‘Does it not bother you?’ her mum asked, as predicted. Her tone hovered somewhere between anxious and irritated.
‘Mum, why should it bother me what Helen does? I haven’t seen her since we left school. I don’t even know what her last name is since she got married. I mean, I wish her well and everything – but I can’t say I feel personally affected by her decision to reproduce.’
‘Lovey, you know what I mean.’
In her mind’s eye, Rachel could see her mother’s face: the wounded eyes and disapproving frown that always accompanied sermons on her daughter’s single status.
The doublethink Mum was capable of was sort of spectacular, Rachel had to admit. Rachel was supposed to tolerate being criticised, yet also feel guilty for putting her mother in the position where such needling was necessary – as if it were a valuable service Mum was providing at great personal cost, rather than a well-worn routine that simply made her daughter feel shitty.
‘Please, please can we not do this?’ Rachel begged. ‘You can’t seriously have rung me just to tell me about Helen’s babies, then pivot to a lecture about the viability of my remaining eggs. It’s Saturday morning. Have some pity! And you haven’t actually said anything about the babies, by the way – I don’t even know if they’re boys or girls.’
‘Oh, who even cares!’ Mum blustered. ‘Girls, I think, God help her … And honestly, Rachel, I wouldn’t mention any of this if I felt like you were listening or taking it seriously.’
‘Taking what seriously?!’ Rachel cried. It was only 10 a.m. Surely she’d done nothing to deserve this?
‘You can’t have children forever, you know – your body just won’t be capable,’ her mother intoned sagely. ‘But you’ll find the urge to have a baby just hits you one day, and it’ll be powerful – irresistible. If you’re not already with someone, let me tell you: you’ll want to mate with the next man who makes you a decent cuppa.’
Rachel considered the truly terrible cup of tea Jack had made her at work last week: too milky by miles, and strangely sickly – like he’d stirred it with a second-hand spoon, crusty with someone else’s sugar. The memory was oddly reassuring.
‘As always, Mum, I’m amazed that with skills like these you haven’t made a name for yourself as a motivational speaker,’ Rachel said. ‘I promise you, I’m fine. I am neither desperate to be pregnant nor spurning potential partners just to piss you off. And for God’s sake, don’t start up about Laurence again because – while it seems the two of you agree on certain things – I had a very unpleasant run-in with him this week. He and I are beyond over.’
‘Don’t say piss,’ Mum said. ‘And I won’t defend Laurence for being rude – but if he wasn’t nice to you, it’s probably because he’s heartbroken.’
Rachel snorted. ‘Based on what he said the other night, I’m not sure Laurence has a heart. If you X-rayed him, you’d probably find an adding machine where his heart should be. Thanks for being on my side, though, Mum. It means a lot.’
‘I am on your side! You know that, you daft girl. I love you. I just worry about the future.’
‘Right.’
Rachel drummed her fingertips on the kitchen tabletop, praying for this phone call to end – cursing herself for answering it in the first place.
‘Have you made any plans for Valentine’s Day?’ her mum asked, as if this were the ideal topic to move on to. She really was on top form today.
Rachel groaned. ‘No, but why would I? I’ve always hated it, even when I’ve been with someone. It’s a commercial crap-fest – just a load of virtue-signalling from men who, for the rest of the year, can’t be arsed to do the washing-up or bleach the toilet bowl.’
‘Oh, don’t get so angry! I just thought it was worth mentioning. It can be a depressing event if you end up home alone.’
‘Mum, there’s nothing special about the fourteenth of February. It isn’t an event – it’s a day like any other. If Anna goes out and I have the flat to myself, I’ll do what I always do: microwave some leftovers for dinner and watch telly in my pyjamas.’
Her mother sighed and said, ‘See? This is what concerns me. I give up … Do you want to speak to your father?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Hi, pet,’ Rachel’s dad said a moment later. ‘Are you okay there?’
‘I’m fine,’ Rachel breathed, not entirely sure it was true.
‘Ach, you know she—’
‘Means well,’ Rachel finished. ‘So you keep telling me.’
Rachel realised that her voice had thickened and her eyes were filling up. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she said urgently. ‘Let me tell you about work. I’ve switched teams, I got a bit of a pay rise. And the new client I’m working with looks like a posh walrus.’
He laughed. ‘Well, that all sounds great … Apart from the walrus-looking fella. That’s unfortunate for him.’
Rachel sniffed and made a watery sound a little like a laugh. She told him about her move to the pro-social side of the agency, the British House and Garden Heritage account, working with Isaac and her new and improved job title.
Without even realising she was doing it, she edited Jack out of the story, minimised Humphrey’s awfulness and omitted any other details that might give her family cause for concern. Stressing out her parents had been anathema to Rachel for almost half her life and – short of refusing to stay with unsuitable boyfriends – she always did her best to avoid it.
Rather unjustly, Rachel’s Sunday-morning run felt no easier than usual after a sedate Saturday night home alone.
Anna had gone over to Will’s as soon as she knew he was back from Edinburgh, so Rachel had read a book, eaten cheese on toast and – determinedly ignoring the bottle of wine on the kitchen worktop – tried not to think about Jack, or the tension that had built between them during Friday’s car journey.
All weekend she’d been refusing her mind permission to remember the look he’d given her right before she scrambled out of his car. No good could come of dwelling on it – of wondering whether, given another few seconds, he might have tried to kiss her. Nor did she want to consider whether she’d have let him. He was spoken for, and even if he weren’t, she’d already been burned by him once. Things were quite awkward enough between them, and tomorrow they had to get back to work as normal.
Now, with Lady Gaga blasting loud through her headphones, Rachel was gladly incapable of thinking about anything but putting one foot in front of the other.
Walk a bit.
Run a bit.
Try not to throw up or die.
This was one of the benefits of running, Rachel had found: it forced her to be in her body instead of in her head. If it weren’t for how exhausted the exercise made her, it might almost have felt restful.
She was still painfully slow, and the effects of exertion typically turned her pale skin the colour of slow-cooked red cabbage, but Rachel couldn’t deny that her fitness and stamina were improving as she pressed on with Couch to 5K.
Last week, finally convinced she wasn’t going to give up before she hit her target, she’d treated herself to a pair of high-waisted olive-green leggings with black power-mesh panels, plus the matching top. Both garments were a feat of engineering: they pushed everything in and up without being uncomfortable, preventing Rachel’s squishier bits from wobbling as she ran along.
She’d been going for at least twenty of her allotted thirty minutes, and she was starting to flag. Come on, she admonished herself. Dig a bit deeper. Do – not – stop.
Finsbury Park was busy this morning. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by coming to a halt. There was safety in movement: a sense that she was anonymous, invisible, as long as she didn’t stand still.
Rachel tried not to notice other, fitter runners, nor let them bother her. If she was going to get better at this, she knew she needed to stay in her own lane; remember that she was only competing against her former more sedentary self.
Of course
there was the odd moment when Rachel couldn’t help sneaking a peek at someone who sped past. Occasionally she’d spot a handsome man among the Proper Runners, enjoying these brief encounters as perks of the programme – a few diverting seconds during what usually felt like a torturous half-hour.
As she rounded a tight corner, Rachel’s attention was caught by someone with hair the colour of sea-washed sand. He was very tall, and lean in a way that made her think ‘strong’ rather than ‘skinny’. Even from this distance, and although her view was obscured by his blue T-shirt sleeves, Rachel could tell he had good arms. Not pumped up, gym-honed or big, just … good. He was holding himself perfectly straight, running from his core, propelling himself forward at a speed Rachel could only dream of. Whoever he was, this guy was fit – in more than one sense of the word, she admitted to herself.
They were moving closer together. They were going to run past one another any moment now. Rachel knew she looked red, dishevelled and clammy. She wished she were one of those girls who could exercise without ending up a drenched, half-dead mess.
At least if this man nodded to acknowledge her as he flew by, Rachel’s ensuing blush wouldn’t be obvious on her already flaming cheeks. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her staring at him.
He was only a few metres away now. And he was … waving at her?
Why was he waving at her?
Holy mother, it was Tom. Tom was the tall, fit runner. Tom was waving at her. Rachel came to a clumsy stop, almost tripping over her own feet.
Tom steadied her, laughing, and pulled her off the path onto a grass verge still crunchy with frost.
‘Hey,’ he said, breathing heavily, looking down at her and smiling. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I always forget people don’t recognise me when I’m not wearing my glasses. Sorry if I’ve put you off your stride.’
‘Haha! My stride?!’ Rachel said, her voice a panicky screech.
This was weird. She tried to avoid staring up at Tom’s face, which was glowing and flushed, his cheekbones highlighted pink.
His lips were parted as he struggled to slow his breathing. Rachel had never really looked at them before, but they were full, plush – almost feminine, with a steep Cupid’s bow. His bottom lip dipped slightly in the centre, as if aware of its own ample size and seeking to shrink itself for fear of being noticed.
Disconcerted, Rachel cast her eyes downwards, faking exhaustion so severe she couldn’t speak. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Tom’s navy T-shirt had ridden up above the waistline of his black shorts to reveal a sliver of stomach. Beneath smooth skin a few shades darker than her own, Rachel detected muscle. Abs. Further up, the T-shirt was sticking to his chest, implying solid planes and hollows that Rachel had never imagined might be there.
Whoa. Was this the sort of random, inappropriate hormonal surge Rachel’s mum had told her about? Was this her ovaries agitating for action? Dazed and dumb, Rachel looked down at her feet, cursing her mother and her dire warnings. Whether their effects were real or psychosomatic, this was embarrassing.
‘Ugh, I’m gross, I’m sorry,’ Tom said, breaking the silence. He pulled his top away from his torso and let it settle again, no longer plastered to his skin. Rachel felt her breathing begin to ease.
‘Oh God, me too,’ she said, and she meant it. She was annoyed that Tom was seeing her sweaty and knackered, though her vanity made no sense at all given the various coughs, colds and hangovers he’d seen her suffer over the years.
‘How’s it going, then?’ Tom asked. ‘The running, I mean.’
‘Oh, not bad. I still feel like I’m going to expire every time I come out, but I think I’m getting better. I’m definitely going to complete the programme – there’s a bottle of gin riding on it, after all.’
Tom grinned at her. ‘Good for you. Make sure you choose something expensive.’
There was a pause, during which it seemed each of them was waiting for the other to speak.
‘I didn’t know you ran,’ Rachel said eventually. Eek. Pathetic.
‘Yeah.’ He was pulling at his T-shirt again. ‘I do 10K a couple of times a week if I can. Clears the head.’
Rachel nodded but stayed silent, afraid she might come out with something else idiotic.
‘Well. I’d better get on,’ Tom said, pushing his hair off his forehead. His usual waves, damp with perspiration, had spiralled into proper curls – the kind you could fit your finger inside. ‘Sorry again if I freaked you out. No doubt I’ll see you in the week. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have the date of the first photo shoot for the exhibition confirmed, in case you want to come along?’
‘Sounds great,’ Rachel said. ‘Happy running.’ She watched him as he jogged away, picked up speed and eventually disappeared. As soon as he was out of sight she winced, wondering what on earth had possessed her to say ‘Happy running’.
She shook herself, stuck her headphones back in her ears and got going again. God, that had been strange. Silly, really – it wasn’t as if she didn’t know Tom was attractive.
But Rachel didn’t think of Tom that way. She never had. He was her friend – not some random bloke to be ogled momentarily as he went by. Tom was … solid. Permanent. Important.
As her feet pounded the cold pavement, Rachel reassured herself that it was her mother’s wild prophesying, rather than the sight of Tom in running gear, that had sent her thoughts spiralling in a direction she’d never have expected.
By the time she got home, she was sure of it.
14
Rachel got to work early on Monday morning, after a disturbed night full of odd dreams. She was awake before seven without need of her alarm, and reasoned that – since rest was determined to elude her – she might as well get up. Getting to the office before Jack was motivation enough, in any case.
When Rachel arrived at work, however, Jack was already at his desk. He was on the phone, listening hard, his eyes cast down and his mouth set in a grim line.
Once Rachel was settled at her desk, she caught his eye and made a cup-tipping motion with her right hand, mouthing ‘Coffee?’ Jack gave her a grateful thumbs up.
It was 8.40 a.m. by Rachel’s watch, and the only other people in the office were Neil from the tech team and Ivan, the agency’s IT guy. The kitchen was similarly deserted. Rachel placed one R/C mug and then another beneath the spout of the coffee machine, pressing the Americano button twice.
When she returned, Jack was off the phone. She passed him his drink, leaning towards him over the join between their desks so she didn’t spill. She caught a waft of his aftershave and held her breath for a moment, determined to ignore it.
Jack’s face was inscrutable, but something in the way he was moving seemed taut and strained. He normally held himself with a sort of graceful confidence Rachel envied, but his usual easy poise seemed to have crumpled. Something was wrong, but there was no way she was going to ask what. She sat down as he murmured his thanks for the coffee, reminding herself that she shouldn’t care if he was stressed out, that whatever mess he was in, it might well be of his own making.
Rachel busied herself with reviewing all the British House and Garden Heritage materials she’d amassed so far. Mixed in with Humphrey’s brief were notes from Isaac and Greg, plus examples of the work that had been done by other, now discharged, agencies. Her own assortment of ideas – rough sketches, bullet-point lists and blocks of mocked-up text – lurked at the bottom of the thick wad of papers. She still hadn’t come up with anything she felt good about, and she and Jack needed to present their plans to Humphrey at the end of next week. Rachel scowled as she reread her own words – as if giving them the evil eye might imbue them with new, more profound meaning.
‘Penny for them?’ Jack said, and she looked up at him. The clouds had apparently cleared now; his smile was warm and teasing again, and his body back in the fluid, relaxed stance she was used to. She wished she wasn’t interested enough to notice.
‘Your thoughts,’ he clarified,
grinning. ‘You’re looking at that document like you hate it – like you’re trying to set it on fire with laser beams from your eyes.’
‘I do hate it. And rather sadly I wrote the thing.’
Jack grimaced in faux horror, then laughed. ‘Maybe I can help to loosen things up a bit. Unblock you, if you’re struggling for words … You and I are due a catch-up on BHGH anyway. It’s not as if Friday was a particularly productive day, workwise.’
‘To be honest, I could probably do with bouncing my ideas off someone,’ she admitted. ‘Finding the right angle on this isn’t easy.’
‘I’m not surprised. Drumming up new visitors is a tall order when what you’re trying to sell them hasn’t changed. Humphrey’s adamant that nothing needs to be done with the properties themselves, though – or with the artefacts and exhibits they have on show.’
‘That’s exactly the problem,’ Rachel said, nodding. ‘All I’ve really got to work with is smoke and mirrors … I’m trying to change people’s perceptions rather than sell them something new.’ She felt almost vindicated by Jack’s understanding of how fiddly this was – of how much rested on her ability to tell familiar stories in a different, more interesting way.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked. The change of topic caught Rachel off guard. ‘I came straight here this morning,’ Jack went on, ‘and I’m starving. Do you want to go and get breakfast? We could chat through what you’ve put together so far – make it a work date.’
Rachel’s stomach lurched at the word date, then grumbled loudly. Traitorously. Jack smirked at her, daring her to claim she wasn’t hungry.
‘Okay, I’ll come,’ she said, wishing she could think of an excuse not to. ‘Actually, I know the perfect place.’
They sat at Rachel’s preferred table at Cyril’s – the one she’d been at on the day she hid from Laurence.
Rachel Ryan's Resolutions Page 14
