by Beth Thomas
At the end of the evening he insists on walking me back to Abby’s, even though it’s only five minutes’ walk. But when we get there, I’m disappointed. I wanted it to go on longer.
‘Well that was the shortest walk we’ve ever done together,’ he says by Abby’s door.
‘Yes. It was short.’
‘Yes it was.’ He moves closer. ‘But no less enjoyable.’
I giggle nervously feeling sixteen again, then he leans in and surrounds me with his warmth and his smell and, hesitating only briefly, kisses me lightly on the lips. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Daisy.’
‘Oh, you’re more than welcome. I mean, thank you, too. It was wonderful.’
He takes a small step away but gently touches my face. ‘So are we walking this week?’
‘Well, I will be. I think I have to. But not very long ones. No more than three miles a day. Will you be …?’
‘Yes I will. Um, that is, if you want me, of course?’
I reach up and take hold of his hand, then press the palm to my lips. ‘I do. Most definitely.’
Inside the flat, it’s still quiet, but better somehow. It’s a more wholesome silence, softer; unlike the brittle, splintery silence from before. The television is still on so I go straight into the living room and find Abby lying on the sofa eating Doritos.
‘Daze!’ she says immediately, looking up at me with a smile. ‘How was your evening? Did you … you know?’
‘No I don’t know and no we didn’t. How could you even think that?’
She shrugs and reaches into the Doritos bag. ‘’Cause he’s stupidly sexy and one hundred percent into you.’
A flame of pleasure ignites inside me and quickly takes hold of my insides. ‘Did he say that? When did you speak to him? What were his exact words?’ I sit down next to her and shove my hand into the bag.
She grins. ‘Not telling you. It’s nothing to do with me anyway.’ She punches me lightly on the arm. ‘I knew you two would be good together. I bloody knew it, and I was right.’
‘Oh come on, Abs, you can’t tell me something like that and then not tell me what he said. It’s not fair.’
She flaps a hand. ‘Tough luck, Queen Duck. Ha ha!’ She gazes at me fondly. ‘I bloody knew you would be good for him.’
‘What? You … Hang on. You thought I would be good for him? I thought it was the other way round.’
She pushes her lips out. ‘Hmm. Well, yes, I suppose it does work both ways. And yes, it’s true, I am excellent at picking a good man.’ She turns her head slightly so that she can regard me sideways through narrowed eyes.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘And to which good man in particular are you referring, Madame?’
She smiles. ‘Do I need to tell you? I know your head is all full of our Mr Happy right now, but there is only one other good man who is relevant here.’
‘Tom, you mean?’
‘Yes, Tom I mean, of course Tom I mean. Who else would I mean?’
‘Well, there was another man in your life recently …’
‘Ugh, please don’t bring that up. That idiot doesn’t class as a good man.’
I frown. ‘Then why did you …?’
She stops me by putting a hand up. ‘Daze, I really don’t want to think about it right now. I have no idea why I did what I did, other than that the guy looked a bit like Jake Gyllenhaal …’
‘Seriously?’
‘Only a bit. But turns out there was nothing else to him.’ She shrugs. ‘Not my finest moment.’
I regard her a few moments. ‘Abby, I’m so, so sorry.’
‘What now? Why?’
‘I’ve been a terrible friend to you recently. You’ve been going through your own personal hell and I’ve been so selfish, only thinking about my own problems …’
‘Oh God not this again.’ She turns to face me full on. ‘Daisy May Macintyre will you please, please, for the love of lingerie take off that hideous hair shirt. I won’t put up with this. You’re a great friend, and if you weren’t then a great friend like me would not put up with you.’
‘You just said you won’t put up with me …’
‘Shut up.’
‘OK.’
‘You must be a decent person because you have decent friends. Well, friend. Me. Decent people have decent friends because if they weren’t decent people then other decent people would not hang out with them.’ She frowns. ‘Well, maybe they would, actually, because they’re so decent.’ She squints at me. ‘Anyway, I don’t call what you’ve been going through selfish. You’ve been grieving. And no one should ever, ever, feel bad about that. Including you.’
‘OK, I know. But I just think that –’
‘Nope.’ She puts her hands over her ears and raises the volume of her own voice by a couple of decibels. ‘Not listening. It’s moot now anyway because I’m not going through my own personal hell, so you have nothing to worry about.’
‘You’re not? How come?’
She keeps her hands over her ears. ‘Promise you’re not going to self-flagellate again?’
‘Bloody hell, Abs! No way!’
She lowers her hands. ‘You do know what self-flagellation is?’
‘Well, yeah, course I do.’
She squints at me again. ‘Hmm. Well, OK then.’ She grins and shifts a bit nearer to me. ‘Tom came back about half an hour after you left. We’ve had a really good chat. And guess what, Daze? He knew.’
‘Knew what?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘That the Piltdown Man was a hoax, you dimwit. I mean about me. What I was doing. He knew the whole time.’
‘Fuck!’
‘I know!’
I frown. ‘Hold on. Knew the whole time? And didn’t say anything? Just let it – you – carry on. While he was still living here?’
She nods solemnly. ‘Yeah, I know. It really had an effect on him, I can’t believe I didn’t spot it.’
‘What effect?’
‘Oh come on, don’t tell me you didn’t notice how quiet and moody he’s been all this time?’
I blink. ‘Moody? You mean, he’s not …?’
‘Not what?’
I hesitate. Ah. This is a bit tricky. How to ask your best friend if her boyfriend really isn’t a silent monument to monotony after all? I shrug. ‘Well …’
She stares at me uncomprehending a moment, then her eyes widen dramatically. ‘What, you think he’s really like that? Bloody hell, Daze, of course he isn’t!’ She stares at me incredulously, then jams her hand into her pocket and brings out her phone. ‘Look at these,’ she says, head bent over the screen as she selects the ‘Photos’ icon. After some scrolling she thrusts the phone in front of my face and I focus on the tiny images. The first one shows a man dancing in what looks like a giant orange wig, a tartan kilt and a huge plastic red nose; next is what could be the same guy running a marathon dressed as a hot dog; the man pulling a goofy face at the camera; grinning with his arm round Abby; slow dancing with someone, looks like Abby; sitting astride a motorcycle, helmet under his arm. I scroll quickly down and find more and more photos of what is now obviously Tom – animated, grinning, full of joy and having fun. To me, it looks like some alien life force is inhabiting the cold, marble monolith that used to be Tom. Or maybe the cold alien life that was there is now gone. I know as well as anyone how misery can make you withdraw from life, from having fun.
I look up at Abby, who’s nodding away to herself. ‘That’s the real Tom,’ she says quietly. ‘That’s the man I’m in love with.’
My eyes fall on a picture of him crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. ‘I can see why.’
She takes the phone back from me, gazes at the home screen for a second, then flaps a hand. ‘Well anyway. Apparently some colleague of his came round here a few weeks ago and told him all about it. Saw me with Sean somewhere, apparently. Couldn’t wait to shoot straight round here and fill him in.’
The conversation between Tom and the unknown – slightly older – woman
in the kitchen weeks ago comes into my head now, and I try to examine it a little more closely now that I know what was going on. But it’s a blurry image, more like a half-remembered dream than a clear memory, and I can’t seem to get it straight. A little heat comes into my face as I realise that I paid almost no attention to it, even though it should have been obvious that it was highly significant in my friend’s life. I frown a little. ‘Unbelievable. Why would anyone do that?’
Abby shrugs. ‘Don’t know. Strong moral code? Overwhelming sense of right and wrong? Interfering busy-body? Ha, maybe she fancied the pants off Tom?’
I smile as that seems to be what she’s expecting, but I’m not feeling it. ‘Yeah, probably.’
‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Because she solved a big problem for me. I didn’t have to tell him myself. Or rather, when I did tell him, it wasn’t a massive shock. In fact, it was a massive relief! That’s why he said “Thank God” or something.’
‘A relief? Why would your girlfriend cheating on you be a relief?’
She shakes her head as she smiles at me, and in that moment she looks exactly like Snow White smiling at Dopey. ‘He wasn’t relieved I was cheating on him, Daze. He was relieved I’d told him.’
I shake my head with a frown. ‘I’m still not sure …’
‘Don’t you get it? If I hadn’t told him, it would have meant that it was still going on. Or that I’d chosen the other guy. Or that I didn’t really care about Tom or our relationship. For him, me telling him was confirmation that I choose him, not the other guy. That I still want him. Still love him.’ She’s grinning broadly now and has a gorgeous flush on her flawless cheeks.
‘Oh … I think I do get it. That’s wonderful, Abs. I’m really pleased for you. So. Where is he now?’
‘Just popped out to the offie to get some wine. Champagne, actually.’
‘Ooh, champagne. Lovely.’
She nods and pulls her hand out from the Doritos bag. ‘We’re celebrating. We’d love you to join us.’
‘Of course I will. Celebrating your reunion?’
‘A bit more than that, Daisy Duck.’ She reaches out her left hand towards me, hovering it in front of my face and I look down and see a great big beautiful diamond sparkling on her third finger. My breath catches in my throat as I look back up at her to see she has tears in her eyes. ‘We’re getting married.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Daisy Mack
Feels like walking 26 miles. And to give myself a challenge, I’m doing it virtually naked. Starting at midnight. Debating whether or not to tie my feet together, but that’s probably ridiculous.
18 people like this
Abby Marcus Hmm, that sounds fun. Mind if I join you?
Daisy Mack I’d be honoured, milady.
Jenny Martin Best of luck ladies. Thinking of you in your madness! Xx
Nat ‘Wiggy’ Nicholson Are you INSANE???!!!!!
Suzanne Allen So proud of you both. I know you can do it. You know you can do it. All you have to do is do it! Good luck xxx
Georgia Ling amayyyziin. Best of luck u 2 xxxx
So here we are on the train to London to walk a marathon by the light of the moon. All around us, the train compartment is dotted with other ladies in walking gear and the distinctive pink caps that we’ve all been sent by the organisers to identify us at the start line. We don’t need to wear them yet, but we’ve all donned them anyway, probably as the sense of shared adventure takes over. It’s like the Fellowship of the Hats in here.
Abby and I are tense. We’re sitting opposite each other, silent by the window, with an impractical little table between us holding our enormous bum bags. I mean, of course, enormous bags. Not enormous bums. Rucksacks are a no-no, apparently, because of the chafing, so instead we’ve brought rucksack-sized bum bags, to hold all the food, Vaseline, safety pins, spare socks, sun cream, plasters, blister dressings, gloves, money, train tickets, admission paperwork, mobile phones and sunglasses. We’re worried we’ve forgotten something. We’re worried we’ll get a blister. We’re worried we’ll need the loo and be miles from a toilet. We’re worried we’ll get to twenty-two miles and won’t be able to continue.
But that’s not why we’re tense.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Abby says quietly, leaning forward towards me as she glances furtively around the compartment. ‘There’s only seven hours to go. We’ve actually done it.’
I shake my head urgently. ‘Shut up, Abby. You’ve jinxed it now. Just keep quiet and with luck we’ll get to midnight. Then we can relax.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry.’
We’re not tense about the hugely demanding mental and physical challenge ahead, and the immense battering our bodies and particularly feet and hips are going to take, or the pain we’re going to endure. We’re tense because we’ve got through almost two months of preparation for a MoonWalk, and so far no one – no one – has made a joke about Michael Jackson. Not one. Not a single comment about grabbing our crotches; walking backwards; wearing one white glove; looking out for zombies and werewolves or squealing ‘Ooh-hooo’ as we walk. Nothing. Every time we’ve told someone what we were training for, we’ve looked at each other, waiting for the inevitable, waiting to cringe, but it hasn’t come. Now, it has become sacred. No one must do it now, after fifty days of training, with only six and a half hours left until the start. We absolutely must not hear it now. It will feel like a spell being broken and we will be doomed. Well, maybe not doomed. But pretty disappointed. We glance around the compartment repeatedly, checking to see if anyone is approaching to ask us why all these women are wearing matching hats, but no one is moving. It will be disaster if we have to say the word ‘MoonWalk’ to one more person.
Abby picks up her bum bag and unzips it. Then zips it up again. Unzips it. Zips it. Unzips. Zips.
‘Stop it!’ I whisper harshly, putting my hand on it. ‘You’re drawing attention.’
‘Sorry.’
Eventually after ninety-five anxious minutes it’s our stop and everyone in a pink hat disembarks in a wave, like strawberry bon-bons spilling out of a bag. As I reach the doors I notice one pink hat not moving on the other side of the compartment. She must be asleep! Quickly I move against the flow to where she’s sitting with her back to me and gently nudge her shoulder. ‘This is it,’ I say, ‘we’re all getting off.’
She turns immediately – ah, not asleep then – and I see that her hat says ‘Universal Studios’ in embossed lettering on the front. Bugger.
‘What?’ she says. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, retreating. ‘Sorry, my mistake.’
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, turning properly to face me. ‘Why is everyone wearing these hats?’
‘Sorry, gotta go!’ I call, backing towards the doors as fast as I can.
‘It’s a MoonWalk,’ I hear a voice say as I reach the opening. I dive onto the platform and walk briskly away from the train just as the woman’s voice starts to say, ‘A MoonWalk …?’
‘Abby!’ I shout out loudly, to prevent myself from hearing any more.
‘Yes?’ says a voice in my left ear. ‘I’m right here, dolt. No need to scream.’
We are swept along the platform in a pink tidal wave, our feet barely touching the ground, down a set of steps to the underground. Pink tributaries join the main flow at every junction, coming in from every train from every different part of the country, until there is a giant pink flood moving slowly towards the tube. I am starting to get a feel of the enormity of this event. We nod and smile at our fellow walkers, feeling safe in their numbers, united by a dread of unimaginative and obvious gags.
When the train arrives, it too is full of pink. So many people have chosen pink tracksuit tops and pink gloves and pink hair, the whole train looks like confectionery.
‘I think we’ll be all right,’ Abby says again as we are squeezed, like fat cells into spandex, onto the train.
‘Shut up,’ I growl, and jerk
my head at a denim jacket and an anorak looking decidedly out of place at the far end. They are glancing at the pink cloud that’s arrived and chatting to each other, no doubt wondering what’s going on, why is everyone wearing pink, have they missed something? A few pink hats are standing within talking distance of the denim. They could easily overhear the conversation and decide to enlighten them. Or denim could ask them outright. They will say it’s a MoonWalk. It will be carnage.
‘Look away,’ Abby advises. ‘Focus on something else. Listen to a different conversation going on.’
She’s right. I turn away and occupy myself successfully with a discussion about toilets – frequency of, distance between, queuing for – that is going on to my left.
When we reach Hyde Park Corner we burst out of the train like pink toothpaste and get squirted along the platform and up the steps. Up on the street, it is a pink deluge. Pink is pouring out of every street and every tube station in every direction. Nothing but pink as far as we can see, all moving towards Hyde Park like pink lava. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a dark suit with a briefcase, trapped in the flow, panicked and struggling, but they are swept away pretty quickly.
‘Wow,’ I hear Abby say as we look around us at the phenomenal numbers.
‘Yeah.’ I feel suddenly very special and thrilled to be a part of this magnificent effort, and inexplicably tears come into my eyes. All these women, all these people, united in the fight against breast cancer; all working together and putting in this fantastic effort to try to help save lives and stop suffering. ‘For you, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘This is all for you.’
When we reach Hyde Park we have to pin our walker numbers to our clothing somewhere as without it we won’t be allowed past the security and into the Big Pink Tent. This must be to stop all the thousands of people from breaking in who want to walk twenty-six miles in their bras tonight just for fun. We’ve read all about this in the literature, and I can’t wait to get there.
‘What do you think it looks like?’ I ask Abby excitedly. ‘The Big Pink Tent?’
She looks up from where she’s struggling with a safety pin and regards me silently for a few seconds. ‘I think the clue’s in the name, Daze,’ she says. ‘Ow! Moses on a moped. Can you help me with this, please?’
