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 wiggle my feet in my trainers and grab my water bottle determinedly. Two weeks after my ankle injury, and I am ready to enter the battleground again.
Right, third run. I can do this. I can run for twenty minutes. I am even wearing two sports bras – which took me ten minutes alone to put on. Honestly, getting in and out of a sports bra should be counted as a sport within itself. Christ.
I glance outside and push my way out of the flat, making a mental note of everything I need.
Right, then. Phone, water, keys—
I manically pat my body.
Oh my God, where are my keys? Have I left them in the flat? Oh my God, I’m so stupid! How will I get back in? I’m locked—
Oh wait, they’re in my pocket. Cool.
I bounce gently on the balls of my feet and then set off in a light jog down the street, catching sight of myself in a shop window. I really am nailing this whole ‘casual runner’ look and, as this is my third run, I am officially classing myself as a runner. I have even bought a handy armband to lock my phone in. I am one sweatband away from being Jessica Ennis-Hill.
I glance at my phone with pride and notice it’s flashing. I scowl.
Why is it flashing? Who is texting me at 7.30 a.m.?
I focus on the road and try to ignore the curiosity tugging at my mind.
It can’t be important. I’m only running for twenty minutes, I will look when I get back. It can wait twenty minutes.
What if it’s Amy? Maybe something has happened to her. Although nobody would text me to let me know. They’d call. I know for a fact Mum can barely turn her mobile on.
I turn a corner. The crisp air fills my lungs as if I have inhaled a tube of toothpaste.
It could be Jack. But then, why would he be texting me at 7.30 in the morning? He rarely texts me, and that is how it should stay. Friends don’t casually text each other first thing in the morning, that would be weird. But who else could it be? It must be Jack. Since I deleted Tinder, he is the only person to text me at all.
Why is he texting me so early in the morning?
Oh God, what if he has sent me a soppy, totally inappropriate message? Actually, it is totally inappropriate for my boss’s brother to text me. Full stop. Urgh. I wish he didn’t have my number. What if he is texting me with Bianca? What if they are having breakfast together – totally plausible – and he’s lightly tapping away at his phone? She could see! And then she’ll say, ‘Who are you texting?’ and he will say, ‘Georgie,’ and then she will say, ‘Georgie? My assistant? Why is she texting my brother? That is so weird, they must be having sex. I shall fire her.’
I feel my insides twist as my stomach performs somersaults.
Argh! I need to check. I have to. I need to tell Jack to stop texting me right away. The idiot. Why on earth is he texting me? Is he trying to get me fired?
Without checking my surroundings, I ram my feet into the ground and skid to a halt. My chest burns at the sudden chance to catch my breath and I buckle over, my hands grasping at my phone.
I frown. It’s an email. What? Who is emailing me at this time?
I click on mail and fight the urge to throw my phone in the bin as an email from Bianca appears.
Bianca had the dreadful idea yesterday of installing our work emails on our phones, after Sally asked to leave early for a doctor’s appointment. Why is she emailing me at this time? This should be illegal. Furiously, I jab the email open and scowl at the message that lights up on my screen.
Georgie. I need you to visit London Zoo before the meeting at 10.30. I have a bear tip. Ask to speak to Charlie. B x
I glare at the screen in horror.
A bear tip? London Zoo? She wants me to gallivant off to London Zoo? I’m supposed to be a designer!
I shove my phone back into my armband and continue to run, fuelled by a fresh injection of irritation shooting up my body.
And before 10.30? It’s almost 8 a.m. now!
I pummel my legs into the ground furiously as I storm on to a stretch of grass.
Maybe I’ll just pretend I didn’t get the email. Or that my phone is broken. Although, what is this bear tip? Maybe going to the zoo will solve this ridiculous problem and I can stop pretending to need a wee every time Bianca brings it up.
I feel another zap of irritation as my phone vibrates again. My eyes flit down to my armband and my flashing phone.
What now? Is she emailing me again? Is this a follow-up email? I could be asleep! For all she knows, I could be doing something really important.
I rip the phone out of the armband.
My legs slow to a gradual halt as my eyes focus on my phone, and Mum’s name flashes on to the screen.
Mum? Why is Mum calling me?
‘Hello?’ I press the phone to my ear, anxiety washing over me.
‘Hello?’ Mum’s voice spills out of the phone excitedly. ‘Hello? Oh Ian, look! It’s working!’
I scowl at the screen.
What is she talking about?
‘Keep running, darling!’ Mum says. ‘Keep going!’
I start running obediently and then stagger back to a halt.
‘Hang on,’ I say, ‘what? How do you know I’m on a run?’
My eyes dart around the park expectantly. Is she here?
‘Amy set up this great application!’ Mum trills. ‘It means we can run with you!’
I look around, baffled.
‘Run with me?’ I repeat. ‘What? Are you here?’
A horsey laugh fills my ear as Mum and Dad chuckle in unison.
‘No, darling!’ Mum cries. ‘Of course not. It’s Tuesday!’
I continue to stare at my phone. What’s that got to do with anything?
Am I dreaming?
‘We thought—’ I hear as Dad takes the phone. ‘We would log on to the application.’
I try to squash the burst of irritation that squirms inside me.
App. It’s called an app. Urgh.
‘And join you on your run,’ Dad continues. ‘We can see you! You’re right by the park, aren’t you?’
At this, I fully spin on the spot.
Where the hell are they? How are they doing this?
‘Something to do with your location settings,’ Dad finishes.
I glance down at the phone and feel my eyes roll into the back of my head.
‘Oh, and Georgia!’ Dad quips. ‘I got your cartoon email this morning. Very funny! Look, I put it on the fridge.’
I hear a scuffle of noise and then an expanding silence.
Dear Lord. He thinks we’re FaceTiming.
Why is technology always so difficult for parents to understand?
‘Oh well done, darling,’ Mum coos in the background, ‘you’ve already run 1k. You are doing well.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, picking my pace back up and breaking into a run.
‘This is fantastic!’ Dad cries. ‘We can see exactly where you are!’
Oh God. I hope they don’t log on to this app randomly to see what I’m doing as a fun joke. I don’t want Mum working out how much time I spend in McDonald’s.
I jog around another corner and try to zone Dad out. This is a bloody nightmare. How am I supposed to run with those two in my ear, acting like they’ve discovered the first life on Mars?
‘It really is amazing!’ he continues. ‘Modern technology. I don’t know how I—’
‘Oh!’ Mum shouts in the background.
I screw up my face as her pinched cry shoots into my ear. I hear another muffled sound as Mum snatches the phone off Dad.
‘Georgia!’ Mum calls. ‘I’ve just
noticed that there is a Cook store right near you! You are a five-minute jog away from it!’
I narrow my eyes. I hope I don’t know where this is going.
‘Right,’ I say slowly.
‘Will you pop in for me on your way back?’ she says. ‘I’m sure it opens at eight. I’m having a dinner party this weekend and could really do with some Chicken Alexander.’
I furrow my brow. ‘Who’s Alexander?’
‘It’s a meal!’ Mum snips. ‘Will you pop in and get me some? Oh! And some Tagine Cups.’
‘Mum,’ I whine, ‘I’m on a run! I haven’t got time!’
Mum puffs down the phone. ‘Well!’ she cries. ‘Do you think I have time to make twelve mini quiches? Of course I don’t. And if there was one little thing that could make my life easier then I would have thought that you, as my daughter, would—’
‘Urgh!’ I cry. ‘Fine! Fine! I’ll go and bloody get them.’
‘Oh good. Thank you, darling. Oh, could you also pick up twelve mini spotted dicks? Your dad loves those.’
I gape at the phone.
If that is any form of innuendo then I am putting myself up for adoption.
*
I eye the large, grand sign dubiously and sigh. I cannot believe I am about to enter London Zoo in a pencil skirt. I feel like I’m on The Apprentice.
I tug my skirt down and shimmy in, like an anxious penguin, as nerves dance around my chest. I glance at my phone: 09.55. Okay. I have half an hour to speak to Charlie. Whoever the hell that is. I hope it’s a real person and this isn’t some sort of code. Maybe Bianca actually doesn’t want bears at all, and she’s speaking in cockney slang. What could ‘bear’ mean in rhyming slang?
Chairs?
Actually, that is totally feasible. She could easily be asking me to source chairs for the wedding. Shit. Am I being a total idiot? But then, why would she send me to London Zoo? They don’t sell chairs here, do they?
I waddle up to the reception desk and glance at a woman who is dressed head to toe in large, stained overalls. Her hair is scraped off her face and she has a heavy nose ring hanging from her left nostril. Her thick arms are slumped forward, forcing her back to arch, and there is a smear of mud on the side of her neck.
Or, at least, I think that’s mud.
‘Hello,’ I say awkwardly, ‘I’m here to see Charlie.’
The girl looks up and her brow knits. ‘I’m Charlie,’ she says in an unfriendly voice. Her eyes flit up and down my body and her frown deepens.
Oh, right. Well, that was easy. I think.
‘Ah,’ I say, ‘hello. I’m here on behalf of Bianca.’
The girl stares at me, her lazy expression hanging.
I hover uncertainly.
‘Bianca Lemon?’ I offer.
The girl’s eyes show no flicker of recognition at my question. Eventually, she speaks.
‘Who?’ she grunts.
I flinch, a cold sense of dread washing over me.
‘I . . .’ I stumble, my face hot, ‘I’m here on behalf of Bianca Lemon.’ I start again. ‘She said to ask for Charlie—’ I look around. ‘Maybe a different Charlie.’
‘I’m the only Charlie here,’ she growls, as if I have questioned her very being.
I blink back at her. Have I got this totally wrong? Was this some form of office joke at my expense?
I pull out my phone and quickly jab Bianca’s phone number.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Charlie, holding my phone to my ear, ‘one second.’
I turn away as the phone trills in my ear and my face burns. Am I going mad? There is only one London Zoo, right? Have I completely—?
‘Hello?’
I jump slightly as Bianca’s flowery voice swirls down my phone.
‘Hi,’ I say, trying to stay calm, ‘Bianca, it’s Georgia.’
‘Hello, Georgie darling,’ Bianca says. ‘How are you? Did you get my email?’
I scowl at the phone. ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I’m here now. I’m with Charlie, she says she . . . err . . . doesn’t know you.’
The last bit tumbles out of my mouth awkwardly and I falter, hoping she doesn’t take offence.
‘Oh yes,’ Bianca says casually, ‘I don’t know Charlie— Oh no, this is no good, I need it with much more froth than that, please,’ she instructs. ‘Thank you.’
What?
‘You,’ I say slowly, ‘you don’t know Charlie?’
‘Oh no, darling,’ Bianca says, a tinkle of laughter dancing down the phone.
I feel my face burn.
Well then, why the hell did she send me here?
‘My friend does,’ Bianca continues. ‘Charlie is my friend’s second cousin. She said that she worked at London Zoo and I just thought, now there is an idea. I thought you could ask her about the bears. As a way in, you know.’
I fight the urge to hurl my phone at the wall.
‘Are you with her now?’ Bianca says.
I glance back at Charlie, who is still eyeing me expectantly.
‘Err,’ I mumble, ‘yes.’
‘Oh good,’ Bianca coos, ‘ask her now, will you? While I’m on the phone.’
I blink back at the phone.
What? No! I can’t ask that incredibly stern woman if she has a troop of singing bears!
Can I get out of this? Hang up on Bianca? Pretend my phone has broken?
‘Georgie?’ Bianca persists, her sharp voice piercing my ear. I stand on the spot mutinously.
Slowly, I step towards Charlie, who slumps her head in her hands. I force my eyes to meet hers.
‘Hi,’ I say again, ‘I’ve got my boss on the phone. Bianca Lemon.’
‘Hello!’ Bianca calls from down the phone, and I jump as her pinched voice thunders into my eardrum.
A smirk pulls at Charlie’s mouth, and my face burns.
‘Ask her about the bears,’ Bianca orders.
Urgh. This is going to be the worst moment of my life. I really hope they don’t have CCTV. I don’t want to end up on the news as a hysterical joke.
I look at Charlie, praying she can read the apologetic undertones of my question. I don’t even know how to word this, it’s so ridiculous.
‘She,’ I begin, ‘she, err . . . she is getting married, and she would like some bears at the wedding . . .’
I pause, my forehead peppered with beads of sweat that cling to my fringe. Charlie’s eyebrows creep up her face. She pulls herself up to her full height and towers over me, like a large, ominous gorilla.
‘Bears?’ she repeats.
I nod gravely.
Charlie’s eyes flit to the phone, and then back to me.
‘Real bears?’ Charlie says slowly.
I nod again.
God, this is so humiliating.
‘Tell her I’ll pay for them!’ Bianca barks down the phone. ‘No expense spared!’
Charlie glances back at the phone as Bianca’s crisp voice spills into the room. She runs her hands through her coarse hair and shakes her head.
‘Nah,’ she says, her mouth splitting into a wry smile, ‘nah, we can’t do that. You can’t hire the bears. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ I gabble quickly, desperate to leave before Bianca can speak again. ‘Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’
I spin on the spot and march out of the zoo as quickly as I can.
Bianca sighs down the phone. ‘You know,’ she says wearily, ‘we really need to work on your negotiating skills.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Running schedule:
04/08 1k (August is not the time to start running. Sweat patches are uncontrollable.)
10/09 2k (Actually isn’t that far at all! Who knew?)
‘You’re in a good mood.’
I angle my head round to face Amy as we lurch into downward dog.
Oh God, I hate this position. Who on earth ever invented this? How was it discovered? Surely this position was stumbled upon whilst having sex. But then, how could anyone ever have sex like this? I’ve
only been in it for about thirty seconds and I feel like my head is about to explode, and not in a good way.
‘Am I?’ I reply.
‘Yeah,’ Amy says, as we curl into the cobra position, ‘you’re all twinkly. And you’re wearing make-up.’
I glance down at Sally’s book, propped open on the settee. I smile at Amy.
‘I am just pleased,’ I manage, all the air from my body squashed inside my stomach, ‘to be spending time with you. It is nice to see you doing things.’
Amy looks quizzically at me but doesn’t say anything.
Good Lord, this is uncomfortable. I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, trying to look at Amy without moving my head. If I move any of my body too much I will certainly topple over.
Amy keeps her eyes on me. I tense. This is the question Amy seems to hate the most. This would be the moment when Amy snaps. To my relief, her face curls into a smile.
‘Fine,’ she says calmly. ‘I’m actually feeling good this week,’ she says. ‘I’m feeling better at work and it is so nice to be doing yoga again. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.’
I smile as a wave of affection for Sally spreads through my chest.
‘Okay,’ Amy says, ‘now we need to lean on one side and put an arm in the air. It’s quite hard, it’s called “wild thing”.’
I snort and Amy shoots me a look. ‘Why is that funny?’
‘Oh, come on,’ I say, firmly stuck in my cobra position. ‘Wild thing? What is wild about yoga?’ My eyes flit down to the picture and I see the pose. ‘Oh my God,’ I say, ‘how on earth do you do that? It looks impossible!’
Amy grins. ‘You can do it. Come on, follow my lead.’
Experimentally, I get to my feet and bend my back to copy Amy. I frown at the picture. I am definitely doing this wrong.
‘So,’ Amy says, ‘has that guy been back at your office?’
I curl my arm backwards. Okay, wow, this is really hard.
‘Guy?’ I repeat, knowing full well that she means Jack. ‘What guy?’
‘Jack,’ Amy says, not missing a beat.
I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Yeah, he has, actually. He’s sort of working with us. He’s all right, you know. He was the one who helped me with my ankle.’
Amy twists her head round to face me. ‘Did he now?’ she says suggestively.
The List That Changed My Life Page 12
