Girl on the Run (14 page)

‘Yes,’ she says stiffly. ‘And now I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s nothing more I can do. As I said, if you’ll send an email . . .’

The huge cherrywood door next to her glides open and a group of sharp-suited executives spill out.

‘Bill, we’ve got a deal.’

The owner of the voice has a presence that’s bigger than her slender frame, ably assisted by head-to-toe Armani and killer heels that genuinely look capable of manslaughter. She appears younger than her fifty-four years, with glossy auburn hair and a dazzling smile. Bill, whoever he is, is so entranced you’d think she’d spiked his drink.

‘Make sure you email me with those figures and we’ll get it tied up,’ she says decisively as he kisses her cheek.

‘Gill – I’ll do that right away.’ He’s American. East Coast, I suspect. ‘As ever, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’

She smiles demurely as the lift closes, leaving the lobby empty apart from me, Gill Garrison and her receptionist. ‘Um . . . this lady was just leaving,’ the receptionist says, picking up her glass and nervously taking a sip.

‘Abby!’ Her boss flies towards me with open arms.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, as the receptionist nearly chokes on her mineral water.

Anyone watching my mother in front of Bill Whateverhisnameis from New York couldn’t fail to be struck by her smartness, her confidence, her sophistication.

Then Gill Garrison – her maiden name – closes the door to her vast office and walks round to her desk, kicking off her shoes and opening the drawer. ‘Jammie Dodger?’ she offers, holding up a packet of biscuits. ‘I’ve also got sherbet dips, flying saucers, fizzy cola bottles and strawberry laces. What are you in the mood for?’

‘None, thank you. I take it Bill from New York wasn’t offered your tuck-shop stash?’

‘God no,’ she says. ‘I’ve been sipping herbal tea for the past half-hour and pretending to enjoy it. Speaking of which . . .’

She picks up the phone. ‘Isabella? Have we got any of those Fruit Shoot thingies left? Blackcurrant, if you don’t mind. Do you want anything?’ she asks me. I shake my head. ‘That’s all. Thanks.’

‘Your receptionist needs some charm lessons,’ I inform her.

‘Really?’ Mum settles on a Sherbet Fountain and tears open the end, popping the liquorice in her mouth. ‘She only started last week. I thought she seemed good. Bloody efficient.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ I say, not wanting to get anyone in trouble. ‘It was slightly naughty of me not to have mentioned I was your daughter. But I wanted to test how I’d be treated if I’d walked in off the street. To see if I could talk my way in.’

Mum raises an eyebrow.

‘I failed miserably.’

She laughs. ‘Then she’s got my vote. The last thing I want is people walking in off the street. Especially when they want something.’

‘What makes you think I want something?’ I say indignantly.

She dips her liquorice straw in some sherbet and sucks it. ‘Of course you want something. You’ve only been to this office once in the four-and-a-half years I’ve been here – and you stayed for fifteen minutes. It’s a good job I’m not sensitive.’

I shrug. ‘I just prefer to see my mother at home – yours or mine, I don’t mind. Like normal people do. Without having to make an appointment.’

‘You’ve proven today that you didn’t have to make an appointment.’

‘I was
about
to be turfed out,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, you know why I don’t advertise the fact that you’re my mother. It’s not because I’m not proud of you. It’s because I don’t want people thinking I’ve had a leg-up when I started my own company
. I
don’t want
me
thinking I’ve had a leg-up. I want to do it on my own.’

‘I know,’ she bristles.

This is a long-standing bone of contention between my mum and me. She firmly believes that she should be a nonexecutive director of River Web Design, sharing her wisdom and, as far as I can see, providing endless opportunities to stick her oar in.

I’ve resisted it so far – and will continue to do so. This is not because I think she’s no good – it’d be impossible to think that – but because to have her involved would be cheating. She managed to set up a business without a familial guardian angel – and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

‘Well, that’s fine by me. Look a gift horse in the mouth, why don’t you?’

I roll my eyes.

‘Only,’ she continues, ‘and this won’t count against your rules, I’m sure, I did want someone to take a look at our website.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘It’s good to review these things,’ she shrugs.

‘Red Box are a very good company, Mum,’ I say, referring to her current provider. ‘I’m not pinching business from them because you and I happen to share a gene pool.’

Mum purses her lips. ‘Are you still on your fitness kick?’

‘Yes.’

Her face contorts into an expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. ‘You
are
looking well, come to think of it.’

‘Yes, well, that’s why I’m here.’

‘After some Boxercise tips?’ she grins, making two fists as she bounces up and down. ‘I go twice a week now, you know.’

‘Look,’ I say, ignoring her, ‘this is entirely separate from the whole business thing, so I kind of think it’s okay for me to ask you.’

‘What are you talking about?’ she asks, frowning.

‘The thing is, I need some money. Quite a lot of it.’

‘You’re pregnant! Oh my God, my baby is pregnant!’

I hold up my arms as Mum dives towards me, but she grapples me into a vice-like grip, clutching my head in the manner of a drowned kitten just plucked from a river.

‘We’ll get through this together,’ she declares theatrically.

I prise her away. ‘Mum. I’m not pregnant.’

‘What?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m not pregnant.’

She straightens her jacket and turns up her nose. ‘Oh.’

‘There’s no need to be so disappointed.’

She sniffs but doesn’t deny it. ‘Right. Well, what is it?’

When I tell Mum about Heidi and the charity and my half-marathon, I get the distinct feeling that it’s all a bit of a let-down. She still gets out her chequebook though.

‘How much do you want?’ she asks.

‘How about a grand?’ I grin, trying my luck.

She starts writing the cheque. ‘Well, it’s a turn-up for the books in one way, I suppose.’

‘I’m not that unfit, am I?’

‘I don’t mean that.’ She rips off a cheque and places it on the desk. ‘I mean you’re so stubborn, you’ve never asked for help before.’

‘This isn’t for me. This is for a charity.’

She picks up the cheque and taps it against her chin. ‘All we need now is for you to let me give you a few pointers about the company and—’

I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you blackmailing me?’

‘Huh!’ she huffs. ‘Most people would be—’

‘—overjoyed to have you on their board, I know. But sorry. No way.’

She screws up her face. ‘I’d make an unstoppable board member,’ she tells me.

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you’re getting fit too. Last time I saw you I was starting to worry.’

‘You’re the one whose desk drawer looks like the contents of a Boy Scout’s midnight feast.’

‘I allow myself
one
treat per day. No more,’ she protests. ‘And don’t change the subject. You drink far too much for someone your age.’

‘Drank,’ I correct her.

‘And all that sat fat – can’t imagine what
that’s
doing to your cholesterol.’

‘
Was
doing.’

‘Did you do that home diabetes test, like I mentioned?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’ She looks distinctly put out.

‘Because if I needed a diabetes test, my GP would send me for one.’

‘Fine,’ she shrugs. ‘Only don’t come running to me if you start fitting from an overdose of unprocessed sugar.’

I try to stay calm.

‘How are your headaches?’ she continues.

‘What headaches?’

‘You were getting headaches the last time I saw you.’

‘I don’t remember that,’ I say truthfully. ‘Perhaps it was a hangover.’

‘No. It was a Tuesday,’ she says, as if that proves anything. ‘Look, if they come again, go to the doctor’s, won’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I lie.

She glares at me. ‘You must think I was born yesterday.’

The phone rings and my mum picks up. Why Isabella can’t get off her backside and pop her head through the door I’ve no idea. ‘I’ll be with him in a minute,’ she says and puts down the phone.

‘Do you think it’d be worth me asking the family for some money too?’ I go on.

‘If you do, don’t accept anything more than ten pounds from Great-Aunt Vickie, will you?’

‘Course not. What about Aunt Steph?’ I know my mum’s sister isn’t as wealthy as my mum is – but I’m sure she’d help in whatever way she could.

‘You haven’t seen her for years,’ she points out.

‘She’s one of my Facebook friends.’

She throws me a look. ‘One of two hundred and seventeen.’

‘That’s not the point. She’s family.’

‘She’s not well off, you know,’ Mum reminds me.

‘No, but she’s a middle manager in a call centre these days, isn’t she? I’m sure she could spare thirty quid.’

‘Fine.’ She shrugs.

‘Maybe I’ll finally get round to arranging that visit to Australia as well.’

‘Maybe,’ Mum says, ‘though I doubt I’ll be coming with you.’

I frown. ‘How come you and Aunt Steph never got on?’

‘Oh, we did – we do. We’re just different, that’s all. Nothing more to it than that.’

The buzzer rings again. ‘You’re going to have to push off, I’m afraid,’ Mum says. ‘Do you fancy coming round for Sunday dinner this weekend?’

‘Yeah, okay. Can Dad come too?’

Her lip twitches. ‘I’m sure he’s busy. His band practises on a Sunday, doesn’t it?’

I don’t challenge her; it’s not worth it. It’s sixteen years since my mum left Dad, and I gave up trying to change her mind a long time ago. She kisses me as she shows me out and hands me the cheque. I read the amount written in neat black Biro when I’m in the lift. It’s three thousand pounds.

I offer to go along with Heidi to her neurology appointment on Tuesday but she assures me that it’s unnecessary. She also had offers from her mum, best friend Julie, brother Tom and cousin Caron. In the end she said no to all of us – determined that it was just a routine appointment, an opportunity for her neurologist to review matters. No big deal.

But on her return from hospital, her demeanour has shifted – and I immediately take her to one side.

‘How did it go?’ I ask. She has the dark spectre of fear for her future in her eyes, and I’m immediately dreading the response.

‘It went fine,’ she says, subdued. ‘Good, by all accounts.’

‘But something’s obviously worrying you, isn’t it?’

She puts her hand on my arm to reassure me. ‘Honestly, Abby, there weren’t any nasty surprises at all. Quite the opposite – the doctor was pretty encouraging.’ She pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘I suppose, simply being there – at the hospital – makes this whole thing real again.

‘I can forget about it for most of the time. When I’m in remission like now – with no symptoms – it’s as if nothing’s happened to me. Nothing’s
happening
. I guess today is just a reminder that it is.’

‘Oh, Heidi.’ I put my arm around her and give her a hug. ‘If you ever need any time off, just let me know.’

She pulls away and smiles. ‘Thanks, Abby, but I don’t need time off. You know I love working here – I’m a complete swot. Besides, the last place I want to be is at home wallowing in it all.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘I am. Sorry, but you can’t keep me away – try as you might. Anyway, as well as a ton of work to do, we’ve got some fundraising to organise, haven’t we?’

Ah yes, the fundraising. Though it isn’t until the next day that I really get the chance to focus on that.

Not everyone’s going to be as generous as my mother, obviously. But having a three-grand cheque in my back pocket makes me giddy with ambition. I start thinking in numbers I’d have previously considered ludicrously outlandish, and become determined to set my sights high.

The main target will be my corporate contacts, of which there are many. My thinking when I started the company was that, if I won business from even a fifth of those with whom I lunched, drank and dined, I’d be doing well.

In the event, I’d estimate it was just under a fifth. Though given that I lunched, drank and dined with 95 per cent of anyone worth knowing, that wasn’t bad going. It also explains why, at the beginning of the year, my abdominal muscles were as tight as Jordan’s chastity belt.

The other reason I’m developing a quiet confidence is the cause: the more I read about MS, the more compelled I am to act, and the more sure that others will want to help too. How can a disease affect eighty-five thousand people in this country – two and a half million worldwide – and there not be a cure? How can this condition be allowed to take hold of people in the prime of their lives – between the ages of twenty and forty – and there be no firm idea of why?

My first step is to prioritise, so I list ten large-ish organisations to approach straight away. Then I compose my killer email, targeting companies I think will consider making a substantial donation. I reread it until it’s perfect, with just the right amount of information about MS itself, as well as my personal battle to train for January’s half-marathon.

This is the first time I’ve done anything for charity other than buying the odd
Big Issue
or throwing loose change in a collection box. On the one hand, it’s given me a sense of purpose and pride; on the other, it makes me wonder what took me so long.

‘How much are you hoping to raise?’ asks Priya, who’s looking remarkably chipper given she’s just been dumped by an estate agent called Barry. He got back with an old flame after a boob job that’s reportedly so dramatic it’s given her an entirely new centre of gravity. ‘Have you set a target?’

Priya’s hair is pinker than ever today, her fringe fluffed up like the marabou puff on slippers you’d imagine Joan Collins wearing to a pyjama party.