If You Were Here

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I spoke to Helen in fundraising,’ I tell him. ‘They only have nine places. Apparently, they had over thirty applicants last year. She said shortlisting and turning people down is the hardest part of her job.’

  ‘You have as good a chance as anyone else,’ James reassures me.

  ‘I need your help. It says I need to present them with a fundraising plan and everything.’

  ‘We can work on it.’

  ‘Tonight? The deadline’s only a week away.’ Noticing his hesitation I add, ‘Sorry, you’re probably going out, aren’t you? Stupid of me, I should have called, but I fancied the walk anyway. Need to get fit, just in case.’ I laugh at myself.

  ‘I’m only going out with Stu and Jane.’ Stu and James went to school together, ended up in the same veterinary college, ran a marathon side by side, shared a twenty-first birthday party, and they were both engaged at the same time, Stu to Jane, James to Emma, Stu relieved that he wasn’t the only one waving goodbye to his single days. They did everything together until James lost his nerve and pulled out, and for the first time in their lives, they were no longer in step. Yet they’re still close.

  ‘Go,’ I insist, putting the form back into my handbag. ‘I can make a start on my own.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and then we can all chat about it?’ James proposes, ushering me out of the door, already late. ‘Stu’s run more marathons than I have. He can give us a few tips. And if you buy them a drink, I’m sure they’ll sponsor you.’

  *

  ‘So this afternoon, this woman comes in with her pug,’ James tells Stu, Jane and me over drinks, ‘and says, “Alfie smells.” ’

  I laugh so hard that I spit out some of my wine, making everyone laugh even more.

  ‘So I say,’ James continues, ‘ “Well, dogs do smell, I’m afraid”. And she says, “What can I do about it? I shampoo the life out of Alfie every day, but nothing works.” ’

  ‘But dogs smell of dogs,’ Jane says, rolling her eyes. ‘Alfie smells of Alfie.’

  ‘Exactly. Elvis doesn’t exactly smell of Jo Malone,’ I chip in. ‘If only he did.’

  ‘You try telling her that,’ James suggests, finishing off his beer. ‘Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You’ll like this one,’ Stu predicts. ‘A lovely dog called Bertie comes into my clinic today, a golden retriever, but the mother and daughter are distraught because they’ve found a lump.’

  ‘This isn’t going to be sad is it?’ Jane challenges him.

  ‘I don’t want a sad story either,’ I agree.

  ‘Just wait,’ Stu says, holding up his hand. ‘So, I lift poor Bertie on to the table and run my hand along his coat, and I can feel something, a lump, and then when I look more closely, I see this suspicious black stripe.’

  I wince.

  ‘It gets worse, Flo,’ Stu warns me with a deadpan expression. ‘I feel something very sticky. It doesn’t look good.’

  We wait for the verdict in fear. Except for James. He seems to find this funny.

  ‘Bertie didn’t have a tumour,’ Stu says, ‘he had a humbug stuck in his fur.’

  *

  Later that evening, after returning home from the pub, James and I are lying on my bed working on the marathon application form. We’ve completed the easy section. Now we’re on to the fundraising.

  The HDA charity specifies applicants need to aim to raise a minimum of two thousand pounds to be in with a chance for a place, and I need to demonstrate a plan as to how I’d raise the cash.

  ‘Well, Stu and Jane promised you fifty quid,’ James says, ‘so you only have one thousand nine hundred and fifty to go.’

  ‘Not helpful.’

  ‘And I’ll give you a fiver, so that’s one thousand nine hundred and forty-five.’

  I hit his arm. ‘Your generosity is truly touching.’

  ‘I’m training you,’ he reminds me, ‘pro bono.’

  ‘I’m sure my office would get behind me,’ I think out loud. ‘They’ll be amazed. Harriet might even match my sponsorship money.’

  ‘No harm asking,’ James agrees.

  ‘I’ll carry on flogging some things on eBay, too,’ I suggest. ‘Little does Theo realize that his dress sold for a hundred quid, so thanks Theo, for that. It’s going to HDA,’ I say, wishing I could get rid of the tremor in my voice each time I say his name.

  ‘Where did you hear about running for HDA?’ I continue to read off the form, before ticking the box beside ‘friend’. ‘Shame they don’t have a “mad flatmate” category. Have you had any experience of HD?’ I turn to James again. ‘Where do I start on that one?’

  ‘From the beginning.’

  *

  ‘James,’ I say, nudging him. ‘Wake up.’

  ‘Sorry. What’s the time?’ He sits up, his hair messy, his cheeks creased with sleep. ‘It’s almost one in the morning,’ he moans. ‘I need my bed.’

  ‘Wait. I’ve only got one section left,’ I say, grabbing his arm, ‘the additional info part. I need to tell them why I want to run, don’t I. What can I say?’

  ‘Why do you want to do it, Flo?’ he asks. ‘Imagine sitting round a table and everyone is giving a reason – what are you going to say that’s going to stand out?’

  ‘I want to get fit and do something new.’

  ‘You can get fit in a million ways and do anything new any time.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ I sigh. ‘It would be good to raise money for charity, for HD.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To raise awareness.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I want to do something I never thought I could do, to prove to myself that whether I have HD or not, life goes on.’

  ‘Keep going. Why do you want to run twenty-six point two miles?’ he presses. ‘Why do you want to inflict pain on your back?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why inflict grief on your hips, knees and ankles?’

  ‘I won’t, will I?’

  ‘You’ll need a lot of hot baths, put it that way. Why do you want to cut down on wine and cake?’

  ‘Really? I can’t have the odd glass—’

  ‘Why do you want to kiss goodbye to your social life?’ James keeps on pushing me.

  ‘Well, I haven’t exactly had much of one—’

  ‘You can also forget lie-ins on a Sunday morning and you’d better save up for all those sports massages you’ll need—’

  ‘Stop!’ I insist at last, unable to listen to any more reasons not to do it. ‘I want to run twenty-six miles for all those people affected by HD in some way,’ I say, ‘like children at risk, or parents with the gene, for grandparents who have lost a son or daughter, or for people who have HD but haven’t told anyone. For people who feel desperately alone, who believe there is no one they can turn to who will listen or understand. I want to raise money so that maybe one day there’ll be a cure. But on the day itself, I want to run it for my mum and granddad, and for Granny.’ I take in a deep breath. ‘I want to run it for my family.’

  ‘You don’t need my help, Flo,’ James says, standing up and leaving the room as if his work is done.

  I glance down at the form, the last section still blank. ‘How did I put it? Oh James, how did I say it?’ I laugh as I order him to come back. ‘I need to write it down.’ I follow him into his bedroom.

  ‘I need to sleep. Remember to set your alarm for five,’ he says.

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Training starts tomorrow, so you’d better get used to it. Just a gentle ten-mile jog to begin with.’

  ‘James!’

  ‘Night, Flo.’ He pushes me out of his room, both of us unable to stop smiling.

  50

  Beth’s Diary, 2000

  It was Flo’s sports day today so I left work early, not wanting to miss her one-hundred-meter race. When I arrived, I saw her fooling around with Maddie. They are such a funny pair, Maddie with her bright red hair and Flo’s as dark as liquorice.

 
; Maddie has a figure like a runner bean. Flo still hasn’t lost her puppy fat and I have to restrain myself from kissing and squeezing her chubby dimpled cheeks, especially out in public.

  Anyway, I joined Maddie’s mum, Lucy, who’s mad as a box of frogs, wearing denim shorts and wellies, having rushed from the garden to the school, confessing she’d forgotten all about today until her husband reminded her. He had come along, too, joking that he didn’t want to miss the sports event of the year.

  As we were all chatting away with the other parents, drinking our cups of tea and eating slices of homemade cake, I didn’t feel at all bothered by Flo’s race until I actually saw her and Maddie taking their positions behind the line. I don’t know what came over me – I’ve never thought of myself as remotely competitive – but I pushed and barged through the cluster of mothers determined to get a good view.

  ‘Go Flo!’ I shouted, pumping my fists, noticing Flo look away, her cheeks as red as Maddie’s hair. When the whistle blew, I was screaming out her name, but it was clear from the very start that my Flo isn’t a natural, and just reaching the finishing line would be a result.

  Maddie came first. She makes running look effortless. I know her brother James is a demon runner too, both of them taking after their father, but I continued to call out Flo’s name, hoping she didn’t come last. No one wants to come bottom of the heap.

  She came second to last. The girl who came last tripped just before the end. Yes!

  As soon as it was over and I saw a dejected Flo trailing back to her class friends, I longed to rush over and say ‘Well done for taking part anyway,’ but I had to stop myself, knowing I’d caused enough embarrassment for one day.

  Instead, I returned to the pack of mothers, slightly in shame that they had witnessed me pumping my fists.

  ‘Anyway, so what were we saying?’ I asked Lucy, who was looking at me in a new light before we both burst out laughing, and she handed me another slice of lemon drizzle cake.

  When it came to the mothers’ race, I took off my shoes and gave it my best shot.

  I came joint last with a woman who has just come off crutches after a knee injury.

  Honestly, I think these mothers eat cake in public but train in secret. Clearly, I spend far too much time on my backside painting and teaching. I’ve made a vow to join a gym.

  I think it’s safe to say running doesn’t run – excuse the pun, ha ha! – in our family, and that night Flo was low. She told me she hated sport, always came last and that she shouldn’t have eaten her packet of cheese and onion crisps before the race because they gave her a stitch.

  ‘I’m not taking part in any stupid race ever again,’ she declared, sticking her chin out defiantly, reminding me so much of Mum.

  ‘We can’t be good at everything, darling,’ I said. ‘My dad always used to say success isn’t about winning. It’s about not being scared to fail.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘It’s about giving things a go,’ I gamely continued.

  ‘Maddie’s lucky she has a dad,’ she said, the change of subject abrupt, and I wasn’t sure what to say except, ‘I know.’ Whenever I pick Flo up from Maddie’s house there is a twinge of jealousy that the Baileys seem to have it all. They are the family every little child paints at nursery, the family that lives in a house with climbing roses, a mum and a dad who stand proudly outside the front door, flanked by two perfect children – a boy and a girl – along with a dog and a cat.

  I’m aware Flo has been bullied for not having a father, and I have always told her to come to me if anyone upsets her, but what I can’t do is bring Graham back or meet someone else who’ll break our hearts all over again.

  There is one particular ringleader called Samantha, who I know has it in for Flo.

  Soon after Graham left, Flo used to be scared of going to sleep. Night after night I’d find her sitting at the top of the stairs in her pyjamas, when it was hours past her bedtime.

  ‘Flo, this has got to stop,’ I’d said. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

  ‘Because Samantha says you’ll leave me too, just like my dad and Graham.’

  ‘Maddie’s dad has run a marathon, too,’ she continued, bringing me back to reality. ‘It’s no wonder she won.’ Finally, she looked up at me. ‘Maybe one day I’ll run a marathon, Mum.’

  I tried not to smile at how quickly she had changed her mind, so relieved the subject was off fathers.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Who knows what the future will bring, Flo.’

  51

  Peggy

  ‘Why don’t you tell me your name now,’ the recorded voice says, ‘and where you live.’

  I clear my throat and sit up straight. ‘Mi chiamo Peggy,’ I say. ‘Abito a Londra. In Hammersmith.’ I laugh at my accent, but it’s quite hard to make Hammersmith sound Italian and romantic.

  Before I reach the next exercise, there’s a knock on my door.

  Who could that be?

  Reluctantly, I get up and look through the peephole, only to see Ricky and Shelley carrying baby Mia. Goodness, the whole family have descended on my doorstep.

  ‘Peggy,’ he says as he steps inside.

  ‘Where are you off to looking so smart? You could be the next James Bond,’ I say, glancing at his hair tied back in a ponytail, his white shirt ironed, wearing a tie with bright blue kingfishers on it. ‘Hello, you must be Shelley,’ I add, before she kisses me on the cheek.

  It’s funny that we haven’t met before. In a way I think my friendship with Ricky has been so unexpected and special, that we’ve kept it selfishly to ourselves. Shelley is as fair as Ricky is dark, a splattering of freckles across her nose.

  ‘And I know who you are, Mia,’ I say. ‘I hear from you often.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Peggy, does she keep you awake?’ Shelley asks.

  ‘No,’ I pretend. ‘She’s adorable. Anyway, what are you doing?’ I ask, trying not to sound rude, but I really do need to get on with my homework.

  Ricky holds up a pair of tickets. ‘He’s going on a date,’ Shelley tells me.

  ‘A date?’ I reply. ‘Do you need me to babysit?’

  ‘A date with you,’ Ricky says.

  ‘With me?’

  Shelley nods. ‘I thought it was about time I met the woman he’s been spending so much time with before I get jealous.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ I say, peering at the tickets. Until I do.

  ‘Swan Lake,’ I gasp, a hand flying over my mouth before I look closely at the date. It’s Wednesday 27th September 2017. ‘Tonight?’

  Ricky’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Go and get ready, Peggy. We’re off to watch the men in tights.’

  52

  Flo

  I’m back at work, planning a forthcoming promotion for winter breaks. The office is quiet: Harriet is at a conference and Natalie and Simon are working with the sales team downstairs.

  Two weeks have passed since I sent my application form back to the charity, and I’ve been living in limbo land waiting for their response, which James assures me is normal. He is also anxious to know if he has secured a place in the ballot. We should both find out at about the same time.

  I’m unsure whether to start dieting seriously yet, though so far I’ve been unable to give up the cappuccinos and the homemade Polish cakes that Natalie brings into the office, along with the occasional glass of wine after work. I’ve also been far too weak to turn down Granny’s fish and chips on a Friday night.

  It comes to my attention that I have as much discipline as . . . well, a person with no discipline.

  I should be getting fitter, marathon or no marathon, so today I bought my tracksuit and trainers into work with me, and come what may, I’m going to run home. On Google Maps it says running from High Street Kensington tube station to Turnham Green Terrace is roughly three miles, which seems fairly manageable to me.

  I look out of the window. It’s not raining.

  I can do this. Three miles isn’t that far.
>
  How hard can it be?

  *

  ‘Coming for a drink, Flo?’ Natalie calls up the stairs at the end of the day as I’m getting changed, and for a moment I’m tempted. There’s a tug of war inside my head – drink or run – heading for its inevitable conclusion, but at the last moment there is a surprise victory.

  ‘I can’t, not tonight,’ I call, heading downstairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Natalie stares at me as if I’m wearing something from outer space. I haven’t told anyone in the office about my plans to run a marathon yet, just in case my application is rejected.

  It’s like a driving test. Why tell friends until you’ve passed?

  ‘I’m going for a run,’ I announce as if it’s nothing unusual.

  ‘I can see that. Why?’

  ‘To get fit.’ I jog up and down on the spot, wondering if I should do some warm-up exercises first, or eat something, though I had quite a late lunch.

  ‘Got to go,’ I say, before I can change my mind, heading out of the door in record speed. ‘See you tomorrow!’

  And I’m off. I’m running.

  *

  Oh God, how long have I been running for?

  I glance at my watch. Not even for a minute and already I have a stitch.

  I looked up a few tips online and James suggested I run for a minute then walk for two, but that seems like cheating to me.

  I shouldn’t have eaten that tuna melt for lunch. It’s sitting in the pit of my stomach like a log.

  I need to stop. Can’t breathe.

  I also need a wee. Why didn’t I go to the loo before I left?

  My rucksack feels heavy, my shoes and jacket weighing it down. My back is aching. I walk for a short stretch, my legs shaking as if in shock from the sudden exercise.

  I’ll walk to that lamp post, I tell myself, and then I’ll run again, and this time I’ll try to run for longer.

  And I’m off again, though I’ve barely run to the end of the road before my heart is hammering in my chest. But I carry on with gritted teeth. I turn a corner.

  Keep going, I tell myself. Don’t think about that glass of chilled wine. Don’t think about sitting on a nice comfy chair or relaxing in front of the TV with a takeaway.