by Suzy K Quinn
I kept thinking about Alex.
Stupid. In a crowd of thousands. And anyway, I knew he’d be right near the front with the decent runners.
When the race started, everyone was all smiley.
Then after a mile or so, everyone stopped smiling.
After five miles, everyone had on their marathon faces: pain, misery and anguish.
And on we ran. And on. And on.
I felt so sorry for the people in costumes. You could tell they were really suffering – especially the ones with Father Christmas beards and padding.
It was so much harder than in training.
And SO cold. My lungs were absolutely burning, and my fingers were bright red.
The crowd do cheer you on and cheer you up. But marathons are still horrible and gruelling, and only professional athletes or maniacs should attempt them, let alone in winter.
By the time we crossed Tower Bridge, every step was agony.
All I could think was, ‘I want to stop, I want to stop!’
I wasn’t thinking about pacing myself or anything, just running and running.
At the halfway mark, I saw Mum, Dad, Laura, Brandi and Althea.
Dad was waving a Union Jack flag.
Mum was eating a mince pie. She went mental when she saw me.
‘WOOOOOOOOOOO JULES! WOOOOOOOOO JULIETTE! COME ON GIRL! SHOW THEM WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, DO YOU WANT A PORK PIE?’
My eyes welled up when I saw Daisy.
Mum had put pink leg warmers and baby trainers over her snowsuit.
Dad was all manic-eyed. ‘Are you enjoying it? It’s amazing, isn’t it? What the human body can do.’
He was still in his shorts and vest, jogging on the spot and blowing on his fingers.
I told him it was the worst thing I’d ever done in my life. I said my body wasn’t made for running, but gentle walking and massages. I said I would never, ever run another marathon as long as I lived and made him promise not to let me do it again.
‘Only thirteen miles to go,’ Mum said.
Dad corrected her: ‘Thirteen and a half!’
Laura told me to think of Daisy and how proud she’d be.
‘She doesn’t care,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t have the slightest clue what’s going on.’
‘Then do it for you,’ said Laura.
‘I don’t care about me either!’ I said. ‘I just want to stop. This is awful. AWFUL! There is no way I can finish. No way.’
Laura put a calming sisterly hand on my shoulder and said, ‘You can do it, Juliette Duffy.’
‘I think I might sit down and a hot dog,’ I said.
‘No.’ Laura was adamant. ‘You have to keep going.’
I started crying and said I couldn’t do it. I said my chest hurt. And my ears hurt. And my boobs hurt. And I kept seeing people on stretchers who’d slipped on the ice.
‘Juliette Duffy you can do this,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll run with you. Come on.’
She hopped under the safety barrier, grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the race.
The next five miles were bad.
I felt every step, and my lungs burned.
But Laura was with me. And she gave me strength somehow.
Then some stupid jumped-up usher noticed Laura wasn’t wearing an official bib with her name on the back. He blew a whistle at her and shouted, ‘PEDESTRIAN! REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE RUNNERS AREA IMMEDIATELY!’
So Laura had to go.
God, the marathon is so emotional!
We both had tears in our eyes.
‘I can’t do this, Laura,’ I said. ‘I can’t do this on my own.’
‘Juliette Duffy, you are going to finish,’ said Laura. ‘I will see you at the finish line.’
All I had left then was pain and hopelessness. No, Laura. No strength left. And no more gummy bears.
It was horrible. Awful.
I looked around and saw nothing but misery – all the runners looked so unhappy.
I started thinking, ‘Why on earth am I putting myself through this? Why put myself in such pain? Why don’t I just stop?’
Then someone shouted out, ‘Come on, Juliette!’
And someone else yelled, ‘You can do it, Juliette!’
And the crowd started clapping for me.
It was such a beautiful thing. All these strangers willing me on.
And miraculously, I carried on running.
One step at a time.
Slowly, the miles went by.
And step by horrible step, I made the twenty-five-mile mark. Then the twenty-sixth. And suddenly I could see Buckingham Palace up ahead.
I knew I could do it then. No matter how much pain I was in, I could manage the last little bit.
But just as I was turning into Piccadilly, the man in the snowman suit came careering into me. There wasn’t even any ice or anything, but I lost my footing.
I fell down and felt my ankle twist under me.
God, it hurt.
I tried to stand but I couldn’t. At least not without crying.
I had a crazy idea that I might crawl over the finish line.
While I was mulling it over, a crowd gathered around me – generally elderly or overweight people. People who were never going to make a good time.
Someone gave me a bottle of tropical Lucozade and a handful of Mentos.
And then, through the crowd, came Alex.
I thought I was seeing things at first. But no – it really was him.
He was in black running gear with barely a drop of sweat on him.
He pushed everyone out the way and said, ‘Juliette. Get up. Can you get up?’
I told him I’d hurt my leg and that I should probably just sit here until the marathon finished.
He told me not to be ridiculous.
I asked why he was here with all the slow people.
The runners around me looked a bit annoyed then, and someone muttered, ‘Knowing your limits and setting a good pace is something to be celebrated …’
Alex said he’d been shadowing me to make sure I finished.
‘But you’ll get a shit finishing time,’ I said.
‘I’ve run plenty of marathons,’ he replied.
I went all pink and said, ‘Thank you. For caring.’
‘I’ve always cared,’ said Alex. ‘That’s the problem.’
I wanted to tell him about that night with Nick – that it wasn’t what it looked like. But my ankle was throbbing, and I just couldn’t think of a good way to arrange the words.
And anyway, there’s a part of me that thinks if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.
Mum was seeing someone else when Dad met her (actually two someone else’s). But Dad was so certain she was the one for him he ‘moved heaven and earth’ to show her he was the right one. He even sold his very rare collection of Roy of the Rovers comics, so he could afford to take her to Stonehenge.
Alex tried to help me up, but I really couldn’t walk. I mean, it was agony. I cried and told him I couldn’t do it.
‘Come on,’ said Alex. ‘You’re going to do this.’
Then he put my arm around his lovely, hard shoulder and half dragged, half carried me along.
Everyone was staring as we went down Piccadilly.
Alex looked so stoic and handsome and determined. When we crossed the finish line, everyone was cheering.
I was laughing and crying, more out of relief than victory.
My family and Althea were waiting by the big Winter Marathon trucks.
They looked pretty surprised to see Alex carrying me.
Mum said, ‘Have you run out of energy, love? Do you want a mini Scotch egg?’
Alex shouted at a steward to get me a chair.
I sat down, and Mum put Daisy on my lap. I burst into tears when I saw her.
‘I did it!’ I said. ‘I finished! I can’t believe it! Don’t ever let me do that again. Don’t EVER let me do that again.’
Alex started bossing people around
– asking for paramedics and a stretcher.
Then he said, ‘Look, I’ll leave you with your family. The ambulance is on its way. If you need anything, call me.’
Then he gave me his business card and sprinted off into the crowd.
It was all a bit chaotic after that.
The paramedics came over and (irritatingly) told me it was ‘nothing serious’, and they’d ‘seen much worse’.
‘But it really hurts!’ I moaned.
They said it would be fine with a bit of ice on it.
Mum asked if a cold bottle of Coke would do the job.
They said yes, and offered to drive us home in the ambulance. Dad said they shouldn’t ‘waste resources’. So we ended up borrowing a wheelchair and going home on the train.
Quite nice being disabled. Everyone smiled and let me go first.
Sunday, November 20th
My ankle is MASSIVE. It’s nearly as big as Mum’s.
Doctor Slaughter says it’ll be fine in a few days. Then he checked the fridge and shouted at Mum for having a shelf full of chocolate mousse and Jaffa Cakes.
Monday, November 21st
I miss Alex.
There. I said it.
Thought maybe I should message him and explain about Nick. But Brandi said no – explaining only makes you look guilty.
‘I should know,’ said Brandi. ‘I’ve cheated on loads of my boyfriends.’
‘But I didn’t do anything with Nick,’ I insisted. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘Wow,’ said Brandi. ‘You’re really good. I totally believed you just then.’
Tuesday, November 22nd
I’m getting quite used to sitting around, especially since Mum has filled the house with mince pies.
She always buys a packet from every supermarket to ‘consumer test’, so there were 36 mince pies in the cupboard, plus various novelty Christmas items:
Turkey and cranberry flavour Pringles
Star-shaped cream crackers
White Mars Bars
Mince-pie ice cream
Wednesday, November 23rd
Alex still hasn’t messaged or anything. And I think Brandi’s right – trying to explain will just make me look bad. I mean, I’ve tried already. He doesn’t want to listen. Maybe this is just his way of letting me down gently.
Is it too early to send a happy Christmas text message?
I have his number now …
No.
If this year has taught me anything, it’s that men will invariably do what they want. If Alex wanted me, he would have been in touch by now.
I’ve had enough humiliation.
Time to move forward.
Thursday, November 24th
American Thanksgiving
Did Skype link-up with Uncle Ralph and Aunty Yasmin.
They hadn’t had their Thanksgiving lunch yet, and Aunty Yasmin was panicking about the turkey.
Uncle Ralph had bought a regular chicken from the supermarket, and Aunty Yasmin thought it could be full of dangerous growth hormones that would give them all cancer.
Aunty Yasmin’s singing lessons are really paying off – at least in the volume department. I think everyone in LA must have heard her shouting at Lolly for rollerblading on the marble floor.
Friday, November 25th
Mum went to B&Q and bought a load of new Christmas lights today.
She bought waving Santa, jumping Santa, Santa’s sleigh, three flashing Christmas gift boxes, Rudolph reindeer and eight free-standing reindeer – all made of tube lights.
The front of the pub is already covered in neon Christmas lights, so she’s set the new ones up in the back garden.
Now a rumour has gone around the village that there’s going to be a Santa’s grotto at our pub. We keep getting little kids knocking on the door with letters for Father Christmas.
Saturday, November 26th
Took Daisy to see Santa at Harrods department store.
Mum would have hated the Christmas decorations – they were simple, tasteful white fairy lights twinkling along bare wood branches. Not a neon fairy or wooden cock in sight.
Harrod’s was Althea’s treat – she’d booked it for us months ago.
Althea is totally anti-establishment, but she loves anything creative, which includes seasonal stuff.
For the Harrods trip, Althea dressed Wolfgang as a punk Christmas elf, with safety pins through his green elf ears.
When it was our turn to see Santa, Althea warned the door elf that Wolfgang was ‘quite sensitive’ and tended to bite when angered.
The lady elf reassured us that Santa was very good at putting children at ease. Then she led us into the grotto, where a big, jolly Santa welcomed us.
Wolfgang shouted, ‘Fat! Fat!’
Santa chuckled politely and gave Wolfgang a toy truck to snap in two.
Daisy wouldn’t take her dolly present. She pushed it away and said, ‘No, no!’
Wolfgang tore off the cab compartment and a wheel from his truck and gave it to Daisy.
She chewed the wheel happily.
Wolfgang really can be a kind little boy sometimes. I think Santa was a bit annoyed though because Wolfgang tore his knitted present sack apart.
Monday, November 28th
Althea and I took the kids to Bethnal Green playgroup today.
We had to get there really early because London playgroups are like nightclubs – once they’re full, they’re full, and then it’s one in, one out.
Today was especially busy because Santa was visiting.
Stupidly, Santa asked Althea if she’d planned her Christmas dinner yet.
Althea shouted at him about ‘assumed gender stereotypes’ and ‘teaching my son that a woman’s place is in the fucking kitchen’.
Santa cowered against his cotton-wool throne.
One of the kids said, ‘Mummy if Santa goes to prison, will we still get presents?’
Tuesday, November 29th
Trying very hard not to think about Alex.
Ankle much better.
Feeling very festive and Christmassy.
Brandi and I went to Starbucks and bought ourselves gingerbread lattes in red cups.
Then we went home and wrote out all our Christmas cards. Well – I did. Brandi got bored and persuaded Dad to do it for her.
Dad loves anything tedious, so he was more than happy.
We had a nice afternoon together, drinking tea, eating Christmas shortbread and writing Christmas cards.
Wednesday, November 30th
Decided to text Nick re: Daisy Christmas arrangements.
Nick texted back saying he might be going ‘somewhere sunny’ this Christmas, and couldn’t take Daisy on a long-haul flight. Apparently, Sadie is being ‘mental’, and he needs to get away.
As if I’d let him take Daisy for more than an hour anyway! He can’t dress her properly – he always does her buttons out of alignment.
Thursday, December 1st
I can’t believe it. I absolutely CANNOT believe it.
I’ve lost 20 pounds.
I’ve spent all morning turning sideways in every mirror, lifting up my top and admiring my tummy region.
Brandi said, ‘Wow, I didn’t know your stretch marks were that bad.’
I considered celebrating with a white-chocolate Christmas Mars Bar, but NO! I am going to maintain.
Maintain, maintain, maintain.
Saturday, December 3rd
Called Althea, re weight-loss, and she said, ‘Right. We’re going to get you some new skinny girl clothes.’
I told her I had other financial priorities.
‘Didn’t Nick say he’d buy you new clothes if you finished the marathon?’ she said.
I told her Nick never honoured his bets.
She asked if I still had Nick’s credit card. The one Helen pays off.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But it doesn’t seem fair to use it.’
‘Maybe he’ll have to cancel his flight to “somewhere sun
ny”,’ she said.
I told her the credit card was for emergencies.
‘No offence,’ said Althea, ‘but your wardrobe is an emergency. If you wear that big grey woolly elephant dress again, I’m going to throw up.’
I started talking about doing the right thing and being the better person, and she said, ‘Nick made a bet with you. So now he has to pay up. He cheated on you and left you alone to bring up a baby. What are a few clothes after everything he’s put you through? You’ve been totally humiliated.’
She is right, I suppose. I mean, I can’t even buy a Kit Kat in Great Oakley without the checkout lady saying, ‘Go ahead, love. You deserve a little treat after everything you’ve been through.’
Finally, Althea persuaded me by saying, ‘Look, you’re going to need new clothes when you start working again. Think of it as an investment. No one is going to hire you in those old stained leggings of yours.’
Sunday, December 4th
Have just spent all morning giggling.
Althea insisted we go to fancy Sloane Square and hit all the designer stores.
London is still all magical and twinkling.
The Sloane Square trees were hung with huge, beautiful snowflake lights, and a 50ft Christmas fir towered over us tiny shoppers.
Railings were strung with pretty little lights, and the shop windows shone with Christmassy displays.
Whenever a sales assistant asked if we needed help, Althea said, ‘What costs the most in here?’
I really haven’t bought any clothes since I was pregnant with Daisy, so it was all a bit strange.
In Chloe, the sales assistant was a gushing type who kept saying ‘lovely’.
‘Can I help you lovely ladies?’ ‘Have you seen the lovely things back here?’ ‘I think this would look lovely on you.’
Althea grabbed a load of clothes for me to try on, and the assistant said, ‘Oh you’ve made a lovely choice!’
I tried them on. And the assistant was right – they were a lovely choice.
