Girl on the Run

by Jane Costello

  So I decide to do something that, at some point in the last nine months, became conducive to thinking. I don’t know how, but it did.

  I go for a run.

  Chapter 76

  I don’t wear my iPod when I run today; I want to clear my mind of anything other than ideas, answers, solutions.

  I’ve seen this in films: the main protagonist, in a time of crisis, pulling on her running shoes, doing a few circuits of an appropriately scenic street and, free from the shackles of anxiety, conjuring up a way to save the day.

  Personally, I never bought it. Yet as my feet pound the pavements, the sky like lead and clouds racing, I get an unlikely rush of positivity. I head up the mountain that is Rose Lane, the backs of my legs burning as they carry me to its peak. When I start my descent to Sefton Park, passing people in sodden raincoats, I’m breathless and drenched with rain. Yet I’m strangely exhilarated too, my mind whirring with possibilities about companies that could provide the answer.

  I think about the NHS anti-smoking contract for which I tendered in September, only to hear afterwards that they were postponing a decision until early this year. I think about the lingerie company who loved my pitch but wanted to hold off until they heard about a contract with China. I think about the home furnishings firm who gave positive feedback but who wanted to wait until a new Marketing Manager was installed before going ahead. They’re all worth chasing up.

  I pass the boat lake as the rain gets harder, crashing against the surface of the water as I speed past.

  It’s only as I start heading home that doubts creep in. Despite the number of possibilities, despite knowing that they are all worth contacting, it’s highly unlikely they’ll make a decision as quickly as I need them to.

  Besides, none of them are big enough by themselves. I’d need at least three to sign a contract by the end of the week.

  After I’ve run for nearly an hour, the rain slows and a radiant winter sun pushes through the clouds, but conversely my optimism begins to evaporate.

  I turn down Allerton Road, my legs weak and tired as they slow to a walk before I collapse, ragdoll-like, against a restaurant wall.

  This is one of south Liverpool’s most vibrant streets and I look thoroughly out of place – soggy, red-faced, so bedraggled I’d be mistaken for the contents of a washing-machine boil wash if I was any less filthy. My chest rises and falls as I gaze into a thunderous sky, catching my breath as hot tears streak down my cheeks.

  As a café door opens I turn away and begin walking, embarrassed at even a stranger seeing me like this.

  ‘Abby.’

  My stomach churns. The wind is whistling through my hair, drowning out noise, but I’d still recognise Tom Bronte’s voice anywhere.

  This is the first time we’ve spoken alone since Tenerife, away from the distractions of the running club, the noise and gossip. It could be this that concentrates my thoughts, or simply the milky light cast onto his face. But he’s never looked more maddeningly beautiful. His eyes are iridescent, his lips plump and perfect. Yet his expression is apprehensive.

  I’m left with no choice but to walk back to him, as he approaches me. It seems to take an age before we’re finally a few feet apart, reading each other’s thoughts.

  ‘I saw you passing. How are you?’ he says.

  ‘Fine.’ I smile thinly.

  His expression dissolves into one of concern. ‘Is everything okay?’

  I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him. Wanting to tell him – but afraid of what he’ll think of me. Every feeling of shame I have about my company coming so close to the brink is exacerbated tenfold at the thought of Tom knowing.

  ‘Yep,’ I mumble.

  He touches my arm and it sends waves of heat through my chest. ‘Do you want to join us for a coffee?’

  As I open my mouth I have no idea whether I’m going to say yes or no, but in the event I don’t get to say anything.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ croaks a voice. ‘Cheer the boy up.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say to his grandad, composing myself. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. Tweeted you the other day but you haven’t replied.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a lady’s prerogative not to respond.’

  ‘I really have had loads on,’ I protest. ‘Which is why I can’t stop for a coffee, though I’d love to.’

  ‘You had time for a run,’ Grandad points out.

  ‘I was looking for inspiration, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ asks Tom.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I confess. ‘Which is why I need to get back to the office.’

  ‘Foo-ee! That’s the last place you’ll find inspiration,’ says Grandad and as he beckons me into the café, I suspect I’ll have little say in the matter.

  Tom’s grandad takes off his cap and puts it on the table. We’ve been here for half an hour and it’s taken until now for him to remove it, revealing an elaborate bald patch that resembles a sandblasted billiard ball.

  We’re sitting next to the window talking about Grandad’s laptop, Glee and the stormy weather. The latter is tame compared with the tornado in my stomach every time I catch Tom’s eye.

  ‘They do a smashing skinny latte here,’ Grandad declares, taking a sip of his second one. ‘Better than Starbucks and half the price. Not that I go to Starbucks much these days.’

  ‘Are you worried about globalisation?’ I ask mischievously, checking to see if my rain jacket has dried off yet. My leggings – which, unlike my jacket, I’m still wearing – are only just there.

  ‘No, the sugar,’ he replies, stuffing a handful of sachets in his top pocket. ‘They have those daft canisters so I can’t take any home.’

  ‘Why do pensioners have a compulsion to collect sugar?’ Tom muses.

  ‘I collect them because they’re handy,’ his grandfather reprimands him. ‘It’s nothing to do with being a pensioner.’

  ‘I don’t remember you doing it ten years ago. I’m not criticising. It just seems to be a universal affliction for everyone over the age of sixty-five.’ He looks at me and smirks.

  Grandad frowns. ‘Don’t think I can’t see you two with the conspiratorial looks.’

  He nudges Tom, who excuses himself to go to the Gents. Grandad stirs his coffee. ‘Do you know Geraldine well?’ he asks, out of the blue.

  Heat fires up my neck and I take a sip of water, hoping it extinguishes my cheeks. ‘Yes, through the running club. She’s . . . lovely.’

  ‘Aye, she’s nice enough,’ the old man says, then pauses thoughtfully. ‘You know, you might find this difficult to believe, but my dad was a romantic sort. There weren’t many blokes you could say that about in his day.’

  I am bemused at how the conversation has veered to such a bizarre tangent.

  ‘He used to say: “Son, you can tell when a man’s in love with a woman by the way he glows when she’s around.”’

  ‘Glows?’ I repeat.

  He nods, smiling as if he knows something I don’t.

  ‘Now Abby,’ he continues breezily, ‘can we tempt you with another bottle of water? Or shall we push the boat out and get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, honestly,’ I say, looking at my watch.

  ‘Something stronger? They do tequila slammers next door.’

  ‘No, really,’ I smile as Tom approaches the table. ‘I need to go. It was lovely to see you.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all ours,’ replies Grandad.

  Tom walks me to the door and holds it open as a sharp blast of wind whips against my cheeks. He follows me out and we huddle in the doorway. It feels gloriously close and desperately uncomfortable at the same time.

  ‘Let me drive you home,’ he says.

  ‘No, honestly. I want to continue my run,’ I reply.

  He pauses. ‘You didn’t respond to my emails,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘Technical issues again.’

&
nbsp; His expression makes it clear he didn’t buy that excuse the first time.

  I sigh. ‘I also thought, under the circumstances . . . you know.’ But I can’t bring myself to spell it out that I know about his engagement to Geraldine.

  ‘I do,’ he concedes, sparing me. ‘Of course. Can we be friends again, though?’

  I gaze at the street, as cars whiz past, sending tidal waves of rainwater onto the pavement. My neck flushes again.

  ‘Come on, Abby.’ Before I realise what’s happening, he grabs my hand and squeezes my fingers, the touch of his skin firing electric currents up my arm. ‘I know things got weird in Tenerife. But it’d be a shame to throw away a perfectly good friendship.’

  The repeated word friendship makes me flinch.

  The reality is that I want him to be so much more than a friend – a desire I can’t even think about indulging. As ever, there are a million things I want to say, but none of them are appropriate. Instead, I take the path of least resistance.

  ‘Of course,’ I mutter. ‘Right – I really need to get back.’

  He lets go of my hand. ‘Oh yes – your work stuff. Anything I can help with?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  I turn to run down the street, when he touches my shoulder again.

  ‘I meant to say: a couple of those emails that fell victim to your “technical difficulties” . . . well, they really were about something important.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I tried to contact you about stuff that’s been going on at work. Something that might provide an opportunity for you.’

  The word ‘opportunity’ ignites my memory – and I recall the email to which he refers: the one with the PS that asked if my life was still highly exciting. That had been the only part I could concentrate on.

  ‘That web design and marketing firm we appointed,’ he continues.

  ‘Vermont Hamilton?’

  He nods. ‘They’ve been a disaster.’

  This doesn’t surprise me, but I resist the temptation to say so. ‘Really?’

  ‘You were right about their lack of experience. I don’t deal with them personally – that’s Jim Broadhurst’s job. But he’s fallen out with three of the account executives there. They sound like amateurs.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say.

  ‘Well, don’t say you didn’t tell us so.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe when the contract’s up again in two years’ time I can re-tender.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ he continues. ‘Look, this is confidential now, but Jim’s sacked them. It’s left us in a complete hole. There’s nobody looking after our online stuff at all at the moment, but there really wasn’t any other option.’

  My mind starts whirring. ‘Are you going to re-tender?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted you to phone about. Our Marketing Department’s in limbo, procrastinating wildly while they decide what to do. If you were to get in front of them with another – better – proposal, I think you’d be in with a chance of stepping into the breach.’

  ‘But how? I mean, they’d know you’d been talking to me about Caro and Company’s internal problems and—’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ he says dismissively. ‘If I can get you a meeting with David and Jim this week, are you interested?’

  My heart is pounding wildly as the implications of the opportunity start to sink in. ‘Yes,’ I bluster. ‘Bloody hell, YES! Tom, I think you might just be my fairy godmother!’

  He laughs as the door to the café squeaks open.

  ‘You two can natter, can’t you? I finished my latte ages ago,’ complains Grandad, adjusting his hat.

  ‘We’re done now. Come on, I’ll walk you home, Grandad. So,’ adds Tom, turning to me, ‘it’s a yes, is it?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I manage, swollen with emotion.

  ‘Good. I’ll phone them this afternoon and give you a ring immediately afterwards.’

  ‘Come on, hurry up, boy.’ Grandad takes Tom’s arm. ‘I think I need to get you out of this cold.’

  Tom looks at him in bewilderment. ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’ve got a funny glow about your cheeks,’ he says, flashing me an impish glance.

  Chapter 77

  Tom texts me an hour later to say Jim Broadhurst will see me the following morning at ten. There’s no way I can muck things up: for the sake of my business, my staff, myself . . . and Tom. After he’s stuck his neck out for me, I simply can’t come across as if I have cottage cheese for brains like last time.

  I go straight home, have a quick shower and fire up the laptop. Reading through my original pitch is a cringeworthy experience. Not because it’s irredeemably awful – in fact, fundamentally it’s pretty good. But five or six sections leap out, exposing the presentation as off-the-shelf and untailored to Caro & Co. They must have spotted it a mile off.

  I spend the evening swotting up on the company: poring over their website, reading press articles and researching their competitors, acquisitions and target markets.

  It is gone 2 a.m. before I retire to bed, convinced I won’t sleep, given the statistics somersaulting through my head. In fact, I drop off immediately, but it’s a shallow, disturbed sleep. My thoughts are all over the place: on my parents, my company, the presentation and . . . Tom. Again Tom. Despite the explosion of stress I’m under, my mind keeps wandering to the sweet taste of his breath as we almost kissed in the swimming pool.

  I know it’s futile and I know it’s wrong. But the memory of that night is like a drug; an instant hit of pleasure, a guaranteed – albeit pointless – high.

  I don’t know whether that’s one of the things keeping my nerves under control as I enter the offices of Caro & Co. at 9.50 the next morning, but I feel strangely calm.

  Confidence isn’t fuelling this – I can’t even think about the outcome, only the here and now. Plus, if I stopped to consider the ramifications of failing today, I’d go to pieces. So I put them to the back of my mind and channel my thoughts into a single aim: I want to be so convincing, I could sell garlic to a vampire.

  Jim Broadhurst doesn’t arrive until nearly ten past ten, by which time I can feel myself physically shaking. The only upside is that, without a skirt covered in filthy sausage fat, Dusty is completely unmoved by my presence.

  ‘Jim,’ I smile, holding out my hand as I watch it tremble. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, Abby,’ he replies. ‘At least, I’d be better if I hadn’t endured all this hassle with our previous agency. I suppose Tom filled you in?’

  I hesitate, unsure of an appropriate response given that this was supposed to be confidential. ‘Well, not really,’ I say. ‘He just said you wanted to revisit the original applications.’

  ‘Very diplomatic,’ he laughs. ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

  Jim spends twenty minutes repeating the story Tom conveyed yesterday and I respond by oooh-ing, ahh-ing and tutting at appropriate moments as if this is news. By the end of the conversation, I’m starting to think I deserve a Golden Globe.

  ‘The upshot is, I need a new agency, which is why I wanted to see you today. It had been our intention to readvertise,’ he cautions. ‘None of the final three agencies short-listed blew us away – including you. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ I reply. ‘I know what I presented wasn’t up to scratch.’

  ‘Well, that’s what David and I felt,’ he concedes. ‘Tom tried to convince us that it was a temporary blip, but everyone else only got one stab, so we felt it was only fair to give you the same treatment.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Tom tried to convince you to take me on? I thought you’d said your decision was unanimous?’

  ‘Did I?’ he shrugs, clearly not appreciating the new perspective this puts on everything. ‘Figure of speech. You’ve got a lot to thank Tom for. He might not have been successful in persuading us to take you on in the first place, but he’s been nagging David and me to reconsider since the trouble with the other a
gency began.’

  ‘Has he?’ I croak.

  Jim nods. ‘So, I’d like you to give another presentation. I know the work that goes into these things, but I do think that if you’d agree to put something together . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘Absolutely.’

  He looks up. ‘You’d like to do another presentation?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say anxiously. ‘I already have – if you’d let me show you.’

  ‘What, now?’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’m pressed for time – can we arrange for the week after next?’

  Panic sweeps through me. I can hardly tell him that the week after next, River Web Design won’t exist!

  I lean forward. ‘It’ll only take ten minutes at most,’ I say urgently, wondering how I’m going to edit my twenty-minute presentation on the spot.

  He squirms. Panic-stricken, I realise I’m starting to look like a woman who’d use handcuffs if I had some available.

  He sits back in his seat with a ponderous look on his face.

  ‘When I heard you might be left without any web support, I thought time was of the essence,’ I ramble. ‘There’s no time like the present. Why beat around the bush. A bird in the house is worth three in the thrush . . . I mean four in the . . .’ Oh God!

  ‘Go on then,’ he concedes. ‘But no longer than ten minutes.’

  By the time I leave the office half an hour later, I have entirely mixed feelings. It went well – I think. But I need to have done more than well. I need to have persuaded Jim Broadhurst not only that he needs to hire me, but that he needs to hire me NOW.

  Even accounting for how thickly I laid on the argument that they shouldn’t be without web support for more than a week, companies can take months to make a decision like this.

  I trudge across town, back to the office, dreading having to face my staff. They know things aren’t good after Diggles went bust, but they don’t appreciate how not good. I have my hand on the office door when the phone rings and rifle through my bag to answer.

  ‘Abby Rogers,’ I say.

  ‘Abby. Jim Broadhurst.’