Girl on the Run (5 page)

‘
Acting
Captain. You still like him then?’

‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘So come to the running club.’

I sigh. ‘There is a very good reason why I simply cannot join a running club.’

‘Oh yes. What’s that?’

I take out another marshmallow and examine it. ‘I may die.’

She explodes with laughter.

‘I’m not joking,’ I say innocently. ‘I know my limitations.’

In truth, I
have
been thinking about Oliver’s proposition last night. How could I not? But if Jess gets any encouragement from me I know she’ll leap on it, so I’m playing my cards close to my chest.

‘Okay. You’re probably right,’ she sighs in a blatant and fruitless attempt at reverse psychology. ‘How about this for a plan: spend a few weeks getting yourself in half-decent shape at the gym,
then
join. That way it won’t be so intimidating. You’ll have a head start.’

‘Hmmm,’ I grunt, significantly less excited by the prospect than her.

‘Abby.’ She says this in the sort of tone you’d adopt when teaching a Chihuahua to sit. ‘All your arguments for
not
doing this are precisely why you should.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean, you’re unfit. If you want to get fit, join the running club.’

‘Well, if it was as easy as that—’

‘It
is
as easy as that! Oliver only wants you there because he fancies you, but it’s still a fantastic idea. As I say, you might need to do a bit of exercise first to smooth the transition, but there is a group for beginners. You’ll be fine. Forget your preconceptions – especially the idea that we’re a bunch of exercise lunatics who don’t do anything else.’

‘But that’s true.’

‘It is not! We’re perfectly well-rounded people who happen to find running fun.’

‘There’s nothing well-rounded about that,’ I point out.

‘Abby,’ she continues – with that voice again, ‘lots of people start out like you.’

‘What, with hemispheric waistlines and a gym membership that lapsed the year the Spice Girls formed?’

‘I can see I’m fighting a losing battle. You win – don’t join. Even if it could mean the start of a beautiful relationship with Doctor Dishy. It clearly wasn’t meant to be.’

‘That’s a cheap shot, Jess.’

‘I know. Did it work?’

I think for a second. ‘If he
does
fancy me, why didn’t he just get my phone number and ask me out on a date?’

‘Because he wants you to join the running club,’ she replies without missing a beat.

‘Ohhh,’ I groan. ‘This isn’t fair. Look, I’ll think about it. Now go and tend to your children and stop harassing me.’

I put down the phone and look at my stomach. If my waistband dug any further into the bulge of my belly, I’d be dissected. I shove another marshmallow in my mouth and finish putting away the shopping in my small-but-perfectly-formed kitchen.

It’s a quarter of the size of Jess’s, but I love my little kitchen, just as I love my little house. I bought it three years ago – a newly-renovated Victorian terrace in what estate agents describe as a leafy suburb, though you’d find more greenery on a mouldy piece of cheese than in my back yard.

I’d been house-hunting for months when I found it and instantly fell in love with its high ceilings, bay windows and original fire surrounds. The latter were a particular draw. When I bought it, I had romantic visions of spending winter evenings warming myself next to it with a glass of mulled wine. In reality, I’ve used the fire once, largely because it took nearly three hours to light, at which point I was covered in coal dust and the central heating had been on for so long I nearly passed out with heat exhaustion.

I pick up Friday’s mail that only now – on Sunday afternoon – I have got round to opening.

The first two letters are junk: one telling me I’m a step closer to winning a £5,000 prize if I sign up for a catalogue selling an unnaturally large selection of orthopaedic tights; the other a mailshot from a private jet company. They must have the direst database on the planet if they think I’m a potential customer.

The third is brown and therefore, by definition, one I don’t particularly want to open. Brown letters are always serious. I open the envelope to find the first handwritten letter I’ve received since my eighty-year-old grandmother sent me a five-pound note and instructions to treat myself to a new outfit.

What
a cheek. He hasn’t even contacted me! And
a thousand pounds
? For a bloody motorbike?! You could buy a car for that. A crap one, admittedly, but still.

Plus, what’s all this about me kissing him? I think he’ll find any tonsil action was all his. Clearly, he’s taking the piss, but that’s irrelevant. In fact, it makes it worse.

Besides all that, I refuse to be accused of something I haven’t done – such as ignore his emails. At least . . . I think I haven’t.

Anxiety ripples through my brain.

I go to my study and start the laptop, drumming my fingers on the desk until it’s up and running. I then scan my inbox and satisfy myself that I haven’t left any unread, with the exception of three or four that landed on Friday night after I’d left the office.

‘There,’ I say out loud, folding my arms. ‘Not a single unread email. What do you think of that, Mr Tom “
A Thousand Pounds For a Lousy Dent in My Motorbike
” Bronte?’

Then something hits me. He’d just written
Tom
on the note he passed to me when the accident happened. So why does that surname ring a bell?

I click on Trash and scan the dozens of unread emails, before my eyes land on three with the address
[email protected]

‘Oh, bugger.’ I saw those the other day when I was deleting emails and they barely registered. For some reason I had it in my head that Caro & Co. was a double-glazing company trying to flog me a conservatory for my back yard.

I grab another marshmallow and begin reading, noting how the cheerful tone of the first email disintegrates by the time I get to the third. Okay, part of me can understand his anxiety when he hadn’t heard from me . . . but I still don’t appreciate the tone of his letter. Or the alleged thousand pounds. How can something with only two wheels cost that amount to fix?

I compose a new email.

I smile to myself. It’s tempting, it really is.

But perhaps I should tone it down, sending instead a perfunctory note with my details and a curt
I hope we can resolve this matter as soon as possible
.

I save the email as a draft and force myself to think pleasant thoughts. I conjure up a glorious image, allowing it to melt into my consciousness and linger there: of Doctor Dishy kissing my belly button.

It’s a perfect fantasy moment. We’re in a passionate clinch in the dark corner of a dusty barn on a summer’s day, as long velvety rays of light bathe his features. Just as I’m really starting to enjoy myself, he looks up . . . and has turned into Tom Bronte.

Oh, for God’s sake.

I close my eyes and shut him out.

But it doesn’t work: he reappears. I turn back to my computer and call up the draft I’d saved, before decisively pressing Send.

Then I close my eyes and recline on the haystack, not thinking too hard as, if this was real life, I’d be sneezing like an industrial blower, and force Doctor Dishy back into my arms.

It’s all him now. I’m swept up in a cyclone of lust as he kisses and caresses me, tickles and tantalises me. The touch of his tongue on my taut, washboard stomach is—

Hang on a minute.

I open my eyes and look guiltily at my belly, jolted from my daydream by an unpleasant flash of reality.

Washboard stomach? My belly is about as flat as the Matterhorn.

Depressed, I grab another marshmallow and shove it in my mouth, but this time as its sugary squidginess sinks into my teeth, I don’t enjoy it at all. Decisively, I pick up the packet, stride across the kitchen and shove it in the bin. Then I grab the phone and dial Jess’s number.

‘You’d better sit down,’ I tell her, before I can change my mind. ‘I’m going to give this running lark a go.’

I spend two days psyching myself up about joining the running club. Slightly annoyingly, Jess – whose idea it was for me to be here – keeps banging on about how I need to get fitter before I sign up.

But, as she pointed out herself, there
is
a group suitable for beginners. And frankly, having decided that I’m doing this, I want to get on with it. What’s the point in prolonging the time before I see Doctor Dishy? If I leave it two months while I hit the gym, he’s bound to find a girlfriend – not a prospect I’m prepared to risk.

Besides that, exercise is, as those mags you get stuck with in the hairdressers constantly declare, the perfect stress-buster and therefore exactly what I need with my job. Particularly after the latest response from my ‘friend’ Tom Bronte, which landed yesterday.
Abigail
, it said, which pissed me off immediately; who gave the green light to move onto that level of familiarity?

Don’t get me started. And that postscript! What is he
on
?

I shake my head and focus on tonight, which I am now genuinely looking forward to.

Doctor Dishy is the main draw, obviously. But, aside from that, I’ve been thinking about what Jess said on the subject of getting fit. Maybe I could be one of those people who enjoy exercise – if I put my mind to it. Besides, I should give myself some credit. I can’t be
that
unfit. I’m permanently dashing about with work and, although that’s not strictly the same as going to the gym, if I had a pedometer I’m certain it’d spontaneously combust trying to keep up.

I’ve also followed all of Jess’s advice and stayed super-hydrated, the result being that going for a wee has been a full-time occupation today. My only regret is that I’ve left it until now to dig out my PE kit. Having dashed home from a hellish day at work, I have to be at Jess’s in twenty minutes.

The only trainers I can locate have been under the stairs for a year and a half and are being squatted in by two spiders and a decomposing beetle. The clothes situation isn’t much better. I have the choice between grey, paint-splattered jogging bottoms and red Lycra leggings that weren’t especially flattering when I was two dress sizes smaller. I tug them on optimistically, before concluding that my legs look like two giant sausages stuffed inside strawberry-flavoured condoms.

Jogging bottoms it is. The paint is only magnolia and no one will see that unless they look really closely. Besides, if I turn up in brand new gear, not only will I look like a saddo, but it’d also expose me as someone who hasn’t done a jot of physical activity since the days when Cheryl and Ashley Cole were considered the perfect couple. They’re not ideal, but at least these jogging bottoms give the impression that they’ve had plenty of healthy wear and tear.

‘Abby, stop panicking,’ Jess tells me as we drive to the sports centre where her running club meets. It’s a ridiculously hot evening – way too hot for exercise in my view, but this doesn’t make Jess contemplate pulling out.

‘I’m not panicking.’ I take a deep breath.

‘Good. Because who cares what you’re wearing?’

‘Well,
me
for a start. I had no idea you were going to look so . . . chic. How do you do that in sports gear? It’s not fair.’

‘I’ve had this top for years,’ she says dismissively.

This is no comfort. Whether she’s aware of it or not, Jess looks like those women on the Nike adverts – the ones who, until now, I’d assumed were airbrushed. Apparently it
is
possible to wear shorts and a trendy pink top without unwanted bulges popping out like a novelty balloon sculpture.

‘I’ve only got all this gear because running’s my hobby and I spend so much time doing it. People have given me tops like this every Christmas since about 1991. Besides, if you decide you like it, you can treat yourself to some new stuff. Believe me, Abby, you don’t look as bad as you think.’

Sorry, Jess, but I don’t believe you.

Between the jogging pants that make my backside look like a Beryl Cook painting and the billowing T-shirt that could cover a king-size duvet, I
don’t
believe you.

I tell myself to calm down. If Doctor Dishy is so shallow he can’t see past my running gear, then surely he’s not worth bothering with. Oh, who am I kidding?