‘Sure,’ I say weakly, as Sally raises her eyebrows at me expectantly. ‘I’ll be right there.’
Sally sweeps out of the room and I turn back to Natalie.
‘You have to go see him,’ Natalie says at once, ‘and get your stuff back. Who does he think he is? What has he been doing with your diary? What a freak!’
I nod, my mouth dry. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right. What if he kills me?’ I suddenly blurt. ‘What if this is his trap to lure me back to his, so he can chop me into tiny pieces and bury me under his floorboards?’
Natalie hovers. ‘You’ve been watching too much CSI.’
‘Natalie!’ I whine.
Natalie stands up. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she says defiantly. ‘Tell that weirdo you’ll meet him tomorrow after work. I’ll come with you and sit two tables away. He won’t know who I am, and if anything happens you can give me a code or something and I’ll step in.’
I pull my wobbling legs to standing, feeling as if I may crumple back to the floor at any second.
‘Right,’ I say, fighting the urge to vomit, ‘okay. I’ll do it.’
*
I flick open my compact mirror and take in my reflection. Needless to say, I did very little at work today and spent the majority of the afternoon frantically reading horoscopes in case any of them hinted that I was about to be murdered by this Jack freak.
They didn’t. Although one said that I should expect a ‘financial development’, which I am certainly looking forward to.
Somehow, me and Natalie managed to barricade ourselves in the office toilet for the last forty minutes of the day and Natalie sculpted my face from scratch. I look like an entirely new person. Ironically, Jack may not recognise me. I snap the mirror shut as the train rocks around another corner and panic tickles my heart.
‘Are you okay?’ Natalie asks.
I nod rigidly. ‘I think so,’ I say, fixing my eyes on a tube advert of a swollen cat, sucking on a thermometer. My stomach lurches and I try to ignore my dry throat, twitching with panic. I scrunch my eyes shut and then open them again and glance down at my freckled hands, which are shaking slightly.
Ever since I received Jack’s message, I keep getting overwhelmed by waves of hot emotion.
The first emotion is horror. I don’t even know who this guy is, and he has my diary. My personal diary and my list. What has he read? Why does he want to meet me again? What does he want?
The second emotion is anger, which wraps itself around my ribcage like fire. He lied to me. I thought he liked me, but I don’t even know who this guy is.
The third is anxiety. The worst one, the hardest to control.
This thought cues the familiar violent beat of panic to smack at my chest, and I blink quickly to try and steady my vision. I try to moisten my mouth and take a deep breath, which rattles through my twitching body. I never confront anybody. I never argue. I have very clear boundaries that make me feel safe, and I never stray outside them. I know what I can and can’t do, and I can’t do this. I can’t storm up to a stranger and demand my diary back. I don’t know how. That isn’t me. I haven’t got the power. That’s Amy. Amy always argues for me.
My eyes sting as the anxiety pulls at my throat and I shake my head. The thought of Amy summons a sudden wave of indignation and I straighten my spine defiantly and squash the anxiety back down. I can’t let Amy know I lost that list. It was so personal. I just need to get it back.
‘Such a freak,’ Natalie mutters, scrolling through her phone. ‘I can’t wait to see what he looks like.’
‘Shh,’ I hiss, glancing around the tube.
Natalie looks up. ‘Is he here?’ she whispers, barely moving her mouth.
I shake my head as the tube pulls into Tottenham Court Road and we stand. He’s not on this carriage, unless he’s disguised himself. Who knows? Maybe along with being an identity thief he’s also a shape shifter.
Natalie links her arm into mine as we stride through the tube station. We spent the majority of the afternoon planning via email how this evening is going to run. Natalie will enter first, get a drink (Diet Coke – she needs a level head in case anything happens, plus we haven’t been paid yet) and sit down. I’ve described to her what fake Jack looks like. So if she spots him, she will sit two tables away and get out her magazine. Then I will enter, go to the bar and order a gin (I also can’t afford it, but I need the liquid courage). If he’s already there, I will storm over, like Beyoncé, and demand my diary back (this was Natalie’s input). If he’s not, I will find a seat and idly look at my phone (my input).
I grab Natalie’s arm as we reach the corner leading up to The Hook. My stomach spasms.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘it’s just round that corner, so we’d better separate.’
‘Right,’ Natalie nods, ‘see you inside.’
I nod weakly in response.
Oh God, I am so nervous. How do private detectives do this on a daily basis? I mean, I know they don’t do this exactly. At least private detectives have guns and Swiss Army knives. The worst I could do is brandish my blunt nail file and pray Jack doesn’t challenge me to any form of duel.
I glance down at my watch. Okay, it’s been two minutes. Thirty more seconds and then I’ll go in.
My stomach squirms.
I just need to get the list and leave. That is all I need to do. It is simple. I don’t even need to talk to him. I could just take it and walk off. No need to engage in conversation. Strictly speaking, I don’t even need to look him in the eye. I could even just—
‘Georgie?’
I jump as my eyes snap up and land on Jack, standing in front of me. His mouth is curved into a kind smile, and as soon as my eyes meet his a current of anger fires through me.
He leans in to kiss my cheek. I flinch in shock, but he doesn’t notice.
‘Why are you waiting out here?’ he asks, gesturing around. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
His green eyes glint at me, and I finally find my voice.
My list. He’s stolen Amy’s list. My sister’s list.
‘Hello, Jack,’ I say coldly, ‘if that even is your name.’
That is the line me and Natalie have been rehearsing all day.
A flicker of amusement passes over Jack’s face. ‘It is my name,’ he smiles. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘No!’ I cry, furious at his casual response. ‘I don’t want to see you! I want my diary back.’
I keep my eyes on his face as anger bites my skin. To my horror, I even feel a knot pull its way up my throat.
Jack’s eyebrows twitch slightly. ‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘I wanted to see you. I thought we had fun.’
‘We . . .’ I splutter. ‘I don’t even know who you are!’ I burst out, trying to control the heat storming up my face. ‘You pretended to be my date! I can’t believe you—’
I suck in a great breath of air. I cannot lose myself over this.
‘I just want my diary back,’ I say firmly, ‘please.’
Jack looks back at me, his eyes etched with concern. He opens his bag and begins to rummage around.
‘Sorry if I upset you,’ he says. ‘I was just, you know, at a bar and a good-looking girl asked if I wanted a drink.’ He cocks his head slightly, his green eyes locked on mine. ‘I thought it would be fun.’
To my annoyance, I feel a ripple of excitement when he calls me ‘good-looking’. I lift my chin.
‘I had fun anyway,’ Jack adds, finally fishing out my diary.
My body jars as I notice the list poking out between the pages. I am never letting that out of my sight again. Jack is still staring right at me. I flinch.
‘Well,’ I say tightly, ‘I did too. Or I thought I did. Until you stole from me.’
Jack goes to hand me the diary and freezes. ‘Stole?’ he repeats. ‘Stole what?’
‘My diary!’ I snap, the hot emotion returning behind my eyes. ‘And my list!’
Jack frowns at me, his eyes flitting quickly to my diary, susp
ended from his fingers.
‘Diary?’ he repeats. ‘What diary?’
I reach forward and snatch it out of his hands.
‘This!’ I cry, flapping my battered notebook in his face. ‘This! My diary. My personal notebook with everything personal in it that you stole. You thief.’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ he says evenly. ‘You left it on the table.’
My stony face quivers.
Oh.
‘Whatever.’
‘Why would I steal your diary?’ Jack asks, his voice suddenly sharp. ‘What use would that be?’
I stuff my notebook back in my bag, wincing as the pages crumple under my shaking hand.
‘I don’t know,’ I say bitterly, ramming the diary down. ‘I don’t know the motives of a criminal.’
A small laugh escapes him. ‘A criminal?’ he repeats.
I feel a swell of fury.
‘Yes!’ I cry. ‘You stole from me and you tricked me! How could you expect me to want to ever see you again? I don’t even know who you are! You took advantage of me!’
A full laugh, coated with sarcasm, pumps out of Jack now. ‘Took advantage of you?’ he says. ‘How? You came on to me. I just said yes.’
‘I did not come on to you!’ I puff, my face flaming. ‘You—’
‘You came up to me and asked if I wanted a drink,’ Jack says mildly. ‘I’m just putting two and two together.’
I swing my bag over my shoulder, hearing my heartbeat thumping in my ears.
‘Only because I thought you were someone else. I would never come on to you,’ I say indignantly. ‘You’re a freak.’
Jack steps back, a shadow passing over his face.
‘Okay,’ he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘Fine. Well, I’m going to go and get a drink. Do you want one?’
I gape at him. ‘No!’
Jack shrugs. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says, as if I have just turned down a cup of tea. ‘See you around, Georgie. Also,’ he adds, ‘I think pink looks nice on you.’
My eyes fly over my blue jumper.
What? Pink looks . . . what?
My heart jars as he walks past me.
I’m not wearing pink. Why would he say . . .?
‘Did you read it?’ I hurl after him.
He turns to face me. ‘Read what?’
‘My diary!’
He keeps walking backwards and I see a tiny smile play at the corners of his eyes.
‘Nah,’ he says, ‘of course not.’
He turns away and my fingers coil around my diary instinctively, defiance spiking behind my eyes.
He read it. He read my diary.
I glare after him as Natalie scurries round the corner, her face flushed.
She reaches me and looks back over her shoulder. ‘Was that him?’ she says. Her eyes scan my face and her brow knits. ‘Are you okay?’
I nod and turn, my eyes fixed on the spot where Jack left. ‘Fine,’ I say quietly, ‘lucky escape. He was a freak.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Georgie’s list
Have a vindaloo on Brick Lane.
Take a Salsa class.
Do a skydive.
Go on a Tinder date.
Cycle around Hyde Park.
Run 10k.
Make the perfect Victoria sponge.
Go skinny-dipping in the sea.
Try skateboarding at Southbank.
Show Bianca your designs!
I look up at the garish red sign, looming over me and flashing uninvitingly.
SPORTSWEAR!!!!!!! SHOP TODAY!!! HUGE SALE!!!!!!!
I massage my forehead with the back of my hand and try to fight the birth of the migraine I will inevitably get from laying eyes on that hideous sign.
Why are there so many exclamation marks? Who needs that many? Who is that excited? And to buy sportswear of all things?
I glance around dubiously, as if a nice stranger will appear and tell me that I don’t really need to go inside. I can buy the trainers online and Sally was just trying to scare me as punishment for accidentally (on purpose) giving her decaf coffee.
I scrunch up my face and tuck my bag under my arm defiantly.
Come on, Georgie. You have to buy running shoes. If you are going to take on this darn list then you must run, and to run you must own proper running shoes. You cannot run in Primark platform heels.
Well, I can actually, as I’ve had to run for the bus many times after a few too many Chardonnays with Natalie. But that isn’t an experience I would willingly relive.
Sally told me that I needed to buy ‘actual running shoes’ that ‘fit me properly’. She told me I needed to have my ‘running style assessed’. Which, to me, sounds absolutely dreadful. It also sounds made up. I mean, do people actually assess other people’s running styles for a living?
She also said that I would get some ‘handy running tips’. The only running tip I would happily receive is ‘don’t’. I did say this to Sally, but she didn’t find it very funny – which I should have seen coming, as Sally doesn’t have a sense of humour.
Right. The sooner I get in the sooner I can get out, get back to my flat and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I suck in a deep breath and power through the entrance to the store. I am greeted almost immediately by a burst of music and enormous cardboard cut-outs of perfectly sculpted bodies. My eyes flit over to a cardboard man, towering over me.
Wow. I wonder if you buy a pair of shoes you get to take him home for free?
‘Can I help you?’
I stop and snap my head round, my cheeks flaring as my eyes land on the shop assistant.
‘Err,’ I stumble hopelessly, ‘yes, please.’
Wow, he’s good looking. I can’t have him serve me, he’s too good looking. How am I supposed to concentrate?
He steps forward and smiles. I hover on the spot awkwardly.
‘What are you looking for?’ he asks, his face breaking into a smile.
Oh God, he’s getting really close to me. Why is he getting so close? Is this a normal distance? It doesn’t feel like a normal distance. I feel like he’s about to kiss me.
Maybe he is. Maybe that’s how everybody hooks up these days. Maybe this is where I’m going wrong and this is why I’m single.
‘Sports stuff,’ I blurt, and then immediately want to kick myself.
Urgh. No, that is why you’re single. Because you cannot answer a simple question from an attractive man without sounding like a moron.
‘Trainers,’ I add quickly, leaning on my back leg. ‘I need some new trainers. For running. Running trainers.’
His face doesn’t move. ‘Okay,’ he says pleasantly, ‘well, we have lots of trainers here. I’ll show you.’
I nod and follow him as we delve further inside the fluorescent shop floor.
‘So,’ the assistant says conversationally, ‘what sort of running are you into?’
I blink at him.
What sort of running am I into? What kind of question is that?
‘Oh, you know,’ I fumble, ‘a bit of everything.’
My eyes flit over to an old woman, peering at the trainer socks.
I must look pretty fit for him to keep asking me all of these sports-related questions. I mean, I know we’re in a sports shop, but he didn’t ask these questions of Old Mother Hubbard in the corner.
‘So . . .’ he stops as we reach a section filled with stacks of boxes, ‘we have these new ones in. Perfect for long-distance running.’
I hover as his words sink in.
Long-distance running.
‘Do you do long distance?’
I pause, stumped.
Does 10k count as long distance? I mean, I think it sounds pretty long.
What does Mo Farah run?
‘Yes,’ I hear myself say.
Well, how is he to know that I’m lying? I could easily be a long-distance runner. I mean, my hair is in a ponytail.
Maybe I could be, maybe this run will be the making
of me and I will be so good at running that I’ll enter the London marathon.
Excitement grips me as this new idea seeps into my mind.
The marathon! Yes! Why didn’t I think of it before? Mum and Dad would be so proud and I’d finally shift my extra chin.
‘These are the trainers for you, then.’ He smiles as if he is reading my thoughts. ‘What size are you?’
‘Six!’ I gabble.
He nods and moves towards the boxes and pulls one down.
Excitedly, I drop down on to the stool and pull off my heeled boots. I glance down at my feet.
Thank God I’m wearing matching socks.
I take the shoes from the shop assistant and slip them on my feet. They slide on as if they were crafted personally to the shape of my foot, and I feel a warm glow rise up inside me.
I spring to my feet and look down in awe at my new footgear.
Wow. They look amazing! I look amazing! Why don’t I ever wear trainers? They look so fantastic. They—
‘Okay, so if you’d like to step on the treadmill.’
His voice breaks my thoughts and a bolt of alarm shoots through me.
What? The what?
‘I’m sorry?’ I say.
Why did he say treadmill?
‘That treadmill,’ he repeats pleasantly, gesturing to an ugly machine looming impressively in the corner.
I gawp at it in horror.
Okay, what on earth is a treadmill doing in a shop?
‘No, thank you,’ I say lightly, ‘I’m happy with these shoes.’
He looks back at me, the fixed smile on his face twitching at my words.
‘We need to test that they support you properly when you run.’
I blink back at him.
When I run?
He gestures back at the treadmill and I feel panic ring in my ears.
When I run?
Do I have to run? Here? In the middle of the shop? Shops aren’t made for running! They’re made for shopping!
I look away from the treadmill and jump slightly as I catch the shop assistant’s knowing eye.
He’s going to make me run, isn’t he? I mean, what else can I do? I am going to have to run, in the middle of a shop, in front of this very attractive man.
Well, I guess this is it. Goodbye, pride. So long, integrity. It was nice knowing you, self-respect.
The List That Changed My Life Page 6
