Girl on the Run (27 page)

‘COME ON, ABBY! YOU CAN DO IT!’

I see a clutch of familiar faces. Mum and Dad are cheering as I run past. Jess is with Tom and his grandad – the latter pumping the air in support.

I turn my head to the front and, with all my concentration, storm to the finish. I’d been determined to look at the clock as I ended the race, but as I cross the line, my eyes are drawn to Oliver. He’s talking to a pretty redhead who I recognise; she was in front of me at the forty-minute mark. He looks at me and waves.

I’m about to head onto the field, when Jess bounds over.

‘There!’ she grins, throwing her arms round me. ‘You’ve
got
to be happy now! No M&Ms or other illicit substances today – and you still did it in under an hour. Abby, you’re an absolute star. I’m sorry I underestimated you.’

‘That’s okay,’ I mumble shiftily.

‘Fifty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds! That really is brilliant.’ She pauses and scrutinises my face. ‘Do you realise how brilliant it is?’

‘Well, I mean, your personal best is forty-six minutes, isn’t it?’

‘Forty-five nineteen as of today,’ she grins.

‘Oh. You beat it. Well done.’

‘Thanks. Now let’s go and get our T-shirts and medals. We deserve them.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure I . . . Do I need those?’

‘What?’ laughs Jess. ‘You must be the first person in history to run their first Ten K and not want to get the T-shirt. I know they’re not trendy, but it’s an opportunity to show off – and boy, do you deserve it.’

She frog-marches me to the side, takes a medal and puts it round my neck as I see Mum and Dad heading our way.

I’ve never felt like such a fraud in my life. I make my excuses and head to the water station, unable to cope with any more praise, when I see Oliver gesture to me. As he jogs over, my pulse springs into life again.

‘Well done, Abby. You made it in under an hour.’ He kisses me on the cheek.

‘Oh. Um . . . how do you know?’

‘I was watching. Of course.’

His eyes travel across my body and a wave of goosepimples appears on my arms. I can’t believe how flirtatious he is these days. ‘Oh. Well, thanks.’

‘You must be over the moon.’

‘I . . . I am.’ I look into his eyes and go weak with longing. ‘What’s your plan now?’ I manage to ask. ‘Going for something to eat?’

‘Not today,’ he smiles. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’

My heart plunges in disappointment. A woman, clearly.

‘My boiler’s broken and I’ve got a central-heating engineer coming to fix it,’ he adds.

‘Oh.’ I try not to grin too much. ‘Well, will I see you at the running club on Monday?’

‘Absolutely,’ he says, touching my arm. ‘And well done again. I’m really proud of you.’

The split second when his eyes meet mine is the most erotically charged moment of my life. My very being aches for him. And in that tiny exquisite moment, I am convinced from the look in his eyes that he feels the same.

‘Mum!’

Our trance is broken by a voice I recognise instantly and spin round to see a gap-toothed black-tongued nine-year-old in a familiar fluffy anorak.

‘That’s her,’ she says, pointing. Oliver throws me a bewildered look. ‘That’s the woman who did a poo in the bushes.’

I have to snap out of it. Have to. Because I am living one of my almost lifelong dreams – having a civilised lunch with my parents. Both of them. Together.

Despite my joy at this – even if Mum did appear in physical pain when she agreed to be in Dad’s presence for an hour – I can’t help, every so often, finding myself pushing salad round my plate in the manner of a petulant teenager.

‘Is something the matter, Abby?’ asks Dad while Mum is in the Ladies.

I take a gulp of Diet Coke. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘Is this tricky? You know, your mother and I together . . .’

‘What? No! Far from it!’

This bit I mean. Because once Dad had successfully persuaded Mum to put on a show of solidarity for a congratulatory lunch, she actually started behaving herself – and almost relaxing.

Which is more than can be said for me. I can’t relax for two reasons. First, having showered and changed, I’ve been left with no option in the underwear department but to go commando. It’s not something I’m used to, I’ll be honest. Secondly, I’m filled with so much self-loathing my sides hurt. This is not only because, while Oliver gallantly pretended not to have heard my nine-year-old ‘friend’, he now clearly believes I whipped down my pants halfway through the race and fertilized the bushes.

My misery also stems from another source: my cheating. This time, no one’s going to turn up and tell me that I’ve made a mistake, like with the M&Ms. This time, I cheated unequivocally . . . and for what?

Oliver didn’t even hang around for more than half a minute, and none of the other competitors gave a toss about anyone’s times, except their own.

The people who did – my friends and family – now think I’m more prepared for the half-marathon than I am and, worse, seem genuinely impressed. Which makes me feel horrible. It wasn’t an achievement at all. I’m a smelly old cheat. And a smelly old cheat with sore feet, sore legs and a particularly sore bum at that.

‘They’ve spruced up this place since I was last here,’ Mum says as she returns. She’s wearing dark skinny jeans, a gilet and is carrying a tan clutch bag that matches her high-heeled boots to perfection.

‘In the days when you and I came here, Gill, you’d complain that your shoes would stick to the floor – do you remember?’ Dad grins. The bistro has had various guises, including the punk hangout it was on their last visit.

She shudders. ‘Hideous.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ he laughs. ‘You enjoyed it at the time.’

‘Well, a lot’s changed in thirty years, hasn’t it?’

He looks up. ‘Some things will never change.’

‘You mean, some men will never change.’ Her words are small and quiet, out there almost before any of us notice. Then my parents glance anxiously at me, remembering my presence, before carrying on with their meals. I spear a piece of chicken with my fork and silently place it in my mouth as irritation rises inside me.

They’d been getting on all right until she said that. But Mum, as ever, can’t help herself. Despite the fact that
she
left
him
, she still can’t resist comments like that, as if pointing out Dad’s imperfections somehow justifies her actions.

The fact is, she’s right about some things: he
will
always be crap at remembering birthdays and getting out of bed on Monday mornings. He
will
always be terrible at paying bills on time and leaving the top off the toothpaste.

But it says a lot about my mother that she can’t see these stupid little things for what they are – insignificant. She’s had a downer on him for years about these and a host of other things – and he neither deserved it then, nor now.

‘Is something the matter?’ Mum asks me.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘Nothing.’

She turns back to Dad, searching for something to say to lighten the mood again. ‘Do you remember that barman? The one who used to fancy himself as the next Sid Vicious?’

‘Yeah, and you as the next Nancy.’

‘No!’ she scoffs.

‘I’m serious. He had the hots for you.’

‘Oh God, don’t say that,’ she hoots. ‘He was horrible.’

He grins. ‘He told me that if you and I ever went our separate ways he’d buy me a pint if I tipped him off.’

They howl with laughter.

‘Perhaps you should have given him a ring,’ giggles Mum and their laughter trails off.

They sit awkwardly, wondering what to say next. It strikes me that it must be at least two years since they were forced to be in the same room for dinner, and that was for my cousin’s wedding. I suppose it’s little wonder that the conversation isn’t entirely free-flowing.

‘Your mum used to have the most amazing hair when we first came here,’ Dad says.

‘It was terrible,’ she argues. ‘It was 1981, for God’s sake. I used to backcomb it so much it’d take six washes to get a brush through it again.’

‘Well, I loved it,’ he says.

‘You told me I looked like Siouxsie Sioux.’

‘That was a compliment,’ he tells her.

Dad has to dart off early from lunch to pick up Karen from the airport, so I’m left with Mum as we finish our wine and settle the bill.

‘Wasn’t it nice being together again?’ I challenge her.

‘It was fine, Abby,’ she replies with a poker face. ‘It’ll probably be another two years before it happens again, but yes, it was fine.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘Why do you give Dad such a hard time, Mum?’

She’s rifling round her clutch bag looking for her purse when she stops. ‘Because we’re divorced, Abby, simple as that.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t be civil,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘There aren’t many divorced couples who will agree to sit down to lunch together, you know. In case it isn’t obvious, we’re doing it for
your
sake. Believe me, we wouldn’t be doing it through choice.’

I look out of the window. ‘He would.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. Dad still loves you. He’ll always love you.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Not that again. I thought you grew out of this conversation when you were fifteen.’

‘How can I grow out of it when it’s true?’

‘It’s not true,’ Mum replies tartly.

‘Is so.’

‘Isn’t.’

‘Is.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ She slams down her bag. ‘Listen, Abby. I know it was hard on you when your dad and I split up. And I’m sorry. But get over it, love. Everyone else has.’

‘Not Dad.’

She leans in. ‘Can I enlighten you about something?’

‘Please do.’

‘The thing about a marriage is that the only people who really know what’s going on are the ones who are in it.’

‘I know what went on, Mum,’ I reply calmly. ‘I know that Dad loved you and still loves you. I know that you once loved him – and that, if you’d only tried a bit harder, you’d still be together.’

She shakes her head.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

She picks up her purse and looks out of the window. Then she flicks her head back and gives me the sort of stare that could see through lead. ‘No, Abby. You’re not.’

I stop at the supermarket on the way home to pick up something for dinner, along with emergency underwear supplies. The only ones left in the store are the knickers from hell: heart-patterned belly-warmers in a gruesome shade of E-number pink i.e. worse than the ones I threw out.

They have one thing going for them – they look nice and comfy. And while I’d usually consider myself several decades from making comfort the criteria for lingerie – surely a slippery slope to buttoned-up nightgowns – I’ll make an exception given how the top of my bum feels.

As I tour the shop, my mind flips between the conversation with Mum to my fraudulent race performance. I can’t decide which is the more depressing. I am at the till when it hits me: I’m not going to be able to do this half-marathon. If ten kilometres nearly killed me, how will I ever manage double that?

I’m dizzy with the implications: the money we’ve raised, Heidi’s expectations, the terminal shame of announcing I can’t go ahead. I bow my head as tears creep into my eyes. I’m shuffling along the aisle to the checkout, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’ I spin round and am confronted by Tom, looking freshly showered, impossibly attractive and – in extravagant contrast to me – happy.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asks, seeing my expression.

I stiffen. ‘Nothing. Think I’m getting a cold,’ I reply, placing my shopping on the conveyor belt.

‘Oh. Well, congratulations on your race. You must be delighted.’

My cheeks explode with heat. ‘Yes. Delighted.’

I place an aubergine on the belt as Tom’s eyes drift down to the one item left in my basket. My underwear – aka the crappest pants in the history of crap pants.

I know he’s seen them. He knows I know he’s seen them. And part of me can’t put my finger on why they’re so embarrassing – but they truly are. I feel like I did when Graham Davey spotted me buying Tampax when I was fourteen. Except worse. If Tom is going to witness me buying underwear, I’d at least like it to be nice, sexy underwear. I bet Geraldine swans around in La Perla all day – and here am I with supermarket own brand she wouldn’t use to scrub her windows.

‘These are for my . . .’ The second the words are out of my mouth I regret trying to come up with an excuse. My mind whirrs with possibilities, frenziedly stumbling through the options. My mum? My gran? My imaginary sister? ‘My dad,’ I blurt out.

Oh
great
. Now I’ve announced that my father is a cross-dresser.

Tom frowns.

‘He uses them to . . . change the oil in his car,’ I continue.

He starts placing his shopping behind mine. ‘Well, they’re snazzier than anything you’d get in Halfords.’

I pay for my items silently, feeling his eyes burning my back. ‘Catch you later,’ I say in the most light-hearted manner I can muster, before striding away.

‘Wait, Abby. Just hang on a sec, won’t you?’ he says as the checkout girl starts changing her till roll.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to dash, Tom,’ I lie.

I’m out of the shop, in my car, and have the key in the ignition when I hear a knock on the window. Before I can move, Tom has the door open and is sliding his muscular thighs onto the passenger seat – minus his shopping.

‘What’s going on?’ His voice is softer than I’ve heard it before. I close my eyes and rub my forehead.

‘Tom, I feel so stupid.’

‘Why?’ he asks.

I don’t know how to answer. I can hardly confess what I did during the race.

‘Look, don’t say anything,’ he says kindly. ‘My house is round the corner. Come for a cup of tea.’

I look at his face, his unfeasibly handsome features and the kindness in his dark eyes . . . and I cannot think of a single thing I’d like more.

I yearn to be with Tom so badly this afternoon it shocks me to the core. Beyond that, I can’t define exactly what it is I want from him. A sympathetic ear? Someone guaranteed to cheer me up? Or something more?