by Fiona Gibson
The trainers are a little tight around the toes but preferable to my other options. Now for the bra issue. None of mine are sturdy enough for running in, and I don’t want a repeat of the mums’ race. In Grace’s room, I find an ancient Scooby Doo T-shirt and struggle into it, yanking it down with difficulty. It creates a terribly squashed effect but at least I’ll be firmly reined in.
In front of my bedroom mirror, I bounce up and down experimentally. Whilst my bottom and stomach ripple disconcertingly, at least my chest remains firmly in place. I pull on a plain grey T-shirt over the top, tie back my hair in a tight ponytail and survey my new incarnation as a world-class athlete. I look apprehensive and slightly sweaty around the forehead, and I haven’t even exerted myself yet.
From my bottom drawer, I unearth my make-up and apply a touch of powder, eye shadow and lipstick, just to feel a little more human. Can’t risk mascara in case it slides down my face when I’m speeding along, gazelle-like. Plus, Jed will think I’ve completely lost it if I go out all caked up. He can’t believe I’m actually going running. He, Finn and Grace are playing Monopoly downstairs – Toby is already in bed – and I still haven’t mentioned that I’m actually meeting someone. Jed hasn’t asked, so I’m not lying exactly. And springing it on him that I’m running with Danny would trigger too many questions, which would make me late, so what would be the point? Checking my watch – half an hour until I’m due to meet him – I head downstairs. ‘Where are you going?’ Toby yells from his room.
‘Tobes, you should be asleep. You were exhausted tonight . . .’
‘Are you going out?’
‘Yes, love. Just for a run. Nothing exciting. Now go to sleep, darling.’
There’s a scramble of limbs as he appears at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Can I come too? I’m good at running.’
‘No, love,’ I laugh. ‘It’s bedtime and anyway, you’d be far too speedy for me. Back to bed, okay?’ He sniffs and eyes my trackie bottoms. Even a four-year-old knows that, as a style statement, they’re plain wrong. Taking his hand, I lead him back up to his room and tuck him in.
‘Your boobies are hard,’ he observes, prodding my compacted bosom.
‘I know,’ I chuckle. ‘But they’ll soon be squishy and normal again, I promise.’
In the living room, Finn looks up from the Monopoly board and glowers at me. ‘Why are you wearing my trainers?’
‘Just borrowing them for my run,’ I explain. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
Jed sniggers. ‘Are you sure about this, love? What if you do yourself an injury?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m only running round the park, Jed. You make it sound as if I’m planning to climb the north face of the Eiger.’
‘It’s just . . .’ His lips quiver with mirth as his gaze flickers over Beth’s tracksuit and Finn’s glowing trainers. ‘It just doesn’t seem very . . . you.’
‘Well, it is me. It’s the new me. I’m serious about this, Jed. I just want to feel fit, like my old self, before . . .’
‘Before what?’ Grace asks.
‘Um, before I was old, darling. I’d just like to have more energy, that’s all.’
‘Well, you can’t wear my trainers,’ Finn growls.
‘Oh, come on. Just this once. I don’t have any others.’
‘You’ll make them stinky!’
‘No she won’t,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Mummy doesn’t stink. You do. You stink of poo and wee and farts . . .’
‘Shut up,’ he mutters, flicking her house off Mayfair.
‘I won’t make them stinky,’ I insist. ‘I’ll only be gone for half an hour. It’s hardly a marathon and I won’t even go fast enough to break into a sweat . . .’
‘Wise move,’ Jed guffaws.
‘Why have you got lipstick on?’ Grace asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
‘Have you?’ asks Jed, squinting.
‘No. I don’t know. It might be some old stuff I forgot to take off.’
‘You do have trainers,’ Finn announces. ‘You don’t need to wear mine.’
‘I left them out in the garden,’ I explain, desperate to escape now, ‘and a cat must have peed on them or sprayed them or something because they smelt disgusting and I had to throw them away.’
‘Why do cats spray?’ Grace asks.
‘To mark their territory,’ I murmur. Like, you know – women who pick stray threads off men’s tops.
Finn’s nostrils flare, as if infiltrated by said cat odour. ‘I wear those trainers for basketball. I have to carry them in my schoolbag with my books. And now my books’ll stink of feet . . .’
‘I’ll make sure they’re thoroughly fumigated,’ I say sweetly. ‘Bye, poppets.’
‘Bye, mum,’ Grace says, glaring at the spot on the board where her house used to be.
‘Be careful out there!’ Jed chortles after me. ‘Or should I say, break a leg?’
‘And don’t stink my trainers,’ Finn growls.
Chapter Twenty
I step out into the crisp evening and scan the street. Wish I’d started this running lark in winter, not spring. It would be dark by now and there’d be less chance of being spotted. I walk briskly, head down, trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. I’m not planning to run along Bracken Lane. There are neighbours and passing cars with people inside them, looking out. At least the park should be nice and quiet.
I arrive ten minutes early so I can practise before Danny shows up. I know that running, like going to parties, doesn’t sound like something you’d need to practise, but I don’t want to risk any mishaps. Perching on a damp wooden bench, I try to rev myself up mentally. I’m sure that’s a huge part of it: having a positive attitude. I try to visualise myself as a world-class athlete, streaking over the finishing line to rapturous applause. I picture myself adorned with gleaming medals, standing on one of those podium things.
An elderly lady is striding along the path and veers onto the grass when she sees me. Maybe I look threatening, sitting here in a slightly too-small tracksuit for no apparent reason. Should I limber up, or whatever athletes do, to minimise the chance of snapping something?
I get up and start to trot lightly along the path. It actually feels okay. I’m hardly going faster than walking pace, but that’s fine. Don’t want to peak too soon. I check my watch: I have been running for twenty-five seconds and nothing terrible has happened. Another runner – see, I already consider myself a runner – hurtles towards me and gives me a nod of acknowledgement as he passes. Perhaps this is a club I can belong to. I look forward to swishing into those department store changing rooms, and trying on a playsuit while some woman struggles into a vast, salmon-coloured pantie girdle and exclaims, ‘Oh yes, that looks gorgeous. But then, you do have the figure to carry it off.’
I trot past the pond, its glassy surface rippled by a couple of meandering ducks. This is better than that poncey health club where the receptionist suggested I might like to attend a spin class, which made me feel giddy just thinking about it.
In the distance I spot a pink splodge. It’s tall and skinny and cantering towards me at an impressive pace, and with a sinking heart I realise it’s Naomi. ‘My God, it’s you, actually running!’ she cries. ‘I can’t believe it. Well done, you!’
‘Thanks,’ I gasp, jogging towards her. I’m unsure whether to speed up to impress her, or to slow down even further to conserve energy for when Danny shows up.
‘Didn’t know you were the running type,’ she exclaims, scanning my trackie-clad body and continuing to jog on the spot.
‘Well, I’m not really. I mean, I’ve never done it before . . .’
‘Well, good for you for trying. You’ll soon start to look a lot more toned.’
I smile tightly, wondering how Naomi manages to make a seemingly innocent, even encouraging remark sound faintly insulting. As she bounds up and down, ponytail leaping, I wait for her to zoom off and leave me alone. ‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ I ad
d hopefully.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve already done five miles at race pace so I don’t mind taking it a bit easier. Why don’t we run together? That’d be fun!’
‘Um, another time maybe. I’d rather just have a little trot around on my own, to be honest, to see if I can, you know . . . do this . . .’
‘Oh no, you don’t want to run on your own,’ she insists. ‘It’s much more motivating to have a running buddy. Come on. Let’s do a few circuits together.’
‘I er . . .’ I check my watch. Seven minutes past eight. Maybe Danny’s forgotten our little rendezvous or has developed cold feet. It’s probably for the best. Running is horribly unphotogenic, and I’d rather he didn’t witness various bits of my body thrashing about in public view. I could do a few laps with Naomi. Just enough to acquire a healthy flush so Jed doesn’t think I’ve been shirking.
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ she says.
‘Okay, but I’ll have to take it fairly slowly,’ I warn as she breaks into a jog.
‘Don’t worry. It’s best to start slowly – you need to increase distance before pace. That way you’ll build up your stamina.’
‘Uh-huh . . .’
‘And then, when you’re fitter, you should add some hill training and fartleks.’
‘Fartleks?’ I repeat.
‘Yes. Alternating sprinting with your normal pace. It’s the best way to build up strength.’
Sprinting? Is this some kind of sick joke? And what ‘normal’ pace is she talking about? I don’t have one. This is beginning to feel anything but normal. We jog towards a teenage couple who are snogging enthusiastically on a bench. Alerted by the sound of my thudding feet, they spring apart and gawp at me. The boy snorts openly, and I see myself as he sees me: a tragic, middle-aged woman with a muffin top, staggering past in an ill-fitting tracksuit. He smirks and murmurs something into his girlfriend’s ear. Cop a load of that arse, probably. The malnourished-looking creature sniggers into her hand.
I wonder now if I’m really cut out for running, or should just be put out to pasture in some kind of sanctuary for knackered old mums like they have for horses. I quite like the idea of ambling around a field, munching oats, being sponsored by a kind family who come to take photos of me in my twilight years. ‘Hill’s coming up!’ Naomi announces with a freakish grin.
‘There aren’t any hills around here,’ I gasp. I must have been to this park eight thousand times; I’m familiar with every flake of paint on the see-saw, every rusting chain link on the swings. There is categorically No Hill.
‘Yes there is,’ she says with a cackle. And she’s right. It soon becomes apparent that there’s a definite incline that goes on and on, like some cruel optical illusion that’s only detectable when you’re running up it. A fat winged creature dives into my mouth, causing me to choke. ‘Lean into the hill,’ Naomi instructs. ‘Take small, bouncing steps and keep up a light, steady rhythm . . .’
Fuck off, I scream silently. ‘I’ve swallowed something,’ I bleat, trying unsuccessfully to cough the thing up.
‘It’ll just be a fly,’ she says. Oh, that’s fine then. A fly that’s spent most of its life sitting on rotting food and poo. ‘Try to breathe evenly instead of wheezing like that,’ she adds. Now I’ve really had enough. I’d like to see her breathing evenly with a filthy great bug in her throat.
‘How long have we been running for?’ I splutter.
She checks her lime green sports watch. ‘Three minutes.’
Christ, is that all? It feels like weeks. Something weird has happened to make time virtually grind to a halt. Then a distant voice cries, ‘Laura!’
I stagger to a halt and launch into a coughing fit which pings the insect out of my mouth and onto the path. ‘Hi, Danny!’ I call back, conscious of the vile insecty taste in my mouth.
‘Who’s that?’ Naomi asks, stopping abruptly as he strides towards us.
‘Oh, just a friend. We’d planned to run together actually. Danny,’ I say as he approaches, ‘this is Naomi. We were just, um . . . warming up.’
‘Were we?’ Naomi asks with a sparkly laugh.
‘I’m impressed,’ Danny says with a smile. ‘The only warming up I’ve done is walk from the car.’
‘You haven’t stretched?’ Naomi asks, frowning.
‘Well, um, not recently, no . . .’ He chuckles.
She shakes her head, then demonstrates a sort of forward lunge with her back leg jutting out strangely behind her. ‘Do this,’ she says.
Danny flicks me a baffled look, then forms a rough approximation of her stance. He, too, is wearing tracksuit bottoms, plus a rather ageing black T-shirt. His dark hair is ruffled, his eyes even bluer than I’d remembered. I watch incredulously as Naomi repositions his leg, prodding at the thigh region and explaining, ‘You need to maximise the stretch to work your Achilles tendon, Danny. Don’t want to pull anything, do you?’
‘Er, no,’ he mutters. Oh to be a man. Not that I’d want Naomi to reposition anything of mine – but the fuss and attention they attract, like Jed and the playgroup biscuit scenario.
‘You could do with more supportive shoes,’ Naomi scolds, eyeing his scruffy trainers.
‘I’m not sure about buying new kit right now,’ Danny murmurs. ‘I mean, I’m just starting out. Me and Laura thought we’d . . .’
‘Shall we just get going?’ I cut in impatiently.
‘Sure,’ Naomi says brightly. ‘All set, Danny?’
‘Um . . . guess so.’ He casts me an unsteady grin as Naomi sets off, and we fall into step with her.
‘This pace okay for you?’ she trills.
‘Er, yes,’ he says, clearly assuming I invited Naomi to join us.
‘Done much running before, Danny?’ she asks.
‘Er, no. None at all actually . . .’
‘You’re doing great,’ she enthuses. ‘If we build up gradually, you’ll soon be running three or four miles.’ Hang on, we? ‘Where did you two meet?’ she wants to know.
‘At, er . . . in York,’ I bluster.
‘Really? Where?’
‘In Starbucks,’ he says.
‘Oh!’ She throws me a mildly shocked look, as if startled by my habit of picking up strangers in coffee shops. At least he didn’t mention Super Slimmers. I glance at him, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this. Although a little breathless, he’s showing no sign of fatigue. In contrast, my lungs are bursting and Finn’s trainers have started to pinch my toes. Surely a blister can’t be forming already. I’m lagging behind now, and Danny and Naomi – who are locked in jolly conversation – don’t seem to have noticed.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I yell in a lame attempt at a joke.
‘Come on, Laura,’ Naomi retorts. ‘You need to run for at least twenty minutes to gain full aerobic benefit.’
‘You okay?’ Danny calls back.
‘No!’ I yell, which they must assume is a joke, as they both chuckle whilst cantering ahead. Finn’s trainers seem to be shrinking and are now excruciatingly tight. I don’t want full aerobic benefit. I want to rip them off, plus Grace’s Scooby Doo vest, as my boobs are throbbing in protest at being so fiercely compressed. I wonder if they’ll ever revert to their natural shape. ‘Where are we going?’ I blurt out in alarm as, without warning, Naomi swerves out through the park gates and onto the pavement.
‘Thought we’d go down by the river,’ she says, ‘seeing as Danny’s doing so well.’ He glances back briefly, but Naomi carries on yacking at him and I can’t read his mood. From what I can gather, he doesn’t seem fazed by leaving the park for public streets. In a particularly cruel gesture, Naomi leads us past Café Roma which seems so alluring with its glowing lights and ravishing cake smells.
The inside of my mouth has shrivelled up, as if hoovered by the dentist’s suction device. For the first time in years, I could murder a cigarette, and a gin and tonic. Outside the Golden Lion, a group of elderly men clutch their drinks, watching us with interest. They are
murmuring to each other, and I suspect they’re taking bets on how long it’ll be before I land in a sobbing heap on the pavement. Naomi is streaking ahead now, her glossy ponytail swinging merrily, her backside as taut and unmoving as a shop mannequin’s. ‘I’d never have believed this was your first time, Danny,’ she gushes.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, most people end up walking after two minutes. Want to come out again sometime?’
‘Er, sure, why not?’
Something snaps in me then. I stop dead, watching as they trot on, gassing away like old mates. ‘Hurry up, love!’ calls out one of the men from the pub. ‘They’re leaving you behind.’
‘Want a lift in my car?’ yells another.
‘I’ll give you a piggy-back,’ someone guffaws.
I try to muster a smile but it slides off my face and lands somewhere close to my throbbing feet. ‘Stop for a drink with us, darling,’ the first man calls out. ‘You look like you need some refreshment. What are you having?’
‘A mid-life crisis,’ I yell back, triggering much merriment. I stand and wait, catching my breath, expecting that either Danny or Naomi will realise I’ve stopped and come scampering back to rescue me. But nothing happens. They charge on, like that pack of gazelles in the mums’ race, then whip around the corner, out of sight.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Back already?’ Jed calls out.
‘Yep,’ I say, pausing in the hall while I try to compose myself. Although I walked home – limped, actually – my breath is still coming in ragged gasps. Blotting my face with my sleeve, I venture into the living room where Jed is engrossed in the newspaper, and Finn is reading a fat paperback with a fire-breathing dragon on the cover.
‘You weren’t long,’ Jed says, glancing up.
‘Long enough,’ I say. ‘To be honest . . .’ I plonk myself heavily on the sofa between them and pull out my ponytail band. ‘I think you’re right, Jed. I’m just not built for speed.’