Girl on the Run (28 page)

The second that thought enters my head, I want it out. It terrifies and appals me. Yet, once I’ve thought it, there’s no going back. I get a rush of clarity and it makes me feel nauseous: I feel something for Tom these days that I shouldn’t feel – and it’s beyond friendship. Perhaps, thinking about it now, I felt it even on the day I met him.

Yet I can’t allow myself to feel this – I absolutely can’t.

He’s in a relationship. A happy relationship. So I can’t have him, simple as that.

‘Come on, Abby.’ He reaches to touch my arm and I whip it away as if his fingers are on fire. He looks hurt.

Another wave of lucidity sweeps through me. It focuses on a single fact, one that’s obvious but which I’ve never dared admit: there’s a part of Tom that I suspect has feelings for me too. How big or small a part I couldn’t say. Maybe he doesn’t even know. All I do know is that the way he’s looking at me now – perhaps the way he’s always looked at me – is unequivocal.

Hope and anger bubble up inside me, fighting with each other for space. Tom can’t be attracted to me. He’s not allowed to. He’s Geraldine’s, for God’s sake!

I feel an urge to rewind the last four months, to start from scratch – and make Tom not like me.

‘Do you know what I did today?’ I say defiantly.

‘What?’ he asks cautiously.

‘I
cheated
. At the race.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘How?’

I swallow, feeling shame and determination at the same time. ‘I took a taxi round the course. I didn’t run it in under an hour at all.’

My blood thunders in my ears as I watch his expression change.

‘What do you think of that?’ I say eventually, feeling tears return.

He stares at me and my heart seems to swallow me up. Then he smiles. ‘I think, Abigail Rogers, that you’re hilarious,’ he replies coolly. ‘I also think you should take up my offer of that tea.’

I said no. Of course I said no. It was the last thing I wanted to say, but I did so. And I am determined now that the strange interlude in Tesco’s car park will be exactly the same as the Ten K fiasco: I will pretend it never happened.

I’ve got to. For Geraldine’s sake, Tom’s sake and, above all, for my sake. At least until I get to the big race itself (if I don’t kill myself before then) when I can quit the club and never have to see any of them again.

Before then, there is another milestone, a little trip in the middle of November.

It strikes me as the date approaches that I’ve been running for so many months that I’ve actually become accustomed to it. I’ll never say I love it, not in the way I love
Sex and the City
or Florence and the Machine or my new calf-length boots or Walnut Whips – especially with a huge cappuccino with enough foam to shave your legs. But running and I are developing a mutual tolerance.

No matter how much of a corner I’ve turned, though, there are still some concepts I can’t get my head around. One of those is a running holiday. That’s running. And a holiday. At the same time. A finer example of an oxymoron I cannot imagine.

Yet the possibility of not taking part in the running club’s annual jaunt abroad is approximately nil. Because Doctor Dishy is going.

Despite my weird feelings about Tom, I know that Oliver and I are meant to be. And, after months of longing for him, I’m finally starting to believe that things will happen between us.

At least, I hope so. Because while it’s lovely that Oliver feels confident enough to start flirting so openly with me, frankly, it’s not enough. Matters between us have to be decided – not least because I’m sure this uncertainty is what is fuelling the stuff in my head about Tom.

So here I am, preparing to put myself through the same levels of punishment I do at the running club thrice or four times weekly, only now I’ll be doing it somewhere warmer (Tenerife) and paying several hundred quid for the privilege.

Actually, the cost of the holiday was only the start. I’ve also had to stock up on chic new vacation-wear, from cleavage-enhancing swimsuits to leg-lengthening sarongs – anything, in fact, that makes my body parts look as far from the reality of them as possible.

The date of departure finally arrives and Jess and I meet the rest of the group at Manchester Airport. As we board the plane, the scrum detaches me from her and I find myself pressed against a short, round man who smells of BO and Lockets. It is not a pleasant experience. So when I feel a nudge in my back, I spin round feeling less than charitable. Only I come face to face with a rolling bicep.

‘Feels like a school trip, doesn’t it?’ says Tom. I’m not just close enough to smell his skin, I can almost taste it. I shift away.

‘I hope not. The most exotic ours ever got was to Alton Towers, which I couldn’t stand,’ I tell him.

‘Really?’ he says, incredulous. ‘Why not?’

‘I hate roller-coasters.’

He suppresses a smile. ‘You’re not one of life’s thrill-seekers, are you?’

‘What makes you say that?’ I snap, offended.

‘Well, you don’t like roller-coasters, you don’t like motorbikes . . . I bet you’ve still got stabilisers on your bicycle.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t had those since I was twenty-five. Anyway, if you’re trying to suggest that just because I don’t like roller-coasters or motorbikes or anything else that involves regular near-death experiences I’m therefore boring, you don’t know what you’re talking about. My life is highly exciting.’

‘If you say so,’ he replies as I sit next to Jess. Her choice of seats is excellent – with a spectacular view of Oliver ahead on the adjacent aisle. But the second I sit down, I realise Jess has things on her mind.

She’s been like this a lot since she confessed about her fling. Not that she’ll talk about it – but I’ve known Jess long enough to sense that it’s on her mind.
Permanently
. Which is why I continue to gently remind her that I’m here to talk to whenever she feels ready.

‘How are things with you and Adam?’ I ask.

She looks up from her handbag. ‘Fine. I think.’ But the despondent look in her eyes says otherwise.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking more and more about what you said,’ I tell her. ‘About you thinking I didn’t get on with Adam.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Jess, I was so wrong about him. He’s a great guy.
Really
great. The more I think about you and him, the more convinced I am that you have to make it work.’

‘I am trying,’ she says unenthusiastically. ‘For the kids’ sake and—’

‘Not just for the kids’ sake. For
yours
. He’s a good man and he loves you – and you love him too. Whether you tell him that or not.’

She studies my face, perplexed. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘Nothing in particular. I already told you after the ball that I saw him in a new light – just after spending a bit of time chatting.’ Clearly, I can’t mention that it was the necklace that confirmed this view. ‘If I haven’t been as nice about him before, that’s my problem.’

‘Well, it’s great that you like him now,’ she says, ‘and I’m glad, because Adam is a very nice person. A wonderful person, in fact. But I don’t know if . . . I don’t know if my respecting and liking him is enough.’

She sighs, gazing out of the window. ‘I keep looking back on our years together and asking: where’s the romance? Adam’s lovely, but he’s all slippers and pipe, not diamonds and champagne. Does it make me horribly shallow to want a bit of the latter?’

Her expression is a mess of emotions. I want to say: ‘Wait, Jess – be patient and you’ll get your champagne and diamonds.’ But I’d never ruin the surprise. Besides, I made a promise to Adam.

‘You never know, Adam might surprise you. Isn’t it your anniversary soon?’ Even this feels perilously close to betrayal.

‘Yes.’ She smiles weakly. ‘And I know already what I’ll get because it’s the same every year: a renewal of my World Wildlife Fund membership.’

‘Well, that sort of stuff isn’t important anyway, is it?’ I remind her.

‘Of course not,’ she shrugs. ‘I suppose it’s . . . what it represents.’

‘Don’t throw away what you’ve got, Jess,’ I warn her.

She looks me in the eyes. ‘But what if I’m not in love with him any more?’

I pause. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replies, with quiet exasperation. ‘That horrible, corny phrase keeps popping into my mind: I love him – but am I
in love
with him? And . . .’

‘What?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about . . .’

‘John?’

She nods.

‘You haven’t slept with him again, have you?’

‘No,’ she assures me. ‘But I’m plagued with thoughts of what would happen if . . .’ Her voice trails off.

‘What? You left Adam for him?’

She looks straight ahead, her eyes empty. ‘It’s a stupid thought anyway, because I know I didn’t mean anything to him. I’m one in a long line of women.’

‘Really? You never said he was a womaniser.’

‘He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ she says bitterly. ‘And it’s so much worse that I have to see him all the time. Which is partly my own fault. I mean, I could leave if I really wanted to.’

‘What, quit your job?’

She hesitates. ‘But you know what? Part of me doesn’t want to. If I’m
completely
honest, part of me likes the temptation.’

I must look confused.

‘I know. Crazy, isn’t it? On the days when I’m spinning between work and nappy-changing with not a hell of a lot of fun in between, temptation reminds me of what life used to be like. Temptation reminds me what it was like to be sexy.’

‘Oh Jess. You
are
sexy – you’re hot stuff!’ I grin, trying to cheer her up. ‘You don’t need this mess you’re making for yourself to prove that, surely?’

She shrugs, but doesn’t look any more cheerful. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Abs. And I stand by what I said: temptation has a lot going for it.’

The average package holiday is a bittersweet experience for me and my kind. There’s the sun, sea, sand, alcohol and opportunity of a holiday fling. But there’s also the first trip to the beach.

It is then that the dumpy, pallid-skinned among us are forced to skulk to a lounger, peel off an elaborately proportioned kaftan and give our pitifully white, blubbery bodies their first taste of sunlight for more than eleven months. It’s traumatic enough without the inevitable presence of scores of lithe, olive-skinned beauties with stomachs like tea trays and bikini bottoms the size of a small rodent’s handkerchief.

In the days before Jess had kids, when she and I would go on holiday together, we’d have the same conversation every time: ‘These Italian/French/Spanish girls are gorgeous now, but all that sun and pasta/foie gras/paella does nothing for them once they hit thirty.’

At which point we’d gesture to a withered, large-boned crone who was dressed from head to toe in amorphous black, clearly an octogenarian and laden with approximately seventeen bags of bread.

Imagine, if you will, that average beach and those averagely glorious, young olive-skinned beauties. Now imagine the scene when some of those same beauties are also
running enthusiasts
– since there’s also a Spanish club at the same hotel.

‘What made me think this was a good idea?’ I mutter as Jess and I wander along the beach before a pre-dinner meeting with the holiday rep. ‘I can’t believe I seriously considered removing my clothing in front of Oliver when he’s got this lot to compare me with.’

Jess rolls her eyes. ‘You’re still obsessing about Oliver?’

‘You know I am. Why?’

She shrugs uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure about you and him. It’s been so long and nothing’s happened.’ She stops. ‘Sorry. Forget I said anything.’

‘How can I?’ I point out as a tidal wave of paranoia engulfs me. ‘Do you think I’m punching above my weight with him?’

‘No! God, no!’ she leaps in. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I said that. Ignore me. And of course you’re not punching above your weight. You look gorgeous.’

‘Jess, I’ve lost just over a stone, not ten. My legs are still short, my bum is still lardy and my skin is still milk-bottle white, except when I slap on false tan, when it acquires a tinge of tangerine.’

‘Rubbish. You look lovely. You always looked lovely and now you look even better. How’s your room anyway?’

‘Fabulous,’ I say truthfully, because the hotel is stunning. With a modern interior and a private beach, it’s all whitewashed walls, sun-drenched terraces and tennis courts. As we enter the lobby for the welcome drinks, I look up and see Oliver, leaning on the reception desk as he chats to the stunning, dark-haired attendant. The second he sees Jess and me, he turns and walk towards us.

‘Hello, you two,’ he says, kissing us both on the cheek. His lips linger on my skin, sending butterflies through my body and it strikes me – again – how much bolder he is compared with when we first met.

When he pulls back I study what he’s wearing: linen trousers, leather flip-flops and a plain white T-shirt that clings to his lithe torso i.e. he looks gorgeous. ‘The meeting’s over here,’ he continues. ‘I’m on my way now. Beautiful place, isn’t it?’ He turns to me and reveals a slow, sexy smile that causes a fluttery sensation to grip my insides.

The rest of the group are already in the bar, awaiting the welcome talk. About ten members of the club are on the trip, joining about the same number of other holidaymakers. We sit behind Geraldine, Tom and Mau – who are deep in conversation about the local wine. Mau appears to be an expert.

‘Isn’t this place fabulous?’ whispers Geraldine, spinning round. ‘Our room’s got a view right over the beach.’

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ agrees Jess.

‘Maybe it’ll inspire someone,’ she says, nodding her head towards Tom. ‘Though I’m more likely to get a proposal from one of the waiters.’

The sharp sound of clapping prompts the chatter to die down.

‘Hello, guys!’ The effervescent greeting is delivered by a diminutive woman in her mid-forties with parched wavy hair, men’s shorts and legs so tanned she’s clearly taken in enough sun to roast a ten-pound turkey. What she lacks in style, however, is thoroughly made up for in enthusiasm.