Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

I realise immediately that I’ve been duped. How the hell can this lot be ‘slow’ when all eight of them look so fit? They are a collective breach of the Trade Descriptions Act.

  ‘Oooh, you’re back!’ says a voice as I spin round and see Mau grinning at me. ‘I see you’re sticking to more civilised speeds this time though.’

  ‘I thought it wise,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, me too. I decided a couple of weeks ago that all that exertion in the middle group wasn’t for me. It didn’t half make my hair flop.’

  ‘So how do speed sessions work?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, the idea is that we run at a steady pace at first, then have a blast and go as fast as possible for a set distance . . . then slow right down again to recover.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod tentatively.

  ‘Then we do it all again. They reckon it’s one of the most efficient ways to improve fitness. But don’t worry – if it gets too much, you and I can just cheat again,’ she grins. ‘I have no qualms whatsoever about that, I promise you.’

  I set off at the back of the group feeling nervous – about the run and about Doctor Dishy. Seeing him tonight has made my crush explode, and confirmed that I’m doing the right thing by joining the club.

  Yet I also know that this comes at a price: it’s only a matter of time before I’m hit by the acidic burn in my lungs I experienced last time. I am suddenly filled with doubt. After a few minutes of running, however, a strange realisation dawns on me: I feel okay.

  That positive thought lasts all of three seconds – at which point the group launches, unannounced, into a sprint, making it completely clear why it’s called a speed session. I pump my arms and legs, pushing myself forward at a pace I never thought possible unless I was being chased with a meat cleaver. It is at about the point when I am close to collapse that we slow . . . right down . . . and I gradually recover until I’m in a vaguely comfortable state.

  Comfortable.

  You might not think this is much. Some people would say ‘exhilarated’, ‘dynamic’ or ‘high on life’, but I’m satisfied with comfortable. Comfortable is, frankly, a miracle.

  That is not to say that by the end of the session, I’m not exhausted, because I am. But when Jess sprints over and asks how I got on, I’m relieved to be able to answer without reacquainting myself with everything I’ve eaten since breakfast.

  ‘This is all right, isn’t it?’ I manage, between pants.

  She’s barely able to hide her surprise. ‘We wouldn’t do it otherwise!’

  As the cool-down session begins, I start to experience a mysterious thing I’ve heard others talk about: a buzz. It’s incredible.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder as I’m stretching out my hamstring. I spin round and come face to face with an unfeasibly muscular chest in a simple navy T-shirt.

  ‘You look significantly better than last time,’ Tom says. ‘I thought I ought to tell you.’

  I can’t help smiling. ‘That’s not saying a great deal.’

  He appears to have barely broken a sweat in the last hour, and when he lifts up his arm to stretch, I get a waft of nothing nasty – just a soft, spicy aftershave. ‘Geraldine will still be trying to rope you into the women’s Ten K soon,’ he tells me.

  ‘I doubt that,’ I reply, ‘unless you mean she’s looking for someone to carry her bag.’

  Chapter 20

  The second Jess starts the engine of her car, I explode in a froth of girlish superlatives. ‘Oliver is so much more fanciable than I remembered. He is gorgeous! I never thought I’d find a motivation to run round getting hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, but he makes it all worthwhile.’

  We’re on our way to her house for a quick shower, before heading to the pub for a gossip and soft drink. Yes, you heard that right. Pub. Soft drink. Words that haven’t gone together in my vocabulary since I was eleven.

  ‘You still have the hots for him then?’

  ‘Oh, you can tell?’ I say ironically. ‘The thing is, I get the impression he likes me too. I’m normally the last person to notice these things, but I can sense him trying to flirt with me – in fact, I’m certain of it. Yet at the same time, I think he finds it a struggle because he’s a genuine, unassuming guy who doesn’t go in for demonstrative stuff. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Jess, concentrating on the road.

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Do you know something? Is he seeing someone else?’

  ‘No! Don’t be so paranoid,’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’s seeing someone else. So, what’s your plan? Are you going to wait till he asks you on a date?’

  I squirm. ‘It hardly ever happens like that these days.’

  ‘What do you mean, “these days”?’ she pouts. ‘It’s not that long since I went out on dates, you know.’

  ‘Really? I thought it was the 1930s when you and Adam were courting,’ I tease. ‘I get the feeling Oliver isn’t the sort of guy to just boldly ask me out. I need to manufacture an excuse to be on a night out with him and take it from there. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll get my thinking cap on.’

  By the time we arrive at Jess’s house, both children are in bed and Adam is in his slippers, leafing through the Economist.

  ‘How’re things, Adam?’ I ask, taking a seat at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Abby,’ he replies, returning to his magazine. Ever the conversationalist.

  ‘How’s your evening been?’ asks Jess as he plants a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Not bad, darling. Jamie’s been playing up – said he didn’t want to go to bed before you came home. I think I’ve managed to get him off now. But Lola went down like a dream. Finished her bottle tonight too.’

  ‘Good. Do you mind if I pop out again with Abby?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replies.

  ‘Great. I’ll have a quick shower while Abby keeps you company.’

  He looks about as pleased at this prospect as I feel, but as Jess disappears upstairs, I feel obliged to head to the kitchen to join him. He shifts uncomfortably as I sit opposite.

  ‘It’s your wedding anniversary soon, isn’t it?’ I ask.

  He coughs and looks up from his magazine. ‘Um, yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh. No reason. Doing anything special?’

  But before he can answer, his mobile rings. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, standing as he picks it up. Adam’s an investment manager – a job that seems to involve permanently being on the phone. He paces to the other side of the room and launches into a barrage of work-talk, which continues until Jess appears, towel-drying her hair shortly afterwards.

  ‘Shower’s free, Abby,’ she says as Adam puts down the phone.

  ‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ I reply.

  ‘Significantly quicker than my wife then,’ smirks Adam, and it strikes me that he can loosen up when he wants to, after all.

  Chapter 21

  Convinced that my second session at the running club was a fluke, part of me is dreading the third. And the fourth. And the fifth and sixth. But after a couple of weeks, an unlikely transformation begins – and I start to experience something approaching . . . keenness.

  I’d be the first to admit that this cannot be entirely attributed to a newfound enthusiasm for exercise. The sexual tension between Doctor Dishy and me is building by the day, the lack of opportunity to take things further – combined with his irresistibly sweet, unassuming nature – making me delirious with lust.

  That said, the exercise is undoubtedly getting easier. I feel fitter, slimmer and have energy levels that I haven’t known since I was seven. Plus, whether I’ll ever be a credible runner or not, I can say one thing with absolute confidence: I’m better at running than at Hula Hooping.

  Which is why, on the advice of Bernie at Diet Busters, I have decided to slot in one extra run per week. According to the Diet Busters’ diet, if I do something that burns more than 250 calories an hour, for an extra half-hour per week, I’m allowed more fuel: the equivalent, in fact, of half
a Mars bar. I feel as though I deserve a skip full of Mars bars, but at Diet Busters you get your kicks where you can.

  So I go for a run on my own on a balmy, Indian-summer evening round Sefton Park – looking blissfully scruffy without the carefully-applied-but-oh-so-natural blanket of make-up required in Doctor Dishy’s presence.

  I am playing at being one of ‘them’, those who enjoy this sort of thing, and as my feet strike the pavement, the streets bathed in copper light, I picture myself as a sportswear model. You know the type: not only slim and attractive, but capable of running with the speed of a panther as the sublime mechanics of their body power them into the sunset – usually to the tune of an appropriate soft-trance anthem.

  Not being in possession of any soft-trance anthems, I unearthed an album on iTunes called That’s What I Call the 100 Best Running Songs Now! Or something like that.

  It’s brilliant. I’m considering piping it into the office, simply because it’s impossible to hear ‘Lust for Life’ by Iggy Pop, ‘I Gotta Feeling’ by the Black Eyed Peas or ‘Toca’s Miracle’ by Fragma without hiking up one’s tempo by several hundred beats per minute.

  I run for nearly half an hour but the time flies and I find myself in an almost hypnotic state. Then, with half a kilometre to go, ‘Footloose’ by Kenny Loggins bursts in my ears. The song is so naff, so daft, so . . . utterly bloody fabulous!

  I have no breath to spare, but something in me manages to utter the words kick off yo’ Sunday shoes . . .

  I head for my imaginary finish line, clicking my fingers to the music, as imaginary crowds cheer. Heidi – or rather, Imaginary Heidi – is at the sidelines, shouting as if every step brings us closer to the cause. Next to her is Jess with the kids, then my mum and dad and – oh, be still, my throbbing knickers! – Doctor Dishy. He’s gazing at me with longing, poised to scoop me up and smother me with the sort of kisses that set off natural disasters.

  A shot of adrenalin fires through me as the song gets faster – and camper – the closer it is to the crescendo. Just as Kenny sounds as if his vocal cords are caught on the edge of a Catherine wheel, I cross my imaginary finish line.

  The closing bars bolt through me with all their eighties’ fabulousness and I leap in the air, my arms aloft as I’m unable to stop myself from erupting in a triumphant: ‘YES!’

  I close my eyes and gather my breath, suddenly knowing what sporting achievement must feel like. I feel it vividly: the glory of it, the pain of it, the . . .

  ‘Is she all right?’

  I open my eyes to see a man’s face, as brown and wrinkly as a walnut. He’s smiling, but with a distinct note of surprise, as if his Meals on Wheels lady had just served him stir-fried zebra.

  I am about to assure him that I’m absolutely tip-top, when someone beats me to it.

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine, Grandad.’

  And not for the first time since I met Tom Bronte, I wish I was somewhere else.

  Chapter 22

  ‘You obviously had a good run,’ Tom says. He’s doing that expression again – the one caught between deadpan and amusement. It is deeply unnerving, but not quite as unnerving as him seeing me leap about like a court jester on acid.

  ‘Um . . . yes. I may have beaten my personal best,’ I say, then feel ridiculous again. I sound as if I think I’m Linford Christie.

  ‘Good for you. You certainly looked like you were getting into it.’

  ‘Did I?’ I reply casually.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he says. ‘You’ve got Now That’s What I Call the 100 Best Ever Running Songs on your iPod.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’d recognise that compulsive air-punching anywhere. Just don’t put on “Eye of the Tiger” when anyone’s looking or you might be arrested.’

  ‘D’you know, you’ve got the look of somebody,’ the old man announces. His voice is warm and soft, as if he should be doing voiceovers for Werther’s Originals.

  ‘Who’s that, Grandad?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Your Aunt Reeny.’

  Tom’s mouth twitches to a smile. ‘You said that about the check-out girl in Tesco yesterday. And the woman who came to do your feet last Thursday. And that girl who—’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s a common look,’ he protests, before his eyes widen again. ‘By which I mean . . . not common. Not common at all. A very nice look. Our Reeny was never short on admirers,’ he reassures me, clearly concerned I’m going to need psychotherapy after that comment.

  ‘Grandad,’ says Tom, suppressing a smile, ‘I’d like you to meet Abby. She’s a friend from the running club.’

  I hold out my hand to shake his and am astonished to discover that his grip nearly crushes my knuckles. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ I say.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Grandad lives over the road,’ says Tom, nodding to a street of small but smart terraced houses.

  ‘Nice,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ he smiles. ‘I’ve done a bit of the old Sixty-Minute Makeover on it over the years. Are you on Twitter?’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Er, yes. Are you?’

  ‘Oh, aye. I’ll look you up. If you don’t mind, that is. Got nearly five hundred followers, me.’

  I look at Tom. ‘He’s not joking,’ he laughs.

  ‘What’s your name? Here – write it down, will you, boy.’

  Tom nods. ‘I will, Grandad. I will.’

  ‘Well,’ I say awkwardly, suddenly aware that I couldn’t look less glamorous if I was wearing a nuclear protection suit. ‘I’d better be off. Nice to see you, Tom. And you too – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  The old man smiles. ‘Grandad.’

  Chapter 23

  Jess has never been a big eater. Compared with me, she has the appetite of a calorie-obsessed harvest mouse. Previously, it never bothered me; I accepted that I was one of life’s gannets, while she was one of those weirdos happy to skip meals, claiming they’ve ‘forgotten’ to eat. I’ve never worked out how that’s possible. My memory is conveniently jogged each day by the fact that if I don’t re-fuel before 1 p.m. I turn into the Incredible Hulk.

  Tonight, however, as Jess and I are out to dinner while Adam has taken the children for an overnight stay at their grandma’s, she is hardly eating at all. In fact, she’s been pushing asparagus around her plate as if she’s teaching it synchronised swimming for the past half-hour. It’s driving me potty.

  ‘Jess. Eat that asparagus or I’ll eat it for you.’

  She looks up, stunned. ‘Sorry. I was in a dreamworld,’ she replies, prodding her fork into a spear.

  The food on my plate – low fat, sauce on the side – was demolished ages ago, well before the sun set.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ She has that indefinable look on her face again.

  ‘Wrong?’ She takes a sip of wine.

  ‘You seem distracted.’

  She puts down her knife and fork, defeated by the dinner. ‘Do I? Oh, it’s nothing. Work stuff. You wouldn’t believe how crazy it is. I sometimes wonder what I let myself in for, going back.’

  A waiter whisks away our plates and offers us dessert. We both refuse – me with significantly more resentment than Jess.

  ‘So that’s all?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes – why? Am I acting suspiciously or something?’

  ‘It’s like sitting in the library with Colonel Mustard, the lead piping and a dead body.’

  She picks up her napkin and shakes it. ‘It’s nothing, honestly.’

  I nod, unconvinced. ‘Where were you last night, by the way? I tried to give you a ring.’

  ‘Out with work,’ she says. ‘A client meeting. Anyway: let’s talk about your birthday. Are you still not planning to do anything?’

  Oh . . . hang on a minute. Hang on just a minute! How could I have been so stupid? Jess is cooking up something for my birthday in a couple of weeks – she must be.

  I know twenty-nine is hardly a landmark, but Jess is a lunatic when it comes to birt
hdays – she makes a ridiculous amount of fuss about them. Now I think about it, she’s been hinting all week. I’d told everyone I was doing nothing except perhaps grabbing a drink after work, but there’s no doubt my friend has other plans. Even if she isn’t very good at hiding them.

  ‘I’m having a quiet one,’ I reply, trying to stop my mouth from twitching.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. A few drinks after work. You said,’ she says innocently.

  She is an abysmal liar. The second the words are out of her mouth I am consumed by possibilities about what she has planned. A little get-together? Dinner with friends? Oooh! . . . Maybe Oliver!

  The thought sends a shiver of pleasure down my back.

  If Doctor Dishy is involved, then I have to prepare. I’ll need a spray tan. My hair done. I might even push out the boat and get a pedicure – though my feet aren’t exactly what I want him gazing at all night.

  ‘That’s okay by you, isn’t it?’ I continue, scrutinising her reaction. ‘Me just having a quiet birthday, I mean.’

  She looks into my eyes and does her best Oscar-winning performance. ‘By me? Of course . . . Oh.’

  I frown. ‘What do you mean “oh”?’

  ‘Abby, would you like me to organise something else for your birthday?’

  She wouldn’t win a part in a school play with that one.

  ‘No, no,’ I protest, playing along. ‘Of course not. You’ve enough on your plate. And I’m busy anyway.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Have you started your fundraising for the MS charity yet?’

  ‘No – I need to start soon. And decide on my race.’

  ‘You want a half-marathon?’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder if I’ll get away with a Ten K,’ I muse.

  She taps the table as if I’ve tried to fob her off with walking up two flights of stairs. ‘You need something that’ll stretch you. I’m sure I heard there’s a new half-marathon being organised in Liverpool at the end of January. That’s four and a half months from now. They say if you possess a basic level of fitness you need four. So you should be fine.’