desperate for me to do this, I know he’s praying I won’t. I don’t want to aggravate things further between us. At eleven years old, he has become sullen and distant these past few months, and seems desperate for puberty to kick off big-time. Yesterday, I heard him bragging to James in his room that he’d discovered a solitary hair on a testicle. Other recent acquisitions are a can of Lynx and a tube of supposedly ‘miracle’ spot cream.
‘Mummy,’ Grace barks into my ear, ‘everyone’s doing it except you.’
‘No they’re not,’ I retort. ‘Look at those two ladies over there.’ Hovering close to the fence is a woman who’s so hugely pregnant her waters could feasibly break at any moment, and a lady of around 107 in a beige coat and transparent plastic rain hat. ‘They’re quite happy to watch,’ I add. ‘Not everyone’s madly competitive, Grace.’
Her eyes cloud, and her lightly-freckled cheeks flush with annoyance. ‘Come on, Laura, shake a leg!’ trills latecomer Naomi Carrington. Naomi is wearing running gear. Tight, bubblegum pink racing-back top, plus even tighter black Spandex shorts which hug her taut, shapely bottom like Clingfilm, as if this were the sodding Commonwealth games. Her breasts jut out, firm and pointy like meringues, and she swigs from a bottle of sports drink. ‘I’m really unfit too,’ she adds. ‘Haven’t trained since last year’s Scarborough 10k. Mind you, I managed forty-nine minutes. That’s my PB …’
‘What’s a PB?’ I ask.
‘Personal best. Fastest-ever time.’ She throws me a ‘you are a moron’ look. ‘I know, not exactly a world record,’ she chuckles, ‘but pretty impressive for me. And I’m hoping to do even better this year.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ I growl, feeling the lifeblood seeping down through the soles of my feet. If I ever attempted a 10k, the only way I’d cross the finishing line would be in a coffin.
She grins, showing large, flat white teeth which remind me of piano keys. Naomi is the proud owner of one perfect body, the whole town knows that – thanks to her stint as a life model for the Riverside Arts Society. Dazzling paintings of her luscious naked form were displayed in the Arts Centre café for what felt like 100 years.
Maybe I should run the race. I’ve felt spongy and wobbly for so long, maybe this is my chance to snap into action and do something about it. It could be the start of a new, slick me, who wears racing-back tops and talks about PBs. I breath deeply, trying to muster some courage, the way I imagine elite athletes do before world-class events. Across the pitch, Finn is poking the damp ground with the toe of his trainer. I know he’s wishing his Dad were here. Jed would have entered the dads’ race and won it too. He, too, would be sporting a red rosette by now. But Jed isn’t here. He’s a senior teacher at another primary school – one far rougher than this – whereas I work part-time as a lowly hairdresser and can always take time off for school-related events, lucky me.
Naomi is stretching from side to side, which causes her top to ride up (not accidentally, I suspect), exposing her tiny, nipped-in waist. Grace is chewing a strand of long, caramel-coloured hair,
perhaps wishing she had a different mum – a properly functioning one with meringue breasts, like Naomi.
I swallow hard. ‘You really want me to do this, sweetheart?’
She looks up, dark brown eyes wide. ‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. Promise you won’t laugh?’
She nods gravely. Something clicks in me then, propelling me towards the starting line, despite my wrong shoes and bogus-sprained-ligament and the fact that Finn will be mortified. ‘Mum’s doing the race!’ Grace yelps. ‘Go, Mum!’ I daren’t look at Finn.
‘Well done, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall says warmly. I bare my teeth at her.
‘Good for you,’ Beth says, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘You know I can’t run,’ I whisper. ‘This’ll be a disaster.’
‘It’s just for fun,’ she insists. ‘No one cares about winning.’ I muster a feeble smile, as if a doctor were about to plunge a wide-bore syringe into my bottom.
‘Your shoes, Mrs Swan,’ Miss Marshall hisses. ‘You might like to …’
‘Oh, God, yes.’ I peel off the lovely turquoise suede sandals which I bought in a flurry of excitement when my sister Kate came to stay. She chose snug-fitting skinny jeans; I headed for footwear because trying on shoes doesn’t involve changing room mirrors or discovering that you can’t do up a zip. As I scan the row of women, all raring to go, I realise I’m fattest mum in the race. What if my heart gives out and I’m carted off on a stretcher? Beth grins and winks at me. Naomi, who’s set her sports drink on the ground behind her, assumes an authentic starting position like Zola-bloody-Budd. I concentrate on focusing ahead. The pitch doesn’t usually look this big. Now the finishing line seems so distant it might as well be in Sweden. ‘On your marks, get set … go!’ Miss Marshall roars.
Christ, don’t they give you a warning, like some kind of amber alert? These aren’t women but gazelles, charging off in a blur of limbs and kicking up mud behind them. I’m running too. At least I’m slapping down each bare foot alternately and trying to propel myself with my arms like I saw Paula Radcliffe doing on TV.