by Fiona Gibson
Jed smiles and ruffles my damp hair affectionately. ‘Well, at least you tried. Running’s not for everyone, you know.’
Finn looks up from his book. ‘Can I have my trainers back now?’
‘Sure.’ I almost weep with relief as I pull them off and free my poor, mangled toes. Finn picks them up and inspects them for damage, holding them at a distance by the fingertips. I hobble upstairs to check on Grace and Toby, who are both asleep, then pad gingerly into the bathroom. After perching on the edge of the bath, and contemplating my blistered toe for a few minutes, I peel off my clothes, yanking the Scooby T-shirt over my head with difficulty, and glance down at my body. Disappointingly, I look exactly the same as before, apart from having acquired some angry chafe marks around my waist from Beth’s trackie bottoms, plus that pulsating blister. In fact my feet look pink and rather angry, so really, I’m in a worse condition than before I set out. You have to question the logic.
I shower for ages, hoping to soothe my traumatised flesh. Gradually, as I dry off and pull on roomy PJs and sheepskin slippers, I start to feel normal again. Let Naomi and Danny fartlek to their bloody heart’s content. I hope they’re very happy together. Finn drifts upstairs, still clutching his book, and I pull him in for a hug on the landing. He grudgingly allows it, now that I’m thoroughly de-stinked. Downstairs, I find Jed brewing tea in the kitchen. ‘So, that’s the end of that, is it?’ he asks.
‘The end of what?’
‘Running. Tub Club. All that “new you” business.’
I laugh uneasily. ‘I don’t know. D’you think I should quit the club as well?’
‘It’s up to you,’ he says with a small shrug. That’s so Jed. As if it doesn’t matter to him what size I am, because he doesn’t notice anyway. I take the tea he offers me and gulp it greedily, knowing that I shouldn’t have sugar, or be munching a restorative chocolate digestive. In fact I should really be sipping the pond water tea that Naomi so enjoys.
‘I’m probably dehydrated,’ I murmur. ‘In marathons they have all these water stations every couple of miles or so.’
Jed sniggers. ‘Don’t tell me no one had arranged that for you?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘How far did you go exactly?’ he asks, taking a biscuit from the open packet on the table.
‘Just round the park.’
‘Whoa! Steady on.’
I’m about to protest that it’s actually quite hilly – although not to the naked eye, admittedly – when my phone bleeps with an incoming text. I step away from Jed to read it. WHERE DID U GO? It reads. Danny. What a cheek. Where the hell did he think I went? I’m tempted to reply: AM BLIND DRUNK IN GOLDEN LION. Instead, I text a curt HOME and stuff my mobile back into my pocket.
Jed appears at my side and nuzzles my neck, triggering a small prickle of guilt. ‘Never mind, love,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sure even Paula Radcliffe has her off days.’
*
At breakfast the next morning a row erupts over who ‘stole’ the last of the orange juice. ‘Actually,’ I tease, ‘I bought the juice so technically, it was mine.’ Grace glares at me. Toby tries to shake dregs from the empty carton. Finn has his iPod on, which he isn’t supposed to do at the table because meals are meant to be family bonding time, haha. Even more irritatingly, he starts drumming with his fingertips on the table, keeping time with a song.
‘Please stop that, Finn,’ I say.
‘Uh?’ He looks bewildered.
‘It’s not very pleasant, trying to eat with you drumming—’
‘Why not?’ He pulls out his earphones.
‘You’re making the table vibrate and it’s rattling my brain, love.’
He yawns loudly. ‘I need to practise, yeah? For my next lesson . . .’
‘Forgot to tell you,’ Jed says, breezing in, seemingly oblivious to the squabble as he snatches a pile of work folders from the far end of the table. ‘Mum was on the phone, wondering what you’d like for your birthday.’
‘Oh, just something luxurious and decadent,’ I say, smirking, ‘like last year.’
Jed raises an eyebrow. ‘She mentioned a bread maker.’
‘Did she? What for?’
‘For your birthday. To, er . . . make bread, I guess. Or, um, maybe they do rolls as well.’
‘But you can buy bread in the shops,’ I remind him. ‘I don’t need to make my own.’
‘Well, home-made bread is pretty tasty, and she thought, in your copious spare time . . .’ He sniggers, clearly enjoying winding me up.
‘Yes, maybe you’re right. In fact I don’t even need a bread maker for that. I could get up at 5 a.m. and start kneading so we can have fresh bread for breakfast every morning. That’d make better sandwiches for your lunchbox, wouldn’t it, Finn?’
Finn is still drumming on the table with his earphones back in. ‘Uh,’ he says in response. Something must have filtered through, though, because he gets up from the table, finally de-iPodding himself, and picks up his lunchbox from the worktop. Flipping it open, he peers inside, peeling foil from his sandwiches and wincing slightly. ‘These ham?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Not wet ham, though. It was completely dry. I checked.’
He pauses, as if presented with a particularly unappetising restaurant meal, and shuts the lunchbox lid. ‘Nah thanks.’
‘What d’you mean, nah thanks?’
‘I’ll just have a school dinner in the canteen.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘You said school dinners are all soggy pizza and weird, bouncy meat. You said you felt sick the time you had that stew with floaty bits in . . .’ With a roll of his eyes, Jed dispenses kisses to each of us and heads off, with un disguised relief, to work.
‘It’s £1.20,’ Finn says, holding out a hand. I snatch my purse, rummage for change and find all of 37p.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, nipping upstairs to Toby’s room where I manage to prise off the rubber stopper from his piggy bank. Grabbing a handful of coins, I replace the stopper just as Toby stalks into the room.
‘What you doing?’ he asks.
‘Um, just borrowing some money, love, for Finn’s lunch.’
‘That’s my money!’
‘I know, but I haven’t been to the bank . . .’
‘You’re stealing it!’
‘I’m borrowing it, okay? And when I pay it back, which I’ll do later today, okay, I’ll give you some interest.’
‘What’s interest?’ he asks warily.
‘It’s extra money to say thank you.’ At that, he brightens, trotting downstairs behind me, and observes me depositing the coins onto Finn’s outstretched palm.
‘Uh, thanks,’ he says.
‘So what am I meant to do with the packed lunch I lovingly made for you at eleven-thirty last night, when I could have been tucked up in bed?’
Finn stuffs the coins into his pocket and pulls on his jacket. ‘Dunno.’
‘Give it to a homeless person?’ Grace suggests from the table.
‘Great. Good idea,’ I say tightly.
‘Anyway, I’m off to school,’ Finn mutters.
‘Hey, aren’t you walking with us?’ I call after him. ‘Hang on a minute. I just need to find Toby’s shoes and . . .’
‘Nah, s’all right.’ The front door bangs shut, and he’s gone. As Grace, Toby and I head out, I wonder what’s triggered this urge to reject my lunches and leave before us. For once we’re not running late but, even if we were, it’s not like Finn to worry about missing the bell. Clearly, he wishes to disassociate himself from me. Perhaps I should cease to exist completely, apart from when he requires a cooked meal or money or to be driven to a football game.
I kiss Grace goodbye at the school gates and drop off Toby at nursery via the newsagents (emergency Chunky Kit Kat required). As I head for work, rain starts bucketing down. Within seconds I’m drenched, and I stumble into the salon, making a beeline for the loo to towel myself down. ‘Morning, Laura,’ Simone calls out as I pounce for the loo door. ‘Your first
client’s here already.’
‘Is she?’ I turn back and glance down at the appointments book. ‘I didn’t think I had a booking till ten.’
‘Not in the book,’ she adds. ‘He’s here – look. Popped in on the off-chance you could fit him in.’
Rain trickles slowly down my cheeks. I peer over at the sofa which Danny is occupying all by himself whilst pretending to read a copy of Vogue. ‘Who is he?’ she whispers.
‘Just . . . just a friend.’
‘Cute friend.’ She winks as I turn to greet him.
‘Hi, Danny,’ I say. ‘What brings you here?’
He looks up and smiles in a slightly lost way, as if he’s wandered in by mistake and really wanted the library.
‘I was just in town and, um . . .’ He pauses. ‘Thought I’d pop in to see you. Think I owe you an apology after our run.’
I shrug. ‘That’s okay. It’s not a problem. It was my fault really, for being so slow.’ Jess, our junior, takes care of our seamless playlist but has chosen this precise moment to opt for silence.
He glances down at the Elles and Vogues on the table. ‘Your friend . . . Naomi, was it? She was chatting so much, going on about fartleks or whatever, telling me how to breathe and use my arms to propel myself forward . . .’ He mimics her arm-pumping motion, and we both laugh. ‘With all that going on – God, all I wanted was a quick run, you know. Not a personal trainer . . .’
‘I know what she’s like. I mean, you can’t possibly just put one foot in front of the other, can you? It has to be all technical . . .’
‘And by the time I looked back,’ he adds, ‘you weren’t there. We came back to find you but those men at the pub said you’d stomped off.’
‘Jogged off,’ I correct him. ‘I jogged home. Anyway, I thought I’d probably gone far enough for my first time. Didn’t want to overdo it.’
‘Right. Good idea.’ I sense Simone watching us with rapt interest from the manicure table.
‘Anyway,’ I say breezily, ‘I’ve got twenty minutes till my first client’s due. What can I do for you?’
‘Huh?’ Danny says.
‘Just a trim or a total re-style?’ I tilt my head, appraising his dark brown, endearingly scruffy and rather damp hair.
‘Oh – that.’ He chuckles.
‘Well, we are a hair salon, Danny. It’s our speciality.’
‘Yes, um, of course . . .’ He rakes a hand through his hair as if seeking inspiration. ‘I don’t know, Laura. I suppose I’ll just put myself in your capable hands.’ He grins mischievously.
‘Okay. I’ll ask Jess to shampoo you and we’ll soon knock you into shape. You don’t mind that it’s my first time, do you?’ I tease him.
‘Is it?’ He looks momentarily worried, then cracks a grin. ‘Oh, I’m feeling pretty daring today. Happy to be your guinea pig.’
‘Great. See you in a minute, okay?’
While Danny’s at the basins, I dart into the loo to blot my wet hair with a towel and wipe away rogue mascara smudges from beneath my eyes. When I rejoin him, he’s swathed in a pale grey cape in front of the mirror.
‘No need to look so scared,’ I tease him. ‘We’re quite gentle in here.’
‘It’s just . . . I don’t usually come to places like this.’
‘A bit posh for you, is it?’
‘Well, y’know.’ A pause.
‘So where do you usually go? For haircuts, I mean?’
‘My, um . . . my ex used to do it.’ His blue eyes meet mine. ‘Haven’t got around to getting it cut since we broke up. That explains the state it’s in,’ he adds.
‘Oh.’ I comb out his hair, aware of him watching me. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s a state, Danny. It suits you actually. So, is your girlfriend – your ex – a hairdresser?’
‘Nope, we were just skint, trying to do up an old farmhouse, and she was pretty handy with the scissors.’
‘Well,’ I say, combing out his damp hair and beginning to cut, ‘she obviously had natural talent. I’m just going to take away some of the weight, thin it out a little while leaving most of the length, that sound okay to you?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
I smile, enjoying cutting the hair of someone so easy and pleasant, someone who wouldn’t dream of thrusting photos of unfeasibly glamorous Hollywood actors at me. That, I decide as I snip away, is what I like about Danny. Sure, he’s cute, with the dimply cheeks, and those startling blue, dark-lash-fringed eyes – but in a totally non-threatening way. His kind, friendly demeanour, and his soft, slightly chunky body in faded jeans and old sweatshirts all add to his appeal as a man I could happily hang out with and chat about whatever comes to mind. ‘So,’ I say, ‘when did you break up? If you don’t mind me asking . . .’
‘It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It happened a few months ago now, just before Christmas.’
‘Bad timing,’ I say. ‘Not that it’s ever good timing, unless you wanted it to happen of course . . .’ I tail off, suspecting that I’m in danger of overstepping the mark.
‘Well, no,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want it at all. Didn’t even want the farmhouse, if I’m honest – the whole creating-our-dream-property thing. We’d had a flat in Leeds and been quite happy for the two years we’d been together. But Sarah wanted a big project, something to get her teeth into, I guess . . .’
‘And you went along with it?’
He smiles ruefully. ‘I was so infatuated I’d have done practically anything she’d suggested. That’s probably why it went wrong.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘that doesn’t sound so terrible. Being willing to give it a try, I mean.’ I check his reflection. With less hair around his face, his bone structure is more defined. Before, he looked cute; now he’s startlingly handsome. I snip a few stray hairs from above his ears.
‘It hardly sounds dynamic, though, does it? I’d have been perfectly content to stay in Leeds. I had a photography business which was doing pretty well, but when Sarah had this idea about setting up a spa, a kind of holistic therapy place . . .’ I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from firing more questions. ‘And then,’ Danny adds, ‘she went off with our builder.’
I clutch the hair dryer in mid-air. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Unfortunately not.’ He shrugs.
I grip the dryer, unsure of what to say next. It doesn’t seem right, switching it on after his shock announcement, but I can hardly send him out without finishing properly. I turn it on at the slowest setting. ‘Would it be cheeky,’ he says over its roar, ‘to ask you to come running again?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I’m really cut out for it, Danny. I mean, look what happened last time.’
‘Yes, but if we went out on our own, without Naomi, we could take it at our own pace and do without all that hamstrings and fartleks stuff. Don’t need to kill ourselves, do we?’
‘No,’ I snigger, removing his cape, ‘we don’t. So, anyway, what d’you think?’
He checks his reflection and his face breaks into a smile. ‘It’s great. Thank you. It was long overdue.’
‘Ooh, yes, very nice,’ Simone declares, sweeping past us with a more pronounced sashay than usual.
Danny looks at me. ‘Was I a complete disgrace before?’
‘Of course you weren’t. You just needed a little . . . sprucing.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve spruced me.’ He follows me to the till and pays. ‘So,’ he adds, ‘see you Thursday night?’
‘Yep, I’ll be there.’
‘Great.’ He gives me a quick backwards glance and a grin as he leaves the salon.
I stand for a moment, watching the door, willing him to hurry back and say he’s forgotten something. Clients leave things all the time: gloves, scarves, bags of shopping. This is crazy. He’s just a friend, and not remotely my type. ‘So, seeing him on Thursday night, are you?’ Simone murmurs into my ear.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. We go to this club, that’s all.’
‘What kind of club?’
‘Just a slimming club. A load of overweight women, plus Danny, in St Mary’s Hall on a Thursday night. We learn twenty-seven ways with a can of tuna.’
‘He goes to that?’ she splutters.
I nod. ‘All sorts of people go.’
‘Well,’ she says, arching an eyebrow, ‘if he’s the kind of person you hang out with there, I can totally see why you joined.’
I laugh off her remark but it stays with me all morning. Finn’s face flashes into my mind: glowing red when I spotted him glancing at Kira in the garden. Clearly the symptom of a crush. The difference is, I’m too old and gnarled to have crushes. I’m a married mother of thirty-eight whose mother-in-law wants to buy her a bread maker.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday, May 22nd. I am thirty-nine today, and beyond getting fired up about birthdays. I don’t wake up expecting breakfast to materialise at my bedside, and I certainly haven’t been rummaging in Jed’s wardrobe, hoping to glimpse something beautifully wrapped with my name on it.
So far I have been given:
- An extremely sweet, wobbly clay dish with sequins stuck all over it, created by Toby at nursery.
- An exuberant bunch of buttercups from our back garden, tied with hairy brown string from Grace.
- One of those free postcards you get in cafés from Finn. It depicts a red phonebox looking stranded in a colourless landscape. On the reverse he has written: ‘To Mum from Finn.’ I need to have a little chat with him about his over-emotional tendencies.
As yet, there’s been nothing from Jed. As I dish out the kids’ breakfasts, he chomps his customary toast slathered thickly with peanut butter. Peanut butter, I might add, is deemed so naughty by Tub Club, it doesn’t even have a face.
Throughout breakfast, I keep casting sly glances in his direction, amazed that my beloved has made no reference to the day’s significance. My gifts are set out on the table so he must realise something’s going on. Yet . . . nothing. Still, exciting times lie ahead. Tonight, Belinda might announce that my best friend is celery.
Jed grabs his wallet and keys from the table. ‘Doing anything later?’ he asks.