A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  Right, enough of that.

  I won’t think about him.

  Still not thinking about him.

  And then, without even turning around, I know he’s there. The gritty sound of his tyres on the trail, the familiar rattle of the bike. It has to be Jack. He brings his bike up parallel with me, keeping his eyes on the track in case someone’s coming the other way. It’s the way we’d run-cycled together in the Redwoods.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. I turn my head and make eye contact, with the usual tasering effect.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Can I ride with you a while?’ I shrug, trying not to be too distracted by his skin-tight black bike shorts. For a few minutes I run and he cycles, only the sound of his tyres and my feet on the trail. Anyone watching might think we’re a pair of friends content in each other’s company. They wouldn’t see that inside I’m bursting with anxiety. Every nerve ending loaded with endorphins, primed and ready to leap. It’s all I can do to run in a straight line.

  Eventually, he says, ‘So how’s the running?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘I thought now the show is over, you might give it up. You were never a morning person.’ He tilts his head and looks at me sideways.

  ‘I thought I might give it up too. I must’ve told myself a million times that when this was over I’d curl up and enjoy an extra hour of lovely sleep. But running’s part of my identity now. I like running. I like being able to say, “I’m a runner.”’

  ‘That was the point of the reality show, wasn’t it?’ he says, glancing over at me to gauge my reaction. ‘For ordinary people to get the bug for exercise.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I missed the point then, didn’t I? I wanted to raise my profile, get myself on television. Be famous. My motives weren’t pure or altruistic.’

  ‘You shouldn’t put yourself down, Mel. You were part of a great campaign. So you’re not Mother Teresa, you still did a lot of good. The riding people are close to getting their new indoor arena. Without your help they might have waited years to get the money together. That’s a great achievement, Mel. You should be proud.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We putter along a bit more and then he says, ‘I heard about the NZTV job. When do you think you’ll go?’

  I stop running and turn to face him. ‘I’m not going. I turned it down.’

  Startled, Jack rocks forward and narrowly avoids toppling off his bike. He sits back heavily in the saddle and flashes me a stunned expression. And then suddenly he recovers his wits.

  ‘You turned it down!’ he roars. He gets off the bike and swipes off his helmet. The hair underneath is damp and lightly plastered to his head.

  ‘You turned down NZTV! Are you crazy?’ He takes hold of my upper arm and shakes his head incredulously, as if shaking it might bring me to my senses. ‘It’s your dream job, Mel.’

  ‘So you think I should take it, then?’ I bite my bottom lip.

  ‘Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?’ His voice is bitter, hard. ‘I thought that was why you preferred to be seen with Rico.’ Suddenly, my throat feels dry. I did humiliate Jack by shunning him and pretending to go out with Rico. Jack goes on, ‘I thought being famous was why you never wanted to settle down, why you said you’re not ready for kids. I thought that was why you’ve held me at arm’s length all this time. Damn it, Mel!’

  ‘But it isn’t what I want!’

  I turn on my heel, stalking over to a park bench at the track’s edge. This isn’t how I imagined this scene to be. Jack is supposed to sweep me up in his arms and forgive me for being such an idiot, not provide a detailed list as evidence of the shallow, self-centred person I am. I mean, I was. I’m not that person now. Can’t he see I’ve changed?

  Jack props his bike up against the backrest and comes around the bench. He stands in front of me, facing out at the water. I scuff my shoe in the grit, waiting. What if he doesn’t want me back?

  Please want me back, Jack.

  I wring my hands together on my lap.

  After the longest minute, he joins me on the bench where he sits with his forearms resting on his quads, one hand still holding his helmet.

  ‘So what do you want, Mel? Is it Rico?’

  ‘Rico’s off to Australia,’ I reply. ‘He’s been offered a lead role on another television reality show. Those Aussies won’t know what’s hit them once Rico turns on that naughty-boy charm of his!’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be right up his alley,’ Jack says icily.

  ‘Jack, you’ve got the wrong idea about Rico. He’s a good guy.’ Jack rolls his eyes. He starts to get up. I put my hand on his arm. ‘No, really. He isn’t as bad as you think. Rico believes building a wicked reputation is the quickest way to raise his profile and I think he could be right. Look at Simon Cowell. Nasty gets noticed.’

  ‘Well, you noticed Rico.’ Jack pulls away from me gently and puts his helmet back on, securing the buckle. ‘Enough to sacrifice your dream job for him. He’s a lucky guy. I hope he makes you happy, Mel.’ Suddenly, he twirls around, throws his leg over the saddle and accelerates away from me.

  ‘Jack!’

  I’m so stunned that I’m glued to the bench. He completely misunderstood me. He thinks I want Rico! Damn. I jump off the bench. I’m going to have to run after him. Legs pumping, I charge down the track after him, willing my cooling muscles to revive. I catch a glimpse of a flash of blue in the trees as Jack’s bike-shirt disappears into the distance. Maybe I can still catch him. The curving bays and knotty tree roots of the track are more suited to runners than cyclists. If I give it everything perhaps there’s a chance. I throw my body forward in a full sprint, my knees raised high with each new stride, my arms pumping, and lungs heaving with effort.

  ‘Jack!’

  He doesn’t turn. Olaf’s voice booms through my consciousness. Fast feet! Raise your knees. Lean forward. Use your arms. Pump! Pump! I tear after Jack as fast as I can, leaping roots and dodging branches. God, I hate sprinting. My legs feel like they do when you’re inside a nightmare: you’re being chased and you know if you’re caught you’ll die, but no matter how hard you try your legs won’t move any faster. I push them harder anyway, willing every last fast-twitch muscle fibre to propel me forwards. Sweat beads up in tiny droplets between by breasts. My lungs are raw. I’m gulping down so much fresh oxygen it’s making me heady. I fight down the urge to vomit. I have to catch Jack. I have to tell him how I feel about him.

  The flash of blue is closer. I put on a spurt of speed to make Olaf proud, digging deep into my reserves in a last Herculean effort. I focus my resolve on that blue bike shirt, and ignoring the lactic acid burn spreading through my thighs, I race onwards. Chasing Jack.

  I’m running for my life. I realise that now. Everything I want involves Jack. I don’t need to be famous, because I’m already someone special when I’m with him. He always saw the real me, too. I think about the lonely training run he went on with me, the cups of hot tea, the foot massages. Jack made it all worthwhile. He makes me want to be a better person. And even if he doesn’t want me, if he still thinks I’m shallow and frivolous, I need him to understand he’s important to me and I’m sorry I hurt him.

  My whole life is riding away from me on the cycle in front.

  In skin-tight bike shorts.

  Sprints are short-lived and intense. That’s why they’re sprints. It’s over. Already I’m slowing and he’s slipping away again.

  ‘Jack!’ I call out one last time. My yell comes out reedy and thin, but this time Jack hears me. He turns in his saddle and slows down, stops. He waits, still straddling the bike, as I approach.

  He flips his riding glasses up and as he does I see my reflection in the tinted lenses. Lovely. I’m purple and sweaty with exertion. Over the handlebars, I take his hand in both of mine. (I can’t let him escape again.)

  ‘I’m not (pant) going (pant) to Wellington...’

  ‘Yes, I think we established that.’

  ‘Or Austra
lia.’

  I blow out hard, my lips puckered up as if blowing a kiss.

  ‘Oh.’ He looks puzzled. ‘But then why…?’

  ‘I told you. It wasn’t what I wanted.’ He looks hard at me as if searching for something. He’s going to make me say it. ‘It’s you, Jack. I want you. I gave up the job to be with you.’

  And in an instant his precious top-of-the-range Koop’s cycle is dropped in the dust, his helmet is off, ditched unceremoniously, glasses dangling from the chin strap, and he’s striding over to me, his arms lock around me even though I’ve run five kilometres and must stink, and...oh God…. those forearms… he sweeps me up so tightly I can feel his ribs against me and his heart is thumping in his chest, too. We’re standing in the middle of a public track where anyone could come along the track and see us. I gaze into Jack’s gorgeous blue-grey eyes and I don’t care.

  ‘I love you, Jack.’

  And then his lips are on mine and he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back. I know I’ve said this before about Jack’s kisses, but they’re truly magical. That man can kiss away pain and fatigue better than any treatment I know. Suddenly, I haven’t sprinted anywhere at break-neck speed. My lungs aren’t heaving and my legs aren’t hurting. And although my heart is still fluttering about in my chest, I’m languid and liquid and lost in his arms.

  He lifts his head and looks down at me.

  ‘And Rico?’

  ‘We’re just friends.’ And I expect Richard might need a few friends when his new employers (and the lucky recipient of the final rose) discover their dashing Bachelor hasn’t abandoned his pregnant fiancée after all. Now that will be an interesting social experiment.

  Jack leans his forehead against mine and smiles. ‘That’s good, because I won’t share you again.’ He plants a little kiss on my nose.

  ‘I love you, Mel.’

  ‘Um Jack?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He’s nuzzling my hair. I pull away.

  ‘I’ve got no job and I’m going to have to sell my apartment.’

  He grins, picks up his bike and pushes it along with one hand on the central bar of the handlebars, his helmet slung over the handgrip. He takes my hand in his free hand and we walk back along the trail toward home.

  ‘That’s great’ he says, ‘Let someone else’s girlfriend parade around in the psychedelic Lycra knickers. I’m finally going to get my live in sex slave.’

  I giggle. ‘Actually, Jack about Lycra knickers...’

  Short-dated? By Ross Sully

  Melanie Short, Racing Feat winner and recent tabloid favourite, has been categorically dumped after a short and sweet liaison with swain, Rico Black. Black has done a runner and popping up on the other side of the Tasman where the scurrilous-but-likeable former NZTV cameraman is tipped to become the next leading man in the Australian version of popular reality show The Bachelor. Meanwhile, Short’s relationship with her employer, Sportzgirl, appears also to have run its course. Hints by industry insiders indicate Short’s billboards will be given short-shift as soon as the sports apparel giant concludes secret talks with the Chief’s rugby cheerleading squad. Undoubtedly, lovely Melanie is holding the short straw in the aftermath of the reality blockbuster. And while everyone knows fortunes can be made in reality, what is less evident is failure to capitalise on that brief moment in the limelight can just as quickly turn today’s reality stars into yesterday’s reality has-beens. How long then before Short reaches her crucial sell-by date and is sidelined by a viewing public well-known for its pitifully short memory?

  Epilogue

  Running a business from the back room of our Pillans Point bungalow isn’t easy, especially since Jack’s bike is in the hallway awaiting a new wheel and there are fabric and garment samples scattered on every surface. Surrounded by boxes, Caro is sitting propped up on the spare bed - my old bed - surrounded by boxes, an inventory list on her knees. She’s busy ticking off items intended for the new launch date. Her little forehead is wrinkled in concentration. I’ve promised her we’ll check out the progress on the new riding arena if we can get it done before lunch.

  Jack’s been fabulous, too. He’s not here right now. He just whipped down to put the last coat of paint in the back room of our new premises, a boutique store next-door-but-one to the Sportzgirl Warehouse (Winston’s toady cheeks will be puffing up to double the size when he discovers who his new neighbours are.) Jack’s spent most of the school holidays helping us kit out the store, and when he hasn’t been busy playing caretaker he’s been listening to Janeen and me rabbit on about our plans, intervening with the odd suggestion, making us dinner, and later when he and I are alone, rubbing my neck and helping me relax in other distracting ways. Still, I expect he’ll be pleased to get back to an ordinary week of smelly gym shoes and chewed off pencils.

  I used the equity from the sale of my sixth floor apartment (and the modest capital gain) to go into partnership with Janeen. We’re about to commence trading in our new company, Kiwi Gear for Real Women. It’s a range of sportswear for ordinary Kiwi girls whose average size is 14. Practical gear that looks good and is comfortable enough to train in.

  Janeen’s creative self is zinging with energy at the moment. She’s driving the design side of the venture, although I pride myself that some of my whinging and moaning about the Sportzgirl gear were part of her inspiration. There isn’t much clingy Lycra in the Kiwi Gear range, although some items include a comfortable performance fabric with four-way stretch. Janeen’s sweats typically have longer lines (to hide self-conscious bottoms) and the pants are semi-seamless with well-padded narrow gussets and pockets for car keys. There’s a neat new thermal on the drawing board with a hole in the sleeve for your thumb and a longer topside cuff. Taking advantage of the natural stretch in merino, you can pull the sleeves over your fingers if the temperature drops. The first focus groups results show it’s a hot favourite with new mums who exercise with babes in push-chairs as it saves the oning-and-offing of gloves. And the colours are lovely; soft greys and beiges, fresh whites and basic blacks. In fact, the range is completely neon-less.

  My role in the new company is more of the back-room girl. Well, me and Caro. Janeen is out visiting our textiles supplier, whom she’s been seeing a lot of lately, and not in an entirely professional capacity either. I’m excited and anxious for her. As far as taking a less visible role in the business goes, the arrangement suits me. I’ve been dusting off some of the marketing skills Cushla and Marcus paid for years ago. My family are delighted with the recent changes in my life.

  Cushla and Marcus are coming to our opening night scheduled for a week away. Cushla hasn’t renewed her subscription to the Omokoroa Garden Club after a bit of sleuthing revealed one of their number to be the forwarder of the bum photo. Colin and Candy aren’t attending the opening, but I didn’t really expect them to come from Australia, so I’m not too disappointed. Charlie and Ben won’t be there either. They’re in Vanuatu investigating Ben’s idea for ‘wild food treks’ in which adventure tourists cook and eat beetles and wild things, but I’m pleased to say Cherry’s coming. She’s promised to do my hair and make-up before the event. Already the invitation RSVP list looks promising. Valerie Adams has said she might come. We have our fingers crossed. Kiwi Gear might not ever be a Fortune 500 company, but so far we’ve been having fun with it and we’re not bankrupt yet. At the very least it’s something we’re proud of and can believe in.

  ‘Caro, you okay there? I’m going to make a quick phone call.’ A little muffle of assent emanates from behind the wall of boxes. Taking the phone to the dining room table, I shove the newspaper and a store fitting brochure out of the way and slide a fresh notepad toward me. I dial the number.

  ‘Hello? Belle magazine? My name is Melanie Short. I have a telephone appointment with the editor.’ I doodle on my pad while I wait for the receptionist to put me through.

  ‘Hello, Ms Short? Are you the reality television girl?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’m the
same Melanie Short, but I’m not the girl that was portrayed on television. I’m trying to reinvent myself as an ordinary Kiwi girl.’

  When I get off the phone I’m a magazine columnist. Well, almost. I’ve been commissioned to write a single article about getting started in a fitness program. Nothing too ambitious. Just 500 words. They want me to write about all the emotions from suffering to success, the trials that go with getting started. What works and what doesn’t. Hints like running with a friend, investing in good shoes, and avoiding itchy, strangly, ride-up-your-bottom underpants. The people at Belle aren’t promising anything, only that first spot. But if it goes down well with readers there could be more. There could even be some Government funds available for series of fitness articles, although oversubscribing in the first round means future funds may be curtailed, so I won’t count on it.

  The back door closes, a whiff of paint comes wafting down the hallway, and a paint-splattered Jack appears in the kitchen.

  ‘All done,’ he announces, as he plops a turpsy kiss on my cheek. ‘I’ll hop in the shower and get cleaned up.’ He disappears back down the hall. Tucking the pad with my editor’s details on top of the fridge for safe-keeping, I look in on Caro.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Aw, Aunty Mel, you made me lose count. I need to start this box again.’

  ‘Whoops, sorry sweetheart. I promise not to bother you again. Call me when you’re finished, okay?’

  Then I dash down the hall to join Jack in the shower.

  The Short Recipe for Marathon Success:

  Novice Runners