‘What about me?’
‘You say you don’t love your wife anymore, that you love me, but there’s always a “but” isn’t there? You can’t leave Eve because her mother is unwell or work is stressful or Ben needs you.’
He slammed his fist on the table. ‘That’s unfair, Beth. He does. Both my children need me.’
‘Face it, Mark, there is never going to be a good time to tell your wife, unless you don’t want to.’
‘Beth—’
‘You’re scared too,’ I said. ‘Scared of change, scared of being with me, scared of taking any risks.’
‘Beth, that’s not true.’
‘Prove it then.’
And I stormed out. He hasn’t called me back.
I think that could be it. I think, finally, it’s over between us.
74
Flo
As I’m about to leave the office to head out for a run, I can’t help looking at my sponsorship page one last time, which is now looking considerably healthier since all of Granny’s new friends that she has met on her Italian course, including her teacher Maria, have sponsored me, along with James and Maddie’s work colleagues. Even some of James’s furry four-legged friends: Betsy, a seven-year old bichon frise, whom James nursed back to life after eating macadamia nuts – highly toxic and poisonous for dogs – sponsored me a hundred pounds.
I stare at my screen.
Holy shit! as Iona would say.
Thankfully, I am the only person left in the office so I can scream, shout and dance around the room, before finally calming down and looking at my page once again, just in case it’s a dream.
I stop dead when I see his name under the donation.
Theo has sponsored me two thousand pounds.
It’s a great cause, Flo, and I wish you all the very best with it.
It’s formal, but I feel strangely touched. This isn’t out of guilt; Theo doesn’t operate like that. No one told him I was running a marathon. Somehow he found out, and then decided to support me. Perhaps we did mean something to one another, after all.
*
I turn the key in the lock. I’m home. I must have run at least fourteen miles tonight since it’s coming up to nine, and I didn’t stop once for a break. For the first time, it felt easy, as if I were floating on the top deck of a double-decker bus, being carried along effortlessly, and it was the best feeling ever.
As I take off my trainers and leave them by the front door, I think back to my first attempt, when I couldn’t even run down the road without getting a stitch before throwing up my tuna melt.
To my surprise, I find James in the kitchen eating scrambled eggs.
‘Hello, stranger,’ I say, pouring myself a glass of water. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks. You?’
‘Great. I’ve just been on a run,’ I say, stating the obvious.
‘Good run?’
‘Brilliant. Do you remember you said one of these days I’d run without even knowing?’
He nods.
‘Well, tonight I did. I’m beginning to think I won’t come last.’
I wait for him to smile, but he’s quiet, his food barely touched.
‘You won’t ever guess who sponsored me?’ I say, joining him at the table.
‘Who?’
‘Theo.’
He looks up. ‘Theo?’
‘I know. I’m as shocked as you. Two thousand pounds.’ The moment I say how much, I wish I could take it back.
He shrugs. ‘Well, it’s easy for him. He can afford it.’
‘Yes, perhaps, but I’m still grateful.’
‘It’s pocket money to him, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe, but he didn’t have to.’
‘He probably felt bad. Guilt money.’
‘I was still touched,’ I say defensively, getting up to leave the room.
‘Touched?’ he calls out, following me. ‘Flo, the guy’s a jerk. He dumps you at the first sign of trouble and then you’re touched because he tosses money your way to ease his conscience?’
I hesitate as to what to say back, not wanting this to descend into an ugly argument. ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask him.
‘I can’t believe he says nothing to you for months – he doesn’t even bother to find out how you are – and then he thinks this makes it all okay?’
‘I doubt he thinks this makes it all okay. It was just a gesture. This was his way to do something, to show he cared.’
‘Cared? Christ, Flo, you’re gullible.’
‘James, stop it. What’s got into you?’
‘He didn’t care. If he did, you’d still be together. Instead, he left us to pick up the pieces while he carries on making his millions and driving his Porsche, and probably screwing the next fit woman he meets.’
I walk away, hurt.
‘Are you still in love with him?’ he asks, following me to my bedroom. ‘Flo?’
‘Fuck you,’ I say, before going into my room and slamming the door behind me.
75
Peggy
Flo just called me in tears to tell me she and James had a big row. I have to say, there is a grain of truth in what James thinks. There must be a part of Theo that does feel guilty. And so he should.
Then again, he didn’t have to give Flo a bean, and it’s much better for Flo not to waste her time and energy feeling bitter about their breakup. She’s trying to move on, and it would be churlish to refuse his donation. What would that achieve? As to James’s reaction, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out.
I noticed the way he looked at her the night we heard the news of the drug trial. It was the way Tim used to look at me. I see the way her eyes light up when she talks about him, or if he says something funny.
Over the past few months, I have seen a different side to this young man. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always liked James, but I’ve never thought about him as anything other than Flo’s flatmate. Yet, the way he has stuck by Flo through all this turmoil . . . Any old fool can see James is hopelessly in love with her, and I’m fairly certain Flo is beginning to feel the same way too. She just doesn’t know it yet.
But there’s no need for me to tell her.
Love has a funny way of catching up with you, especially when you least expect it.
76
Flo
Maddie and I walk down Brick Lane, one of the most famous streets in East London. With only five weeks left to train, I should have gone out for a run today, but when I woke up this morning, my legs were aching and my head was pounding.
‘One morning off won’t hurt,’ Maddie had suggested. ‘Use me as an excuse.’ I didn’t take much persuading.
James wasn’t at home. He must have stayed over at Chloe’s again. We’ve barely spoken since our argument. The following morning, before I left for work, he said he was sorry and that he’d spoken out of turn, but something’s changed and I hate it. There’s a distance between us. I wish everything could go back to the way it used to be, and the ironic thing is I can’t talk to James or to Maddie about it.
When we enter the warehouse-type building, immediately I am struck by the familiar scent of timber. This art shop used to be one of my favourite college haunts, and it still smells like an old, leather-bound book. The sight of shelves, stacked with packets filled with model-making accessories and a wall adorned with paintbrushes of every shape and size instantly lifts my mood and helps me to ignore my stubborn headache and my anxiety over James.
*
‘How are you going to pay for all this?’ Maddie asks as we join the queue. My trolley is filled with paintbrushes, a selection of card, and I couldn’t resist a box of gold, silver and copper flakes, imitation snow and packets of cork and fake grass.
‘Mr Mastercard,’ I reply, leaning against the trolley, almost tempted to climb in myself and ask Maddie to push me home.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks as we shuffle forward.
‘Just tired.’ I press a hand aga
inst my forehead. ‘I feel as if I’ve been in a boxing ring with Mike Tyson.’
‘I told you exercise was bad for your health.’
I take off my jacket.
‘Have a lie-down when we get home,’ she suggests, making me feel ancient, but I think I might have to. ‘I need to catch up on some work, so don’t worry about entertaining me.’
*
When Maddie and I return to the flat, my energy has picked up, and I’m far too excited to go to bed. I want to unpack my shopping and make something for my doll’s house.
I open my wardrobe. On the top shelf is a large striped hatbox, and with Maddie’s help, somehow we manage to drop it on to my bed before I take off the lid, caked in dust.
Inside are earthenware pots filled with paintbrushes. Most of these belonged to Mum.
‘That one’s made out of real badger hair, Flo,’ she’d say when I used to pick them out of her jam jar.
I open the lid of my old bottle of white spirit. It smells of orange liquor. I feel emotional when I see my scalpel covered in masking tape and my mechanical pencil, which cost me more than a month’s rent. Maddie and I used to joke that we’d choose our pencil or scalpel over any man.
‘We were that sad,’ she says.
‘And still are,’ I laugh.
As I crouch down on to the floor to reach for something under my bed, I feel dizzy again.
‘Here,’ Maddie says, ‘let me do it.’ She pulls out a leather suitcase that had belonged to my grandfather. Inside is my old cutting board, scratched and splattered with paint, my orange scale ruler, and the party would never be complete without a pot of cocktail sticks, which Maddie and I used to file down and make into table and chair legs. It reminds me of Mum’s diary, of showing her the convertible car I’d designed, the size of my thumb, using a cocktail stick for the handbrake.
*
Later that afternoon while Maddie is working on some designs in the kitchen, I’m sitting at my table by my bedroom window, transported back to my old college studio that looked out on to a courtyard. Ignoring my headache, I pick up my pencil and draw to scale a small rectangular shape on my mount board card, which is going to be the top of my coffee table. I cut it out, scoring it with my scalpel, enjoying the satisfying sound of the blade slicing into the paper. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ Maddie calls.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Do you know what’s got into James lately? He’s been such a moody bugger.’
I drop the scalpel, blood oozing from my finger. Cursing under my breath, I rush to the bathroom and run my finger under the tap.
Maddie joins me, opening the mirrored cupboard to find a box of plasters. ‘You’re out of practice,’ she reassures me, ‘that’s all.’
‘I don’t feel good,’ I admit, feeling queasy. Maybe it’s the sight of blood.
‘Have a rest,’ she insists, and this time I have no strength to argue. ‘I’ll wake you up at seven, so you have time to get ready for tonight.’
I don’t wake up until nine o’clock that evening, and I don’t feel any better.
I feel infinitely worse.
77
Peggy
‘Granny, don’t catch it,’ Flo groans, as I enter her bedroom with a cup of ginger and honey tea.
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ I say. ‘The one advantage of being a perky pensioner is I’m allowed the flu jab each year.’ I perch next to Flo and feel her forehead, before taking her temperature.
Flo has been in bed for five days, sleeping most of the time, barely able to drag herself to the bathroom, and there are no signs of her getting any better. She could hardly stand up this morning to give me enough time to change her bed sheets, before collapsing under the covers again.
Maddie called me on Sunday morning to tell me she suspected Flo had flu. She said she wished she could stay on to look after her, but she had to catch the train home, and James equally couldn’t take time off work, so Elvis and I have made ourselves comfy in the flat this week. Not that there’s a lot I can do, except make sure she is drinking plenty of fluids and resting.
While she’s asleep I do my Italian homework, and I’m still trying to finish my tapestry cushion. At this rate, I’m sure I’ll be taking it to my grave.
‘What if I can’t run?’ she says, when I rest a lukewarm flannel against her forehead. Flo has had a particularly nasty virus that has affected her chest, and Ricky warned me it could take weeks for her to recover. Even then she’d need to give herself plenty of time before she could even put on her trainers, let alone run twenty-six miles.
‘I can’t afford to miss another week, Granny.’
‘I know, but your health is more important.’
‘All my sponsors, if I don’t run now—’
‘Try not to worry.’
‘I’ll let everyone down.’
‘Flo, it’s horrible luck,’ I say, though deep down I’m not surprised she has fallen prey to this bug. She has had far too much to contend with over the past eight months, but not only that, her training has been gruelling. I feel ill just looking at her fitness programme taunting her from her bedroom wall, a full week without any ticks in the boxes. By the end of this week, she was supposed to be running twenty miles, performing a rehearsal of the big day itself, but she can barely lift a glass to her mouth.
‘I’ll let my sponsors down, the charity, all those people who applied, who could have run instead of me—’
‘Flo, there is nothing—’
‘And you—’
‘You could never let me down.’
‘Iona will be doing it on her own,’ she continues, making me realize it’s pointless trying to tell her to stop working herself up into a stew.
‘We promised we’d be on the starting line together. And James.’
It pains me when Flo’s face crumples into tears because there isn’t anything I can say to make this better. If only I had a magic wand.
‘There, there,’ I mutter, fearing Flo could be right. All her hard work, all those weeks and months of training with James and Iona, could amount to nothing. People would still sponsor her, but it’s not the same and everyone knows it.
‘Now what would you like for lunch?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ She closes her eyes.
‘Try to eat something, Flo, even if it’s a small bowl of soup.’
‘I’ll let everyone down, especially Mum,’ she continues to punish herself, before struggling to sit up in bed, her eyes now streaming with tears. ‘Granny, it’s the only thing that’s been keeping me going, if I can’t run, if I . . .’ She’s too exhausted to finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. If she doesn’t run it will break her heart.
And mine.
‘Flo, you will run this race,’ I pledge like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, ‘we will get you better.’
*
Early that afternoon, after I have managed to feed Flo a few spoonfuls of homemade vegetable soup, the soup I used to make for Tim, I am in the local health food shop buying fresh ginger, vitamin C and another bottle of tablets that claim to boost the immune system. I also add to my trolley cider vinegar to splash into herbal teas, more raw honey, a nasal spray, leeks, spinach, oranges and potatoes, and the woman persuades me to buy a humidifier, explaining that it helps people with congested chests and flu breathe more easily.
I almost pass out when she tells me how much the bill comes to, but come what may, Flo will run this marathon.
78
Flo
Granny sits in a corner of my bedroom, Elvis lying at her feet, working on her tapestry cushion, which has been a work-in-progress for the past two years.
‘Come in,’ I call, when James knocks on my door.
‘I hope you’ve had a more exciting day than me,’ I say, sitting up in bed, aware I haven’t brushed my hair for days or seen any sunlight. Or seen James for that matter. I didn’t want him to catch my germs either, and things between us still aren’t quite back to normal.
‘I’ve had a shocking day,’ he admits.
Granny looks up.
‘I lost my cool in clinic,’ he says, perching on the end of my bed. ‘There’s this man, Roger, who has an overweight three-year-old basset hound because he doesn’t walk it.’
‘How cruel,’ Granny says. ‘You shouldn’t get a dog if you’re not prepared to walk it.’
‘Exactly, but try explaining that to Roger. He doesn’t listen to a word I say. In the end I showed him the door; I kicked him out.’
‘Don’t come too close,’ I warn, when he takes off his shoes and lies down next to me.
‘Flo, I don’t care if I get your flu; I’ve probably just lost my job.’
‘What did your boss say?’ I ask, as Granny gets up and discreetly leaves the room.
‘He was furious.’
‘You were right though,’ I say. ‘It’s not fair on the dog.’
‘I know, but I shouldn’t have lost my cool. Talk about unprofessional. Geoff’s going to talk to me about it tomorrow when we’ve both calmed down. Anyway, much more importantly, how are you feeling?’ he moves on. ‘Any better?’
‘I ate half a baked potato for lunch.’ I give him a thumbs up.
‘Have you managed to get some sleep?’
I nod. ‘I had this nightmare that I featured on the BBC news headlines as the world’s slowest marathon racer, ever.’
James smiles, and for a moment I feel like we’re the old James and Flo again. Perhaps time and distance was all we needed.
‘I had another one too. In this one I was so close to the finishing line, within touching distance. I could see Granny, Maddie, Ricky – I could see you, James – cheering me on, and then I tripped and fell, and the crowds were laughing and throwing things at me, as I was taken off in a stretcher.’
James bursts out laughing.
‘It’s not funny!’ I exclaim. ‘What if it’s some sign I shouldn’t run?’
He sits up and takes both my hands. ‘Say this with me,’ he begins, ‘ “I, Florence Andrews”. Go on, say it.’
‘I, Florence Andrews.’
If You Were Here Page 26