Girl on the Run (13 page)

I am playing at being one of ‘them’, those who enjoy this sort of thing, and as my feet strike the pavement, the streets bathed in copper light, I picture myself as a sportswear model. You know the type: not only slim and attractive, but capable of running with the speed of a panther as the sublime mechanics of their body power them into the sunset – usually to the tune of an appropriate soft-trance anthem.

Not being in possession of any soft-trance anthems, I unearthed an album on iTunes called
That’s What I Call the 100 Best Running Songs Now!
Or something like that.

It’s brilliant. I’m considering piping it into the office, simply because it’s impossible to hear ‘Lust for Life’ by Iggy Pop, ‘I Gotta Feeling’ by the Black Eyed Peas or ‘Toca’s Miracle’ by Fragma without hiking up one’s tempo by several hundred beats per minute.

I run for nearly half an hour but the time flies and I find myself in an almost hypnotic state. Then, with half a kilometre to go, ‘Footloose’ by Kenny Loggins bursts in my ears. The song is so naff, so daft, so . . . utterly bloody fabulous!

I have no breath to spare, but something in me manages to utter the words
kick off yo’ Sunday shoes
. . .

I head for my imaginary finish line, clicking my fingers to the music, as imaginary crowds cheer. Heidi – or rather, Imaginary Heidi – is at the sidelines, shouting as if every step brings us closer to the cause. Next to her is Jess with the kids, then my mum and dad and – oh, be still, my throbbing knickers! – Doctor Dishy. He’s gazing at me with longing, poised to scoop me up and smother me with the sort of kisses that set off natural disasters.

A shot of adrenalin fires through me as the song gets faster – and camper – the closer it is to the crescendo. Just as Kenny sounds as if his vocal cords are caught on the edge of a Catherine wheel, I cross my imaginary finish line.

The closing bars bolt through me with all their eighties’ fabulousness and I leap in the air, my arms aloft as I’m unable to stop myself from erupting in a triumphant: ‘
YES!
’

I close my eyes and gather my breath, suddenly knowing what sporting achievement must feel like. I feel it vividly: the glory of it, the pain of it, the . . .

‘Is she all right?’

I open my eyes to see a man’s face, as brown and wrinkly as a walnut. He’s smiling, but with a distinct note of surprise, as if his Meals on Wheels lady had just served him stir-fried zebra.

I am about to assure him that I’m absolutely tip-top, when someone beats me to it.

‘I’m sure she’s fine, Grandad.’

And not for the first time since I met Tom Bronte, I wish I was somewhere else.

‘You obviously had a good run,’ Tom says. He’s doing that expression again – the one caught between deadpan and amusement. It is deeply unnerving, but not quite as unnerving as him seeing me leap about like a court jester on acid.

‘Um . . . yes. I may have beaten my personal best,’ I say, then feel ridiculous again. I sound as if I think I’m Linford Christie.

‘Good for you. You certainly looked like you were getting into it.’

‘Did I?’ I reply casually.

‘Let me guess,’ he says. ‘You’ve got
Now That’s What I Call the 100 Best Ever Running Songs
on your iPod.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I’d recognise that compulsive air-punching anywhere. Just don’t put on “Eye of the Tiger” when anyone’s looking or you might be arrested.’

‘D’you know, you’ve got the look of somebody,’ the old man announces. His voice is warm and soft, as if he should be doing voiceovers for Werther’s Originals.

‘Who’s that, Grandad?’ Tom asks.

‘Your Aunt Reeny.’

Tom’s mouth twitches to a smile. ‘You said that about the check-out girl in Tesco yesterday. And the woman who came to do your feet last Thursday. And that girl who—’

‘Aye, well, it’s a common look,’ he protests, before his eyes widen again. ‘By which I mean . . . not common. Not common at all. A very
nice
look. Our Reeny was never short on admirers,’ he reassures me, clearly concerned I’m going to need psychotherapy after that comment.

‘Grandad,’ says Tom, suppressing a smile, ‘I’d like you to meet Abby. She’s a friend from the running club.’

I hold out my hand to shake his and am astonished to discover that his grip nearly crushes my knuckles. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ I say.

‘Me too.’

‘Grandad lives over the road,’ says Tom, nodding to a street of small but smart terraced houses.

‘Nice,’ I say.

‘It’s not bad,’ he smiles. ‘I’ve done a bit of the old
Sixty-Minute Makeover
on it over the years. Are you on Twitter?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Er, yes. Are you?’

‘Oh, aye. I’ll look you up. If you don’t mind, that is. Got nearly five hundred followers, me.’

I look at Tom. ‘He’s not joking,’ he laughs.

‘What’s your name? Here – write it down, will you, boy.’

Tom nods. ‘I will, Grandad. I will.’

‘Well,’ I say awkwardly, suddenly aware that I couldn’t look less glamorous if I was wearing a nuclear protection suit. ‘I’d better be off. Nice to see you, Tom. And you too – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

The old man smiles. ‘Grandad.’

Jess has never been a big eater. Compared with me, she has the appetite of a calorie-obsessed harvest mouse. Previously, it never bothered me; I accepted that I was one of life’s gannets, while she was one of those weirdos happy to skip meals, claiming they’ve ‘forgotten’ to eat. I’ve never worked out how that’s possible. My memory is conveniently jogged each day by the fact that if I don’t re-fuel before 1 p.m. I turn into the Incredible Hulk.

Tonight, however, as Jess and I are out to dinner while Adam has taken the children for an overnight stay at their grandma’s, she is hardly eating
at all
. In fact, she’s been pushing asparagus around her plate as if she’s teaching it synchronised swimming for the past half-hour. It’s driving me potty.

‘Jess. Eat that asparagus or I’ll eat it for you.’

She looks up, stunned. ‘Sorry. I was in a dreamworld,’ she replies, prodding her fork into a spear.

The food on my plate – low fat, sauce on the side – was demolished ages ago, well before the sun set.

‘Is something wrong?’ She has that indefinable look on her face again.

‘Wrong?’ She takes a sip of wine.

‘You seem distracted.’

She puts down her knife and fork, defeated by the dinner. ‘Do I? Oh, it’s nothing. Work stuff. You wouldn’t believe how crazy it is. I sometimes wonder what I let myself in for, going back.’

A waiter whisks away our plates and offers us dessert. We both refuse – me with significantly more resentment than Jess.

‘So that’s all?’ I ask.

‘Yes – why? Am I acting suspiciously or something?’

‘It’s like sitting in the library with Colonel Mustard, the lead piping and a dead body.’

She picks up her napkin and shakes it. ‘It’s nothing, honestly.’

I nod, unconvinced. ‘Where were you last night, by the way? I tried to give you a ring.’

‘Out with work,’ she says. ‘A client meeting. Anyway: let’s talk about your birthday. Are you still not planning to do anything?’

Oh . . . hang on a minute. Hang on just a minute! How could I have been so stupid? Jess is cooking up something for my birthday in a couple of weeks – she must be.

I know twenty-nine is hardly a landmark, but Jess is a lunatic when it comes to birthdays – she makes a ridiculous amount of fuss about them. Now I think about it, she’s been hinting all week. I’d told everyone I was doing nothing except perhaps grabbing a drink after work, but there’s no doubt my friend has other plans. Even if she isn’t very good at hiding them.

‘I’m having a quiet one,’ I reply, trying to stop my mouth from twitching.

‘Oh, that’s right. A few drinks after work. You said,’ she says innocently.

She is an abysmal liar. The second the words are out of her mouth I am consumed by possibilities about what she has planned. A little get-together? Dinner with friends? Oooh! . . . Maybe Oliver!

The thought sends a shiver of pleasure down my back.

If Doctor Dishy is involved, then I
have
to prepare. I’ll need a spray tan. My hair done. I might even push out the boat and get a pedicure – though my feet aren’t exactly what I want him gazing at all night.

‘That’s okay by you, isn’t it?’ I continue, scrutinising her reaction. ‘Me just having a quiet birthday, I mean.’

She looks into my eyes and does her best Oscar-winning performance. ‘By me? Of course . . . Oh.’

I frown. ‘What do you mean “oh”?’

‘Abby, would you like me to organise something else for your birthday?’

She wouldn’t win a part in a school play with that one.

‘No, no,’ I protest, playing along. ‘Of course not. You’ve enough on your plate. And I’m busy anyway.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Have you started your fundraising for the MS charity yet?’

‘No – I need to start soon. And decide on my race.’

‘You want a half-marathon?’

‘I’m starting to wonder if I’ll get away with a Ten K,’ I muse.

She taps the table as if I’ve tried to fob her off with walking up two flights of stairs. ‘You need something that’ll stretch you. I’m sure I heard there’s a new half-marathon being organised in Liverpool at the end of January. That’s four and a half months from now. They say if you possess a basic level of fitness you need four. So you should be fine.’

‘Whatever makes you think I possess a basic level of fitness?’ I ask, widening my eyes.

She grins. ‘Nobody’s asking you to run it
fast
, remember. You just need to get round. Ask yourself: am I capable of walking that distance? If you are, then one way or another you’ll get round the course.’

‘Is that supposed to be comforting? I have no idea if I could walk it. I suspect I’d need four and a half days. But you’re right about the fundraising. Actually, my day isn’t looking too bad tomorrow, so I may begin then.’

She picks up her bag and is about to go to the loo, when she pauses. ‘Have you still got the hots for Oliver?’

‘He is the man of my dreams,’ I sigh. ‘The mucky ones, anyway. Why do you ask?’

She looks up at me. ‘No reason.’

And if there was any doubt that Oliver is part of my birthday plans, there isn’t any more.

It’s late when I get home, but I log onto my laptop, check my emails and have a flick through my many social-networking guilty pleasures. There’s a message on Twitter from someone called
@billybronte
. I click on it, and see the wide smile and warm eyes of Tom’s grandfather gazing back at me next to the following words:
It was the woman at Asda who looks like Reeny – my boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about!

Smiling, I click onto Google and type another set of words.
Liverpool half-marathon
.

I look at the pictures of this year’s event, at the muscular thighs on the entrants and the fact that none of them look ready to collapse. Can I really get in that sort of shape in four and a half months? I move my mouse to the button that says
Enter here
and click.

Well, Abby, it looks as if you’re going to have to.

The receptionist is beautiful, stylish and smooth-skinned. Personality-wise, however, she’s about as warm as a polar bear’s bum.

‘It’s absolutely out of the question that Ms Garrison could see you today.’

Despite being about my age, she looks at me as if I’m an impudent teenager for even imagining I could get an appointment with the Chief Executive of Calice – let alone about something as trivial as raising money for charity.

‘Okay,’ I say patiently, ‘when’s the next available appointment?’

The company is an importer of Italian glass and ceramics. Its offices are in Liverpool because Gill Garrison, its founder, was born here – but their reach is global, supplying not only the UK’s upmarket department stores but scores abroad too. Despite being firmly in the luxury market that was supposed to have been starved of oxygen recently, it’s gone from strength to strength in the last five years – propelled, according to the financial media, by the drive of its formidable boss.

Which is just one of the reasons she’s the darling of the business press. The other is her rags-to-riches story, even if it is exaggerated (since when was a three-bed semi complete with pebbledash and fitted kitchen classed as ‘rags’?).

She started her career as a shop assistant in a large and thriving discount store, and after a rapid rise, became Floor Manager of a department store in Manchester.

How she then went from quitting her job to setting up a tiny import business in the spare room of the home she shared with her husband and daughter to the monster of a company she runs now, only she knows. Suffice to say, she’s rolling in cash – and therefore well placed to help our cause.

‘I’m not sure Ms Garrison would be able to spare the time for something like this,’ the receptionist says through tightly pursed lips. She picks up an exquisite turquoise glass – one of Calice’s new range – and takes a sip.

‘I’m sure if she knew about the cause I’m raising money for, she’d be very enthusiastic,’ I persevere politely. ‘It won’t take more than twenty minutes.’

The receptionist puts down her water and glares at me.

‘Ten?’ I offer.

She continues glaring.

‘I don’t mind waiting. If she’s got a slot next week, I’ll have that,’ I say.

‘She hasn’t,’ she replies laconically. ‘Besides, that’s not the point. I couldn’t put an unsolicited appointment in the diary. I suggest you send an email explaining what you want, and I’ll see that it’s passed on. If the charity catches her eye, she’ll be in touch. I should warn you though: Ms Garrison already does a lot for charitable causes.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Well,’ she begins breezily, ‘she’s heavily involved in the art world. She’s a great believer that art should be saved for all of us to enjoy.’

‘Are you sure?’