Girl on the Run (12 page)

As my return to the club looms, however, I start to get an uneasy feeling. I even briefly consider backing out, when an email arrives in my inbox the weekend before the big day.

Gritting my teeth, I compose a response.

I press Send and bite my thumbnail. That’s it, Abby. An open declaration of intent. There’s no backing out now.

I had mixed feelings the first time I went to the running club. Now, on the day of my return, they are distinctly less ambiguous.

No longer are my respective levels of dread and excitement the same; now one accounts for 90 per cent of my mental state, the other a measly ten. I’ll leave you to guess which one’s which.

After a month of jogging round the block every other morning, I am nothing like the paragon of sportiness I’d hoped and feel ill-equipped to face both the club and Doctor Dishy, who has dominated my thoughts for every milli-second of the day.

Yet not going through with this isn’t an option – a resolution reinforced every time I think of Heidi’s uncertain future, and the thousands of people like her.

‘Are you sure you’re up for this half-marathon, Abby?’ she asks me as we walk to a meeting on the other side of the city centre at lunchtime.

‘Absolutely certain,’ I tell her. ‘Seriously, there is not a shadow of doubt in my mind about it. Most of the time.’

She laughs, then pauses, clearly thinking about her next words. ‘Well, all I can say is, I’m really touched. I think you’re completely mad, of course – but I’m still touched.’

I smile. ‘Thank you.’

That evening, as I drive to the sports centre, it strikes me that it’s not only the charity element and Heidi that are spurring me on. I’ve ignited in myself a desire to prove that I’m not a complete dead loss: that, while I’ll never be a natural, I too can be healthy and motivated if I put my mind to it.

‘Abby. What a surprise!’ Oliver’s shy smile is as devastatingly cute as I remembered – his dimples so kissable that ‘Doctor Dishy’ suddenly seems a very low-key nickname for him. ‘An extremely pleasant one, might I add.’

His boldness clearly takes an effort; it’s obvious that he’s not used to saying something that even approaches flirtatiousness. The fact that he’s trying – with me – has an immediate effect.

‘Thanks, Oliver,’ I reply, blushing effusively. ‘I’m not much of a sportswoman but . . .’ I pause, remembering my determination not to convey the image of some hapless loafer. ‘Hopefully I’ll get better.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ he says, making eye-contact as my heart joyrides in my chest.

We head outside to warm up for tonight’s speed session. ‘I hope you’re all right with this,’ Jess says.

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ she shrugs, ‘some people don’t like speed sessions. Even
I
don’t particularly like speed sessions.’

‘Oh, marvellous. I’m starting off on a session even Wonder Woman can’t cope with.’

‘I never said I couldn’t cope. They’re just not my favourite type of session. But you’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe.’

I throw her a look. ‘I wasn’t intending to forget that.’

Jess dutifully sticks with me as the warm-up begins. I spot Tom with the advanced group and he turns and waves. I’m about to wave back, when someone appears at my side.

‘Oh. You changed your mind.’ Geraldine is smiling as she jogs on the spot with the grace of a ballet dancer. If I’d thought Jess looked good in Lycra, that’s nothing compared with this woman. She’s a tiny goddess in running shorts, her impossibly slim thighs so bronzed they could’ve been polished with Mr Sheen.

‘I thought you were determined you weren’t going to come back,’ she adds.

‘I was,’ I admit.

Then she beams. ‘Well, I’m
thrilled
you’ve changed your mind. Take it easy though, won’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply.

‘You’ll be great,’ she continues, touching my arm. ‘Only, don’t tell anyone, but I could barely get through my first session. Took me a week to recover from it.’

This is about as convincing as Jayne Torvill claiming she spent the week before the 1984 Olympics on her bum, but I’m grateful anyway.

‘By the way, Tom told me you won a contract with Gellings. Congratulations. It must be a real challenge, running your own business.’

I’m surprised that she knows this; I hadn’t realised I was significant enough in Tom’s life for him to even mention me.

‘It is, but I love it,’ I tell her. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a civil engineer,’ she says breezily.

‘Wow.’

She smiles. ‘Yeah, it was lovely to be involved in some of the big regeneration schemes in the city. It’s been an exciting time so I’m very glad to have been a part of it. I’ll be honest though: I’m ready for a new challenge.’

‘Oh?’

She pretends to look round and check no one’s listening. ‘Babies!’ she whispers, and only then does it strike me that she looks a few years older than me, maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. ‘Don’t tell Tom I’ve said that, though. He gets a bit cringey.’

‘Of course.’ I smile awkwardly.

‘It’s not like we’re trying or anything,’ she continues. ‘There’s a bit of Tom that still doesn’t feel ready for the whole marriage and kids thing. Yet. He’ll come round to the idea though. We’ve been together for three years and he’s
amazing
with my nephews.’

I’m pondering what impossibly gorgeous children she and Tom would have as Jess grabs my arm and leads me to the slow group.

I realise immediately that I’ve been duped. How the hell can this lot be ‘slow’ when all eight of them look so fit? They are a collective breach of the Trade Descriptions Act.

‘Oooh, you’re back!’ says a voice as I spin round and see Mau grinning at me. ‘I see you’re sticking to more civilised speeds this time though.’

‘I thought it wise,’ I reply.

‘Well, me too. I decided a couple of weeks ago that all that exertion in the middle group wasn’t for me. It didn’t half make my hair flop.’

‘So how do speed sessions work?’ I ask.

‘Well, the idea is that we run at a steady pace at first, then have a blast and go as fast as possible for a set distance . . . then slow right down again to recover.’

‘Okay.’ I nod tentatively.

‘Then we do it all again. They reckon it’s one of the most efficient ways to improve fitness. But don’t worry – if it gets too much, you and I can just cheat again,’ she grins. ‘I have no qualms whatsoever about that, I promise you.’

I set off at the back of the group feeling nervous – about the run and about Doctor Dishy. Seeing him tonight has made my crush explode, and confirmed that I’m doing the right thing by joining the club.

Yet I also know that this comes at a price: it’s only a matter of time before I’m hit by the acidic burn in my lungs I experienced last time. I am suddenly filled with doubt. After a few minutes of running, however, a strange realisation dawns on me: I feel okay.

That positive thought lasts all of three seconds – at which point the group launches, unannounced, into a sprint, making it completely clear why it’s called a speed session. I pump my arms and legs, pushing myself forward at a pace I never thought possible unless I was being chased with a meat cleaver. It is at about the point when I am close to collapse that we slow . . . right down . . . and I gradually recover until I’m in a vaguely comfortable state.

Comfortable.

You might not think this is much. Some people would say ‘exhilarated’, ‘dynamic’ or ‘high on life’, but I’m satisfied with comfortable. Comfortable is, frankly, a miracle.

That is not to say that by the end of the session, I’m not exhausted, because I am. But when Jess sprints over and asks how I got on, I’m relieved to be able to answer without reacquainting myself with everything I’ve eaten since breakfast.

‘This is all right, isn’t it?’ I manage, between pants.

She’s barely able to hide her surprise. ‘We wouldn’t do it otherwise!’

As the cool-down session begins, I start to experience a mysterious thing I’ve heard others talk about: a buzz. It’s incredible.

I feel a tap on my shoulder as I’m stretching out my hamstring. I spin round and come face to face with an unfeasibly muscular chest in a simple navy T-shirt.

‘You look significantly better than last time,’ Tom says. ‘I thought I ought to tell you.’

I can’t help smiling. ‘That’s not saying a great deal.’

He appears to have barely broken a sweat in the last hour, and when he lifts up his arm to stretch, I get a waft of nothing nasty – just a soft, spicy aftershave. ‘Geraldine will still be trying to rope you into the women’s Ten K soon,’ he tells me.

‘I doubt that,’ I reply, ‘unless you mean she’s looking for someone to carry her bag.’

The second Jess starts the engine of her car, I explode in a froth of girlish superlatives. ‘Oliver is so much more fanciable than I remembered. He is gorgeous! I never thought I’d find a motivation to run round getting hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, but he makes it all worthwhile.’

We’re on our way to her house for a quick shower, before heading to the pub for a gossip and soft drink. Yes, you heard that right. Pub. Soft drink. Words that haven’t gone together in my vocabulary since I was eleven.

‘You still have the hots for him then?’

‘Oh, you can tell?’ I say ironically. ‘The thing is, I get the impression he likes me too. I’m normally the last person to notice these things, but I can sense him trying to flirt with me – in fact, I’m certain of it. Yet at the same time, I think he finds it a struggle because he’s a genuine, unassuming guy who doesn’t go in for demonstrative stuff. Does that make sense?’

‘Mmmm,’ says Jess, concentrating on the road.

I narrow my eyes. ‘Do you know something? Is he seeing someone else?’

‘No! Don’t be so paranoid,’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’s seeing someone else. So, what’s your plan? Are you going to wait till he asks you on a date?’

I squirm. ‘It hardly ever happens like that these days.’

‘What do you mean, “these days”?’ she pouts. ‘It’s not that long since I went out on dates, you know.’

‘Really? I thought it was the 1930s when you and Adam were courting,’ I tease. ‘I get the feeling Oliver isn’t the sort of guy to just boldly ask me out. I need to manufacture an excuse to be on a night out with him and take it from there. Any ideas?’

‘I’ll get my thinking cap on.’

By the time we arrive at Jess’s house, both children are in bed and Adam is in his slippers, leafing through the
Economist
.

‘How’re things, Adam?’ I ask, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.

‘Fine, thank you, Abby,’ he replies, returning to his magazine. Ever the conversationalist.

‘How’s your evening been?’ asks Jess as he plants a kiss on her cheek.

‘Not bad, darling. Jamie’s been playing up – said he didn’t want to go to bed before you came home. I think I’ve managed to get him off now. But Lola went down like a dream. Finished her bottle tonight too.’

‘Good. Do you mind if I pop out again with Abby?’

‘Of course not,’ he replies.

‘Great. I’ll have a quick shower while Abby keeps you company.’

He looks about as pleased at this prospect as I feel, but as Jess disappears upstairs, I feel obliged to head to the kitchen to join him. He shifts uncomfortably as I sit opposite.

‘It’s your wedding anniversary soon, isn’t it?’ I ask.

He coughs and looks up from his magazine. ‘Um, yes. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh. No reason. Doing anything special?’

But before he can answer, his mobile rings. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, standing as he picks it up. Adam’s an investment manager – a job that seems to involve permanently being on the phone. He paces to the other side of the room and launches into a barrage of work-talk, which continues until Jess appears, towel-drying her hair shortly afterwards.

‘Shower’s free, Abby,’ she says as Adam puts down the phone.

‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ I reply.

‘Significantly quicker than my wife then,’ smirks Adam, and it strikes me that he can loosen up when he wants to, after all.

Convinced that my second session at the running club was a fluke, part of me is dreading the third. And the fourth. And the fifth and sixth. But after a couple of weeks, an unlikely transformation begins – and I start to experience something approaching . . .
keenness
.

I’d be the first to admit that this cannot be entirely attributed to a newfound enthusiasm for exercise. The sexual tension between Doctor Dishy and me is building by the day, the lack of opportunity to take things further – combined with his irresistibly sweet, unassuming nature – making me delirious with lust.

That said, the exercise is undoubtedly getting easier. I feel fitter, slimmer and have energy levels that I haven’t known since I was seven. Plus, whether I’ll ever be a credible runner or not, I can say one thing with absolute confidence: I’m better at running than at Hula Hooping.

Which is why, on the advice of Bernie at Diet Busters, I have decided to slot in one extra run per week. According to the Diet Busters’ diet, if I do something that burns more than 250 calories an hour, for an extra half-hour per week, I’m allowed more fuel: the equivalent, in fact, of half a Mars bar. I feel as though I deserve a skip full of Mars bars, but at Diet Busters you get your kicks where you can.

So I go for a run on my own on a balmy, Indian-summer evening round Sefton Park – looking blissfully scruffy without the carefully-applied-but-oh-so-natural blanket of make-up required in Doctor Dishy’s presence.