by Sara Foster
Instead, he decides to visit the rec room on the opposite side of campus, and try the vending machine. Perhaps there will be someone there prepared to give him a game of table football, although it’s a long shot. Most of his friends will only just be hauling themselves out of bed right now, just like Zac on any other day.
As he crosses the main school courtyard, he gets a good view down the hill, and spots a few cars snaking their way along the school driveway. Soon these paths will be full of his peers, gossiping and speculating about what happened last night to his sister and his cousin. He hurries on, nausea replacing his hunger.
When he gets to the rec room he looks around and his heart sinks – not one boy in here yet, just a few groups of girls. He scans quickly for Maddie, but isn’t surprised to find that she’s not there. Two of her best friends are, though – Jacinta and Zoe, leaders of the beautiful crowd. He’s never known them to be here so early, and he curses his bad luck. They are deep in conversation and he turns again, hoping to find a quiet corner in which to hunker down before he is noticed. Alas, one of them shouts, ‘Zac!’ Reluctantly, he turns and walks over.
‘OMG, we heard about Sophia,’ Zoe says, as they both scrutinise him, eager eyes shining with curiosity rather than concern, searching for more tidbits. They remind him of the crows along the valley who gather at the first sign of a picnic.
‘Have you spoken to Maddie?’ he asks, already hurt at the thought she may have made contact with them first.
‘Not yet. So, what happened?’
Zac shrugs. ‘Hit-and-run. Georgia was there too, but she got out of the way in time.’
The girls stare at one another in showy horror. Zac feels uneasy. He turns to go.
‘Zac,’ Jacinta says behind him.
There is a high, callous edge to her voice that makes Zac think of a cat toying with its prey. He turns, ready for the strike.
‘You need to get over Maddie,’ Jacinta says, as primly as any schoolteacher. ‘She’s your cousin. It’s a little bit sick.’
Behind her, Zoe puts a hand over her mouth and titters.
Zac pauses while he takes in what he just heard. ‘She’s my uncle’s stepdaughter,’ he responds eventually, but he knows his face is betraying him. He can feel his cheeks burning.
‘O-kay . . .’ Jacinta laughs, her jaw jutting out in a horrible guffaw, a glint in her eye that brings to mind one word – bitch – that Zac stops himself from saying aloud – but only just.
‘Piss off, Jacinta,’ he snaps instead, and walks away before they can say more, hearing both girls burst into laughter behind him. He heads for the toilet where he sits in a cubicle while his face returns to its normal colour. In those few minutes he despairs of ever understanding girls. Does Maddie laugh at him behind his back too? He had thought they were friends, but does she just see him as a lovesick pup?
Women, he thinks, nothing but trouble, recalling a refrain he’s heard countless times from his friends, his dad and his uncle. Time to toughen up, Zac, he tells himself. Or, as Cooper would say, Don’t be a pussy all your life.
Just then his mobile rings. There are so many people he doesn’t want to talk to right now that he nearly doesn’t bother looking at it. But curiosity gets the better of him and he takes it out of his pocket.
Maddie.
Embarrassment still rules him, and before he can think, he has rejected the call. As soon as he cuts her off, he regrets it. He should have found out if Sophia is okay. Yet, however much he wants to know, he can still feel his face burning at her friends’ words, and he can’t quite bring himself to call back.
5
GEORGIA
Georgia’s alarm goes off punctually at 7.30 – it’s time to get ready for school. She emerges from a haze, unsure how much she has actually slept, because in the small hours when she finally managed to doze she became lost in an assault of terrifying images that felt much closer to her consciousness than a nightmare. The aching weariness of her body suggests that she has had little rest, but that could just be a reaction to the events of last night.
Sophia, she thinks with a jolt. Automatically, she checks her phone. Sophia sometimes messages before school – usually something funny about her family and their fights for the bathroom, or just to say hello. But there is no cheery greeting this morning, and the sense of unreality that has begun to cushion Georgia’s distress pops like a balloon. Last night was no dream. Sophia is in hospital somewhere. Sophia has been hurt.
Georgia’s arm and elbow begin to throb, and she reaches for the painkillers on her bedside table. She removes the dressing and looks at the wound – while it’s sore it is obviously superficial, which is a relief. The fell-running championship is tomorrow, and this is not just another race. Georgia has a point to prove.
While she has been sleeping, at least a dozen new messages from friends have arrived via text or Facebook, asking if she’s okay. She hadn’t realised what strange hours everyone keeps until now. Plus, right at the bottom as she scrolls, her phone tells her she has missed a call. She clicks on the little box and is taken to her call register, where a number she doesn’t recognise is highlighted in red, the word ‘unknown’ written underneath. It is the call from last night, the one she hadn’t had time to take before that car had stolen up behind them and turned life on its head. She dials her message bank, but whoever it was hasn’t left a voicemail. She considers phoning the number, but she doesn’t like not knowing who she’s ringing, and besides, it’s still so early. If they really want her, they will call her back, won’t they?
Of course, it could be him, but unless he’s changed his number she already has it in her phone. She realises that for the first time since term started, she had nearly got out of bed without completing her morning ritual. She reaches down the side of her bed for her diary, pulls out the photograph and stares at it, frowning. Why does she still do this? Perhaps because there is little else to remind her that it had been real. She quickly pushes the photo back between the pages and hides the diary again. Then she falls back on her bed, remembering.
• • •
It had rained all summer. It drove Georgia mad, not just the rain itself but the fact that it was all anyone seemed to talk about. Apparently it was stopping people from having a life, though it made little difference to Georgia. Each morning she ran her usual route, which took her through the woods, past the top edge of the school grounds and around in a large loop back towards home. By the time she’d finished the five kilometres, her shoes, socks and legs were invariably splattered with mud. She could count on her mother to make mention of how dirty she was as soon as she walked in, which always riled Georgia. What was the problem? Everything washed. Okay, her trainers would never be the same, but nothing stayed new forever.
For the first half of the holidays, Georgia’s afternoon ritual was just as consistent as her morning runs: hanging out with Sophia at the shops or in one another’s bedrooms. Then in August, Sophia’s family went off to France for three weeks to visit Helene’s relatives, and time seemed to slacken while Georgia waited for them to come back. The long, empty afternoons became loose and aimless, and the rain finally began to bother her too.
It was during this time that she first saw him. He had raced past her on the final uphill section in the woods before she turned onto the gravel path near her house. He was so close, almost sprinting, it seemed to her, and she could time her footsteps to his heavy breaths. He didn’t look back and she watched him disappear between the trees, neon trainers flashing. By the end of the day she had forgotten about him.
On the second occasion they passed one another while she was on the outward leg of her run, and he caught her eye and smiled. He looked a bit older than Georgia – early twenties, maybe – and because his black T-shirt clung to him in the persistent drizzle she couldn’t fail to notice the sculpted curves of his torso. He was absent the next day, but there he was again the following morning, and as she carried on past him she heard him shout, ‘Hey!�
� When she stopped and looked around he was walking back to her, the rain dripping down his face. His skin was tanned, his short hair a deep, rich brown, and his eyes had a friendly slant to them. When he fixed his gaze on her, Georgia was glad she was already red from running.
‘You do this every day?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I didn’t think there was anyone else out there as nuts as me,’ he laughed, holding his hands out to catch the downpour. ‘Running in the rain.’
‘I did the Derwent Water swim back in May,’ she told him. ‘And I thought I might have a go at the Keswick triathlon next year.’
He nodded. ‘I haven’t heard of them, but I’m new to the area. I’ve done a couple of Ironmans in my time, though.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m Leo.’
‘Georgia,’ she replied, taking his hand, finding it hot and slippery.
‘Well, good luck, Georgia,’ he said, beginning to jog backwards as he spoke. Then he turned around. ‘See you tomorrow!’ he shouted with his arm raised in a wave.
She had thought that was the end of it. Even though she began to watch out for him on her runs. Even though she made sure she always set off at the same time, to increase her chances of bumping into him. And even though she became acutely aware of how she looked when she ran, making an effort to keep her back straight and her head high, cursing herself when she stumbled. She would anticipate each sharp turn, wondering if she might see him on the track, and a frustrating week followed when all she saw was the empty route ahead of her.
Yet despite all her efforts to look her best, the next time she saw him she was wearing fancy dress. He had come into the Cosy Corner Cafe one lunchtime the week after they’d first met, while she was covering a lunch shift. It was a casual job she’d taken on over the past couple of summers which saw Susan Arnold ring her when she was short-staffed. The worst thing about it was the French maid’s uniform – the little white apron that tied around her waist and the old-fashioned frilly hat covering her hair – which on Sophia’s first visit she had pronounced ‘stripper with shower cap’, and fallen about laughing. Susan insisted it had to be worn, however, so the tourists would feel they were somewhere authentic – as though a visit to the Lake District was also a trip back in time to the generalised era called ‘quaint’. Since the tourism industry was their bread and butter, the locals would do almost anything to help it thrive, even though these sightseers sometimes seemed to possess brain cells akin to the local sheep population, always clogging up roads or getting themselves into entirely avoidable scrapes on the hillsides.
Georgia had glanced up from rearranging sandwiches when the cow bell jangled over the door, and the sight of Leo was so unexpected she didn’t place him straightaway – wearing jumper and jeans rather than T-shirt and running shorts. When it clicked she instinctively turned away and gripped the counter in front of the coffee machine. He couldn’t see her like this.
‘Hello?’ he said.
She was trapped. Slowly, she turned around.
‘A cheese roll to take away, please.’ He was inspecting the change in his hand and then pointed to the deli counter, and for a moment she thought she might get away with it if she kept quiet. She gripped the roll with a pair of tongs and slid it into a paper bag, setting it in front of him. But he looked up as he handed the money over, then he did a double take and his smile widened.
‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘How’s the running going?’
He had paid no attention to her costume, and she relaxed. ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘And what about you?’ She hesitated. ‘I haven’t seen you lately.’
He collected his roll from the counter. ‘No, I’ve found another route.’
‘Ah, that explains it, then.’ She turned away quickly in case her face displayed her disappointment, and pretended to busy herself wiping down chopping boards. She waited for the bells at the door to chime, to signal he was gone, but when they didn’t she slowly looked up again, to find him still there, still watching her, still smiling.
‘Would you like to come running with me one morning? It doesn’t seem right to keep such a beautiful place to myself.’
The question took her by surprise and she could feel herself blushing. He’s not asking you out. It’s only a run.
‘Okay, yes, that would be great. Fine. I’d love to.’ She stopped, fearing she was gabbling.
He kept smiling. Something inside her was fizzing, melting, she was finding it hard to stand still. She gripped the formica top to stop herself from swaying.
‘Great, I’ll meet you at Tarn Hows – do you know where that is?’
She laughed. ‘Everyone from round here knows Tarn Hows – it’s such a beautiful lake. I can see why you’re taken with it – the scenery is stunning, and the run is nice and flat too, which is pretty unusual here.’
He grinned back. ‘You’re right, it’s made a change from the woodland tracks. So, is tomorrow any good? I can pick you up if that helps?’
‘No, that’s okay, I can get there,’ she said quickly. The thought of him in the vicinity of the family had far too much potential for embarrassment. ‘I know where it is. I’ll meet you tomorrow – what time?’
‘Is half-past seven too early? In the car park?’
‘No, that’s good,’ she said, alarmed at a strange croak in her voice, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. Instead he had whipped out his phone.
‘What’s your number?’ He keyed in the digits as she recited them. ‘I’ll text you mine.’ He was moving away now. ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He waved his brown paper bag at her as he opened the door.
She remembered the rest of that afternoon well. She had spent most of it slopping tea into saucers and asking people to repeat their orders. She had watched the clock, telling herself that in seventeen, sixteen, fifteen hours she would be running alongside Leo. And she had checked and rechecked the message that popped up on her phone just before closing time, which simply read, Here’s my number. See you tomorrow.
• • •
It has only been a couple of months since that day, and yet when Georgia thinks back it is as though she is watching a different person, one entirely unaware of the calamitous course she was set upon. She drags herself back to the present and out of bed. She’s had enough of reminiscing for now, even though often she cannot help herself. She tiptoes to the bathroom, praying the rest of the household are still asleep. She doesn’t want to see anyone yet, but once she is in the little room she realises that she can’t face a shower this morning – she doesn’t want to re-examine her bruises too closely. Instead, she quickly splashes water over various parts of her body, drying off and putting her dressing-gown back on. She listens for any sounds outside, half-expecting her mother to be waiting for her in the corridor, but she can’t hear anything.
She hurries back to her bedroom and pulls on her school uniform. She is planning to make some toast and eat it while she walks, then get to school early and maybe head for the library. It is bad enough trying to avoid her mother at home, but Georgia feels particularly unlucky that she has to dodge her all day at school too. Only one other girl has a parent working at the school – whenever they see each other they exchange sympathetic glances.
Georgia begins to collect things to make breakfast, still thinking about her mum. One of Sophia and Georgia’s favourite topics is moaning about their mothers. While her dad and Uncle Liam are happy to let the girls get on with things, their mothers seem to form a continual blockade to their decisions – always asking questions, always wanting to know more. It is infuriating.
By the kettle she sees a note in Zac’s scrawly handwriting. He’s gone to school already, which is weird; normally their mother has to drag him out of bed. She remembers how pale he was when they got home and wonders how the night’s events have affected him. She will find him today and make sure he is okay. She can look after Zac, at least. She feels a burst of energy now the day has a bit more purpose, something to distract her from the b
urgeoning dread of what may come.
While making her toast she hears footsteps on the stairs, but moments later it is her dad who peers around the door in his dressing-gown. Her father isn’t normally up before she leaves, and today he comes straight across to her and sweeps her into a hug, which makes her want to cry, which in turn makes her angry when she is trying so hard to be brave and get on with things.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night,’ he says, moving her back gently so he can look at her, catching her elbow and making her wince. He notices her expression straightaway. ‘Can I see the damage?’
Silently she pulls up the arm of her school jumper and he grimaces. ‘Looks painful. How are you feeling this morning? Do you want to talk about it?’
She shrugs. ‘Not really.’ But then catches his eye. ‘How’s Sophia, have you heard anything?’
The fear and shake is clear in her voice. Her father puts a hand on her shoulder and comes close, waiting until she looks at him. When she meets his eyes they are full of sympathy. ‘She’s broken her leg, but she’s stable, honey,’ he says, his gaze steady. ‘She’ll be okay. I’m going to get dressed and go to the hospital. You can come with me if you like – no one expects you to go to school today.’
Georgia conjures the scene in her mind: Sophia lying pale and inert in her hospital bed, Uncle Liam and Auntie Helene’s shocked, distraught faces. The thought terrifies her. ‘No thanks, but can you do me a favour – let me know how she is as soon as you see her? I just don’t think I can bear it today . . . I’m sorry.’
She stalls, wanting to explain the irrational feeling of guilt that keeps sweeping over her when she thinks of Sophia, but unable to find the right words.
