Rachel Ryan's Resolutions

by Laura Starkey

  As Rachel surveyed her cluttered bookshelves, hunting for something as unromantic as possible, she chose not to ask herself the obvious question. Why, after what Jack had done and after all this time, should she ever have been concerned about her resistance to him?

  Later that evening, halfway through an old Louis Theroux documentary, Rachel’s phone rang. HQ Basecamp calling, the screen said. It was her parents.

  She pressed pause on Netflix, then tapped the green icon to pick up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, and braced herself.

  ‘Don’t you “hello” me, young lady, as if you don’t KNOW it’s your mother on the line. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for over a week.’

  Rachel cringed, genuinely remorseful. ‘Sorry, Mum. Really. Work has been crazy since I started back.’

  ‘Has it indeed?’ She sounded disdainful, disbelieving. Her Stoke accent got noticeably stronger when she was annoyed.

  ‘We’re pitching for loads of new business,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ve been staying late a lot, helping out.’

  She’d decided not to tell her parents about the takeover or the risk it might pose to her job. There was nothing they could do about it, after all, and it would only worry them – something Rachel always avoided, if possible.

  ‘I see. And I suppose you’ve been out with Laurence whenever you’ve had a night off?’

  Rachel hated that her mum sounded cheered by the thought of her gadding about with a man she had already dumped. The time to confess had come.

  ‘Actually … Well. Laurence and I are sort of … not seeing each other any more.’

  ‘Oh, love! What happened?’

  Tenderness and concern, Rachel observed. This won’t last long.

  ‘It wasn’t going anywhere, Mum. He’s a perfectly nice guy, he’s just not the man for me.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve finished with another one? Chucked someone else stable and decent?’ Mum’s voice was shrill now, and utterly devoid of sympathy. ‘I mean, who are you holding out for, Rachel – one of the Hemsworth brothers?’

  Rachel boggled, not sure whether to be outraged or amused. ‘Obviously not. But I can’t stay with someone just because they have a pension plan, Mum. You can’t base a relationship on a well-stocked wine rack, or the fact that someone’s capable of keeping a grow-your-own basil plant alive. I need to feel something for whoever I’m with.’

  ‘Rachel, by the time I was your age I was married with two children,’ her mum said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel cut in. ‘You were married to a man you were wildly in love with, who hopped on the ferry, left his family in Ireland and followed you home from Dublin after a holiday fling. You’re hardly in a position to tell me romance is dead.’

  ‘It wasn’t dead thirty-seven years ago! But at best it’s on life support these days, what with all this revenge porn and sexting and Grind-It.’

  ‘Grindr. And that’s an app mostly used by gay men.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Rachel. Meeting someone nowadays is HARD. Half the blokes out there are weirdos and nutters. And yet every time you get close to one who seems sane and normal, you dump him. I don’t understand what your problem is.’

  Rachel could feel her temper beginning to fray. ‘Right now, my problem is this conversation. Plus the fact that you don’t seem to care whether I’m happy, just that I have a man in my life. A sane one, apparently – but even you have to admit that “not an axe murderer” is setting the bar pretty low, Mum.’

  ‘Of course I care about you being happy! But will you be happy all by yourself when Anna and Will get married? And when that nice-looking friend of Will’s finds someone too, and disappears?’

  ‘Mum, Anna and Will don’t even live together yet. There’s no way they’re getting married anytime soon.’ Rachel noticed the speed at which her chest was rising and falling, and tried to take slower, deeper breaths.

  ‘But who’s there with you now?’ her mum pressed on. ‘Nobody, I’m guessing, or you wouldn’t have picked up the phone. It’s Saturday night, Rachel – you should be out enjoying yourself and you’re not.’

  Rachel groaned. It stung that her mum was right: that, of her closest friends, she was the only one left alone this evening. She wondered again what Tom was up to.

  Rachel heard her dad muttering in the background – something that sounded like, ‘Jean, for the love of God, rein it in a bit.’

  ‘Rachel,’ Mum went on, ‘all I’m saying is that lack of fireworks isn’t a good reason to finish with someone who cares about you. Dark and dangerous men might feel more exciting, but you can’t rely on them. That John Luther’s a looker, but you couldn’t trust him to do the weekly shop.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mum! Dark and dangerous men? Luther? What are we even talking about?’ Jack’s face floated into Rachel’s mind and she batted it away briskly. ‘As far as fireworks are concerned, the chemistry between me and Laurence was barely enough to ignite a sparkler. And for the record, I do want a boyfriend … Maybe even a husband one day. I’m just not prepared to stay with someone when I know it isn’t right. It wouldn’t have been fair to Laurence to keep seeing him, or any good for me in the long run.’

  ‘Whatever you say, love,’ Mum sighed. She sounded more resigned than convinced. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?’

  Glad of the change of subject, Rachel cast around for something to say. Her eyes fell on a shoebox in the hallway, just visible from her position on the squashy pink sofa. It contained a pair of running trainers she’d ordered in the sales but had yet to break in.

  ‘I’m planning to go for a run in the morning,’ Rachel heard herself say.

  ‘Ah! Trying to lose a few pounds, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel replied, grudgingly impressed by her mother’s ability to take any topic and turn it into a stick to beat her with. ‘It’s not about losing weight, just about improving my fitness a bit.’

  That, and winning the bet she’d made with Will on New Year’s Eve. He’d scoffed at the idea that Rachel would ever exercise voluntarily, then promised her a bottle of gin if she made it to the end of the Couch to 5K programme she’d sworn to complete.

  ‘Fair enough. But you have a decent sports bra, don’t you, love? You don’t want your boobs batting you in the face every other stride.’

  ‘Oh my God, Mum – yes, I have one,’ Rachel said, resisting the urge to point out that it wasn’t her fault she’d inherited her curvy build, as well as her hair colour, from her father’s side of the family. Modest-breasted Mum had never been above a size eight in her life, apart from during her pregnancies. She was dark-haired, delicately pretty and petite, standing only a tiny bit taller than Anna. ‘Can you put Dad on?’ Rachel felt bad for dismissing her mother, but she’d had as much veiled criticism as she could bear for one night.

  ‘Course I can.’ She sounded crestfallen. ‘Love you. Speak to me again soon, won’t you?’

  ‘Love you too, Mum,’ Rachel said. She meant it, and told herself she wasn’t to blame if her mum felt snubbed.

  There was a light scuffling as the phone passed from one hand to another.

  ‘Hi there, pet,’ said Rachel’s dad. As ever, his voice was like balm on a bruise – his soft Dublin accent still strong after almost forty years in the UK. ‘How’re you doin’? Not fixing to jump off the nearest bridge after that chat with your mother, I hope.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘No. She gave it her best shot, though.’

  ‘Ah, she means well, you know that. She just worries about you.’

  ‘Honestly, Dad, sometimes I think she worries more about what other people think. You know, when they ask how I am and she has to tell them I’m still not settled down. I know it galls her that Mrs O’Shea from church has three daughters who all have husbands.’

  ‘She does hate that Mrs O’Shea,’ he concurs. ‘But I promise it’s you she’s thinking about. She wants a happy future for you, and she worries you stand in your own way.’
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  ‘I promise you, Dad, Laurence and I were not a good fit. We wouldn’t have had a happy future. But the right person will come along one day, and I’m sure I’ll know him when I see him.’

  ‘All right then, let’s leave off that. Anything else exciting happening? Apart from the running?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I’m helping Tom out with some copywriting for a photography exhibition. I’m not being paid much but it should be fun, and I might even get to meet some minor celebs.’

  ‘Grand. That sounds great. And you never know, one of these famous types might fall in love with you. That’d shut your mum up for sure.’

  Rachel laughed again, then fought off a yawn. ‘I don’t know about that, based on what I’ve seen of the participants … One of them plays computer games for a living.’

  ‘What a world,’ Dad chuckled. ‘I had no idea that was even possible. But you do sound tired, darlin’. Get yourself an early night, why don’t you? We’ll call you again next week.’

  It dawned on Rachel that he was right. Somehow her own exhaustion had escaped her notice – yet her dad had spotted it from 160 miles away. She immediately felt an intense longing for her bed.

  ‘Okay, Dad. I’ll see you soon, yes?’

  Her vision blurred slightly as she was hit by a powerful wave of missing him. She wished that he were closer, or at least that she could tell him what was really going on. As a little girl, Rachel had believed there was no problem in the world her father couldn’t solve – though she’d long since learned there were some broken things even he couldn’t fix.

  ‘You will,’ he said. ‘We’ve plans to come down with Granny and see a show, so we’ll get together then. Sometime in March, I think. Mum will message you about it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Great,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll let you go, then. Love you, Dad.’

  ‘And you, pet. Always. You look after yourself, and sleep well.’

  Against all the odds, Rachel did sleep well. She woke up to see a pale, watery sort of sunlight seeping through her curtains, then pulled them back to reveal a cloudless, ice-blue sky.

  A thin layer of frost glittered on the pavement outside her window. There was no sign of rain, which hobbled her standard excuse for staying inside in her pyjamas.

  Last night she’d told her parents she was going to start running. Several weeks ago she’d promised herself that she would – for the sake of her cardiovascular fitness and a massive bottle of The Botanist.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, Rachel pulled on a pair of elderly leggings, a greying sports bra and a bobbled workout top that hadn’t been worn in at least four years. Her shiny new trainers would shame this sad ensemble, she thought – but perhaps she’d treat herself to some nicer running gear in a couple of weeks. The promise of a mini-spree in Sweaty Betty might motivate her to stick to her plan.

  Headphones in and with her phone and keys stashed in a pocket, Rachel set off. Jo Whiley’s voice instructed her to walk briskly for five minutes to warm up, then to alternate running and walking in short bursts. This, it turned out, was far tougher than it sounded.

  There were several moments when Rachel feared she might vomit; still others when she contemplated giving up, going back to the flat and making a mound of peanut butter on toast. But despite the screaming of her lungs and the pounding of her heart, she kept going.

  As she completed her final sprint, she felt incredible – invincible – even though her chest was on fire and her legs were leaden lumps. Perhaps all those people who ranted about endorphins and exercise had a point.

  Rachel walked home a sweaty mess, feeling proud and strong and fervently wishing she could bottle the sensation. It might come in handy at work next week, she thought – or, at the very least, during her next conversation with her parents.

  9

  ‘So come on, then – spill. Who dumped who?’

  Rachel spluttered on a mouthful of cappuccino and swallowed it, too fast, in a bid to avoid spraying.

  She didn’t know why she was surprised at Greg’s abruptness. When she’d walked into work this morning with a worse-than-usual case of the Monday blues, he’d been standing by her desk – loitering with intent. Before she’d even removed her coat, let alone docked her laptop, he’d steered her out of the building by the elbow and then round the corner into Java Jo’s.

  Now, as the burn in her oesophagus subsided, Rachel considered how best to answer Greg’s question. She could try to reject the premise of it – claim outrage and rant that there was no reason for him to suppose she and Jack had ever been an item.

  She cast this option aside immediately. While she was used to playing her cards close to her chest, she wasn’t a good enough liar to convince anyone with such a blatant fib – especially not someone who knew her as well as Greg did.

  She sighed and resigned herself to giving him a slimmed-down version of events.

  ‘I dumped him,’ she said, trying to come off as indifferent and realising too late that she sounded more strained and sullen.

  ‘Because …?’ Greg demanded. ‘I’m sensing this wasn’t a “part ways but treasure the wonderful times you had together” break-up. The atmosphere between you last week was so tense I could have sliced it with a cricket stump.’

  Rachel looked up in alarm. ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Greg said, incredulous. ‘When I left you on the train together I felt like a UN peacekeeper abandoning a war zone. I was worried one of you might not make it back to Islington alive.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Rachel muttered. Her game face obviously needed work.

  Greg eyed her beadily, though not without concern. His mouth was set in a flat, straight line and his eyes – usually bright and playful – were soft with sympathy.

  ‘I finished with him because I found out he’d slept with someone else,’ Rachel said. Greg whistled in dismay and shook his head, but she carried on before he could comment. ‘I saw them together, I should add – he didn’t tell me himself.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Greg moaned. ‘That is ROUGH. When was this?’

  ‘Right at the end of our final year at university – just as we’d started to make plans for staying together once we left.’

  ‘Ouch. No wonder you weren’t pleased to see him. When you’re hurt like that, it stays with you.’

  Rachel felt a rush of affection for Greg – gratitude that he wasn’t trying to minimise the pain she’d felt simply because it wasn’t recent.

  ‘It does,’ Rachel said, suddenly aware that unburdening herself to someone new felt good. ‘I mean, I’ve moved on – I’m over it. It’s not as if I’ve been living like a nun for the past ten years. But what happened was pretty difficult to forgive and forget. I spotted him with his tongue down another woman’s throat on the morning of our graduation. I should have marched over and slapped him, but I didn’t. I panicked. I ran away. Then, about two hours later, we had to stand in line together to collect our degree certificates. Our families were supposed to have a posh lunch afterwards, for heaven’s sake. It was unbearable.’

  Greg’s mouth had dropped open, but no words were coming out.

  ‘I had to make up an excuse for my parents – explain why they weren’t going to meet the boyfriend I’d spent months telling them about,’ Rachel explained. ‘It meant a lot to them, being there, and if I’d broken down I’d have ruined it … As soon as it was all over, I found Jack and finished with him. Then I moved down here. I hadn’t planned to, but my best friend asked if I wanted to come with her and it seemed like a smart way out. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him so I couldn’t stay up north, like I’d thought I would … And I couldn’t face going back to my parents’ house either.’

  Stop, now, she told herself, before you say too much.

  ‘Ray, this really is the WORST,’ Greg said. ‘What happened on Friday after I was gone? Please tell me you kicked him in the nuts for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Well, we had words,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘I told him I
wasn’t happy he’d blabbed that we knew each other. He apologised – for that and for everything else. Said he was ashamed of himself, insisted he’d changed, et cetera, et cetera.’

  Rachel appreciated Greg’s derisive snort at this.

  ‘You’d have kept all this to yourself, then, if you’d had the choice?’ he asked. He sounded almost hurt.

  ‘Probably,’ she admitted. ‘But that’s more about me than you. I just want as few people as possible to know about all this. It’s not that I’m trying to protect him,’ she went on quickly, palms up in defence of her reserve. ‘But I’ve had some time to think over the weekend, and some good advice. Keeping my job has to be my priority right now. Even if I decide I can’t hack working in the same place as Jack, I don’t have enough savings to quit before I’ve got something else lined up. Plus, if people find out Jack and I had a thing and broke up, I’ll seem like the loser who punched above her weight and couldn’t hang on to her man. Can you imagine the delight Donna would take in spreading that story?’

  Greg made a face that implied he could envisage her glee all too clearly. The office manager wasn’t one for small talk, but her love of gossip was legendary. If a scrap of significant news made its way around the office, it could usually be traced back to her desk; as far as the contagion of scandal was concerned, Donna was always patient zero.

  ‘Even worse,’ Rachel continued, ‘if I’m mixed up in rumours that Jack’s a dirty rotten shagger, I’ll look like a sad case: the scorned woman who’s still banging on about something that happened a decade ago. I’m better off just trying to pretend Jack doesn’t exist, and I’m hoping that won’t be too difficult. My guess is Prince Charming will be involved in trying to win big new commercial accounts – the kind of stuff I never get near.’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ Greg said, licking cappuccino foam off his index finger. ‘But this is still an epic mess of a situation, IMO. I’d be going postal if one of my ex-boyfriends turned up to work here.’ He shuddered and made a noise that sounded like Brrrr. ‘Also, I think there are people you could talk to – people you could be honest with – if you wanted to make things easier on yourself. You’re highly valued at the agency. Nobody would want to see you leave over this, and I’m certain you’re safe from redundancy.’