The other reason I’m developing a quiet confidence is the cause: the more I read about MS, the more compelled I am to act, and the more sure that others will want to help too. How can a disease affect eighty-five thousand people in this country – two and a half million worldwide – and there not be a cure? How can this condition be allowed to take hold of people in the prime of their lives – between the ages of twenty and forty – and there be no firm idea of why?
My first step is to prioritise, so I list ten large-ish organisations to approach straight away. Then I compose my killer email, targeting companies I think will consider making a substantial donation. I reread it until it’s perfect, with just the right amount of information about MS itself, as well as my personal battle to train for January’s half-marathon.
This is the first time I’ve done anything for charity other than buying the odd Big Issue or throwing loose change in a collection box. On the one hand, it’s given me a sense of purpose and pride; on the other, it makes me wonder what took me so long.
‘How much are you hoping to raise?’ asks Priya, who’s looking remarkably chipper given she’s just been dumped by an estate agent called Barry. He got back with an old flame after a boob job that’s reportedly so dramatic it’s given her an entirely new centre of gravity. ‘Have you set a target?’
Priya’s hair is pinker than ever today, her fringe fluffed up like the marabou puff on slippers you’d imagine Joan Collins wearing to a pyjama party.
‘No,’ I say non-committally. ‘I know I’m going to have to, but I haven’t decided yet what’s realistic.’
Hunky Matt looks up from his computer screen. ‘Didn’t you say a business has already pledged three thousand pounds?’
‘One business,’ I squirm, refusing to mention my mother. ‘I don’t think they’ll be typical. In fact, I’m certain of it.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ grins Priya. You’re very persuasive when you want to be. I think you should aim for . . .’ her eyes wander hazily around the room ‘. . . ten grand at least.’ She plucks the figure from the air as if calling out a bingo number.
‘What?!’ I reply. ‘I have a business to run as well, you know.’
‘Five grand then,’ says Heidi.
‘Seven!’ shouts Priya.
‘Eight!’ adds Matt.
‘What is this – Cash in the Bloody Attic?’ I splutter. ‘Get back to work, you lot. I’ll decide on my target once I get a feel of how much people are prepared to cough up.’
I spend all day waiting for a response. All day tapping my fingers on the desk as if they’re rehearsing for 42nd Street. All day hearing absolutely nothing. Then, at four-thirty, one of my red-hot prospects responds. The email, from Jane Lodge of Lodge, Savage & Co. Investments, lands in my inbox with a propitious clink and I open it with my heart fluttering in my throat.
Dear Abby,
Thanks for letting me know about your half-marathon. It sounds like a fantastic cause. Three cheers to you for all that training – I don’t know where you find the time and energy!
‘Me neither,’ I mutter. But so far so good.
Lodge, Savage & Co. has been a major charitable giver over the years, as you know. In these difficult economic times, however, we are duty bound to our shareholders and staff to ensure that the company outgoings are limited only to those that are absolutely necessary.
As a result, we have had no choice but to reduce our level of charitable donations this year, a move we clearly hope is temporary. What we do still give is channelled into our designated charity, the NSPCC.
I hear a groan escape from my lips.
Priya looks up. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yup,’ I reply, not wanting to share my defeat so early in the proceedings.
On a personal level, however, I am full of admiration for what you’re doing to raise funds for Multiple Sclerosis – and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working with you. I have therefore been delighted to make a personal donation, via your website.
Good luck Abby!
Jane Lodge
My roller-coaster of emotions – from hope to disappointment to hope again – leaves me spinning. This could be fine. In fact, this could be good. Clearly, the big bucks would’ve been from the company itself, but if Jane Lodge has donated privately, you never know . . .
The phone rings and I pick up rapidly, hoping it’s another red-hot company. ‘Hi, Abby!’
‘Oh, Egor,’ I say despondently.
‘What did I do to deserve that?’
‘Sorry – what can I do for you?’
Egor’s only phoning to request a time change for our next meeting, but I am somehow sucked into giving him a business update. Which hardly seems fair. It’s like being forced to sit an exam early, when you’ve still got several days of cramming to do.
Fortunately, most of my news is good. Invoices have been successfully chased up and the only enduring headache is from Preciseco, the engineering company. Having hounded them for weeks, they finally managed to pay – but only half, due to a ‘technical oversight’.
‘Well, these things happen,’ Egor concedes. ‘You just need to—’
‘Keep on at them, I know,’ I finish for him.
‘But everyone else is on time?’
‘Nobody’s quite matched Diggles Garden Centres’ record yet, but they’re not doing badly overall.’
‘And new business?’ asks Egor.
‘Also good. I’ve got a pitch tomorrow for a firm of architects. I’m not entirely sure of their budget, but hopefully that’ll become clear tomorrow.’
This is another lead from Tom. His own firm of architects, Caro & Co., are looking for a website redesign. I tendered my proposal two weeks ago and am down to the final three.
When Egor puts down the phone, I log on to my charity website page excitedly to see that there has been some activity.
‘Here we go, folks – our first online donation,’ I announce. The team gathers round my desk as if awaiting an email from the Oscar committee.
I click on Jane Lodge’s name and wait for it to load.
‘This isn’t bad going,’ grins Matt. ‘Okay, so you’ve only had a response from one of the ten you sent out your email to. But if this one is a three – or even four – figure sum, you’re well on your way. Jane Lodge is a wealthy woman, isn’t she?’
‘We’ll soon see,’ I reply, and the sum flashes up next to Jane’s name.
‘Five thousand pounds!’ Priya shrieks, with the frenzied pitch of a hyena that hasn’t eaten for several weeks. She jumps up and down, hugging Heidi, then Matt, then Heidi again. ‘That’s amazing, Abby!’
It takes me more than a minute to calm them down and mop up the Diet Coke she’s spilled over my invoice tray.
‘Not five thousand pounds, Priya,’ I inform her.
‘What?’ she says, bewildered.
‘Five . . . pounds.’
‘What?’ she repeats.
‘Five measly bloody pounds,’ I mutter.
‘Stingy cow,’ grimaces Priya.
‘That’s one of our clients you’re talking about,’ I say, as if I hadn’t thought she was tighter than a gnat’s backside myself.
Chapter 27
‘It wasn’t the flying start I was hoping for,’ I tell Tom as we limber up. ‘I think I made a mistake only contacting a few companies. At least I hope that was the issue, because I sent the email to about a hundred afterwards.’
Tom’s easier to talk to these days. I’m still conscious of his insanely good looks – you couldn’t not be – but they’re familiar now, no longer so intimidating. Couple that with the fact that our ugly insurance issues are now behind us and he seems to be not only a decent bloke, but also the source of lots of potential new business.
‘I’ll sponsor you,’ he assures me, stretching a bicep over his head.
‘Will you?’ I whimper, as if he’s offered to donate a kidney.
‘Of course. If five pounds is the going rate I might give you double,’ he grins.
I’ve been a running club member for a month and am now in training for my first five-kilometre race in the middle of October. That is only a few weeks away and, frankly, I feel more prepared for an Apollo space mission.
‘I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ Tom continues. ‘Fundraising’s a full-time career for some people.’
‘That’s what worries me. I struggle to keep on top of my own full-time career without this. But I can’t let Heidi down.’
He bends to stretch his thigh and I notice that several females have to battle to divert their eyes. It makes me glad that the object of my affection is Oliver and not someone like Tom. Geraldine must be permanently fighting off competition.
‘I know nothing about fundraising, but it doesn’t surprise me that it’s not easy with the economy like it is,’ he continues. ‘I’m sure your friend would be grateful for anything you raise, won’t she?’
‘That’s not the point. If I’m going through with this . . . running nonsense,’ I can’t help saying the words as if they’re laced with household bleach, ‘I want it to be for a good reason.’
‘Running nonsense?’ He laughs. ‘You don’t sound like someone who’s got the bug yet.’
‘Is that what you call it: a bug? It sometimes is as enjoyable as a viral infection, I’ll give you that.’
‘Okay, guys, have a good run,’ says Oliver, jogging energetically on the spot. My eyes are drawn to his slender thighs and I find myself tracing their contours. I look up and realise Tom’s spotted me. Mildly mortified, I turn away and join the slow group as they set off.
It soon becomes evident that my athletic performance tonight is going to mirror my fundraising efforts. It’s a perfectly still evening and the temperature couldn’t be more optimum if it was on a thermostat. Yet I trudge around the circuit, trying to summon some energy – and failing miserably.
There appears to be no reason for this. I’m not ill, and no more knackered than on any other evening. Yet when we reach the sports centre, all I want to do is lie down in a dark room, preferably with a large gin and tonic.
I head inside to begin changing, when Geraldine and Jess bound over. With perfect hair. And hardly any sweat. I try not to hold it against them.
‘Hi, Abby,’ Geraldine greets me. ‘Jess mentioned it’s your birthday tomorrow. How old are you?’
‘Twenty nine,’ I reply.
‘Ooh, you don’t look it,’ she beams. ‘I’d have said mid-twenties, tops.’
‘You’re far too nice, Geraldine,’ I reply. ‘Entirely unconvincing, but nice.’
‘Well, I’m jealous,’ she says. ‘I wish I was still twenty-nine.’
‘You mustn’t be far off,’ I reply.
She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, ‘Thirty-three. Not that I’d be remotely bothered, if my biological clock wasn’t doing this.’ Her tiny fist thumps the metal door of a locker, sending echoes through half the building.
Since I first got chatting to Geraldine, I’ve discovered that it’s virtually impossible to engage in conversation with her without the subject of marriage, babies and Tom’s sperm-count coming up.
Not that she talks to him about this, you understand. She doesn’t want to scare him off. The result is a build-up of suppressed cranial activity, centring on her feverish desire to get him down the aisle, that splurges from her mouth whenever she gets the chance to offload on a fellow female. Part of me feels sorry for her. The other part feels like telling her to try and relax. He’s clearly smitten and I am guessing will get round to it when he’s good and ready. But I know it wouldn’t do much good.
‘Still no ring then, luvvie?’ Mau asks, overhearing.
‘Mau,’ Geraldine says, taking a deep breath, ‘by the time he gets on with it, my womb will be like a shrivelled prune.’
‘Geraldine!’ splutters Jess. ‘A woman gave birth in her sixties recently. I’m not suggesting you should wait until then, but I think you might be exaggerating the problem.’
‘If he really loved me . . .’
‘Tom thinks the world of you,’ Jess says bluntly.
Geraldine seems satisfied with this. ‘God, how on earth did we get onto this subject again?’ she says. ‘Abby – I only wanted to say Happy Birthday to you for tomorrow. I’m not going to be able to celebrate with you, I’m afraid, as I’ve got a report I need to submit and I’m up to my eyes in work.’
Jess drops her sports bag. ‘Oh – I hadn’t told Abby yet, Geraldine.’
I straighten my back and realise that I’m finally going to discover what Jess has been planning for my birthday. ‘Told me what?’
‘It’s no big deal,’ Jess shrugs. ‘I know you don’t want to do anything major for your birthday, but I thought it might be nice if a few of us went out for drinks.’
‘Wow, that sounds great!’ I exclaim in as surprised a fashion as I can muster.
I knew Jess wouldn’t let me down. I knew she’d invite some of the running club – and Oliver – to join us after work tomorrow night. I knew it and I have my perfect jeans and new Ted Baker top ready and waiting at home, along with a completely free night tonight so I can embark on an extensive, and desperately needed, beautification session.
‘I thought you wouldn’t mind,’ she grins. ‘We can have a quick shower here and meet everyone in the Rose.’
‘What?’
‘We can shower here and—’
‘You don’t mean tonight? As in now?’
‘Well, yes,’ she replies.
‘But my birthday’s tomorrow.’
‘I know, but there’s no running club tomorrow – it’s Friday. I thought it would be nice to go for a few drinks with everyone from here tonight, then you can do your thing with your team at work tomorrow.’
I think of my jeans, hanging expectantly at home, crying out for just such an occasion. I think of my unshaved legs, the fake tan I haven’t applied, my unpedicured feet, unplucked eyebrows and a million other things that I wish I’d tended to yesterday.
Then I look at Jess, wondering why I’m hesitating.
‘Okay,’ I manage. ‘Tonight it is.’
Chapter 28
I am trying to expunge the juice stain from my jeans with a hand wash, pluck my eyebrows with my fingernails and style my hair using a hairdryer boasting all the power of a two-year-old blowing out candles.
‘You wanted me to get everyone out tomorrow, didn’t you?’ Jess says. ‘I feel stupid not to have thought of it. Sorry, Abs.’
‘It’s fine,’ I tell her as I apply lip-gloss. ‘Seriously: this is great. The important thing is that Doctor Dishy’s coming out. Can I borrow your make-up?’
She hands over the bag and I examine the foundation. Jess and I have completely different skin tones, but in the absence of anything else, this will have to do. I mix some moisturiser and start applying.
‘You still fancy Oliver then?’ she asks, swirling powder on her forehead.
‘God, yes. The man gets more irresistible every time I see him. What makes you ask? Haven’t I mentioned him enough lately?’
‘I was just checking.’ She zips up her make-up bag.
‘Do you think he doesn’t fancy me?’ I say, suddenly paranoid. ‘I mean, he’s still flirting with me. Or at least . . . trying to flirt. That’s one of the things I love about him – the fact that he’s awkward about it. He’s so sweet. There’s something very reassuring about that.’
I give my hair a final spray and examine myself. It’s a major improvement on my appearance ten minutes ago, yet still only passable.
The door creaks open and Mau enters wearing a pair of skin-tight baby-blue jeans, a low-cut top and hoop earrings capable of lassoing a donkey.
‘Are you ready? The boys are already at the pub.’
‘Think so,’ replies Jess, throwing her bag over her shoulder.
‘Now, Abby,’ says Mau. ‘I hope you’re going to have a drink, given that it’s your birthday?’
‘I could be persuaded,’ I rep
ly. ‘Though I’m taking it easy. It’s not technically my birthday until tomorrow and, given that I haven’t had a drink for weeks, I’m liable to be completely inebriated after half a glass of shandy.’
‘Take it easy on your birthday?’ scoffs Mau. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing!’
I laugh, but I’m determined. ‘If there’s one thing I’m not going to do, it’s get drunk and say a load of things I’ll regret in the morning.’
Chapter 29
‘Did you know we call you Doctor Dishy?’
I attempt to put my elbow on the table and lean seductively towards Oliver. Unfortunately, I miss – and am forced to jerk up my arm like a fighter plane avoiding a mountain.
Oliver tries to look unfazed, as if he’s told this sort of thing every day. But he’s fooling nobody. He’s thrilled to bits, God love him. ‘Really? Who’s we?’
‘Oh, just me and . . . well, me really.’
He laughs. I laugh. Then I look across the table at Tom, who looks away. I don’t know what’s eating him.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever asked which hospital you’re based at, Oliver,’ I continue.
‘The Royal,’ he replies. Two words. Not particularly exciting ones at that. But Oliver, with his sweet, sexy, and slightly maladroit eye-contact, turns me to jelly.
‘Ooh, really? I’ve been to that one.’ I sip my wine, holding his gaze for far longer than I would if I were sober.
It’s only my third glass, but it’s significantly more potent than I ever remember wine being. It used to take far more than this to get me drunk, but after weeks of teetotalism, I have become, officially, a cheap night out.
‘Oh?’ smiles Oliver. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
There is something about his face that is inherently cute. I can’t work out if it’s the sparkle in his eyes or the gorgeous way his mouth twitches up at one side when he smiles. All I know is that it is utterly irresistible – and I am smitten.
‘I broke my wrist,’ I tell him, holding it out. ‘Sporting injury.’
Clearly, I’m not going to reveal that I fell out of a taxi. He might get entirely the wrong impression about me.
Girl on the Run Page 12
