What if I meet an angry bird on the way down?
WHAT IF I MEET A PLANE ON THE WAY DOWN?
What if I wee myself (v. likely after Thorpe Park incident)
I fix my eyes on the back of Sally’s hair, perfectly swishing from side to side as she leaps along the path like an elegant grasshopper. Whilst I try not to hyperventilate behind her like a congested worm.
This is really unfair. Of course running is easy for Sally. Her legs come up to my armpits.
We have been running for twelve hundred hours. Okay, we haven’t. But it feels like we have. I’m sure we have definitely been running for more than twenty-three minutes (which is my absolute limit) and Sally has no intention of stopping. She hasn’t asked if I’m okay once! It hasn’t even crossed her mind that her only assistant could be dying a slow and painful death ten feet behind her. Well, the joke’s on you, Sally, because if I die thanks to this ridiculous run then you will have to deal with Bianca all by yourself.
Except, obviously, the joke is much more on me because I’ll be dead. Thanks to a run, of all things.
I push my burning legs into the ground in an attempt to catch up with her. How is she doing this so effortlessly? She doesn’t seem out of breath at all. And I bet she’s only wearing one sports bra. Sally’s eyes flit towards me as I puff alongside her like a pitiful steam train, thankfully catching up as my legs tremble beneath me.
‘How is your ankle?’ she asks pleasantly.
I gape at her. How on earth is she speaking so normally whilst running?
‘Okay,’ I manage, using all of my internal oxygen and core strength to force the single word out. If she tries to start a general conversation with me then I will surely die, no doubt about it.
Sally’s eyes dart towards me and then back at the road ahead.
‘We’re nearly back,’ she says. ‘You’re doing well.’
I look at her in bewilderment. Am I? It doesn’t feel like I’m doing well. It feels like I’m about to die.
I stagger behind her, desperate to keep up my speed as my feet drag along the ground. I tear my eyes away from Sally’s immaculate skin and notice the entrance to the park, which was where we started the run one thousand years ago. My chest sags in relief. Oh thank God. She wasn’t joking. We really are almost there.
I could hardly refuse running with Sally, even though it went against every ounce of my being to go on a run with someone who has four coffees before 11 a.m. and enjoys eating celery sticks (without hummus).
Sally lightly jogs up to a tree and I tumble behind her, grasping on to the tree for dear life, my chest convulsing under the pressure. Sally flicks up one of her feet and pulls it into a stretch.
‘I enjoyed that,’ she says, in a voice that suggests she didn’t enjoy it at all. ‘That was fun.’
‘Me too,’ I lie.
If this is Sally’s idea of fun then I need to take her to Baskin Robbins.
Sally pulls her keys out of a pocket and gestures to her car, parked up next to the gate. ‘Do you want a lift home?’ she asks.
I pause. Sally has never offered me a lift home before.
‘Sure,’ I say, taken aback, ‘thank you.’
Sally nods and clicks her car open. I slide into the front seat as my eyes scan over every detail of the perfectly manicured interior. Sally slots the key into the ignition and the car chugs forward politely. I lean back into the warm seat as my heart rate returns to normal.
‘I enjoy running,’ Sally says, as she pulls out into the road, ‘it relaxes me . . .’
Right. It’s official. Sally is mental.
‘. . . I have always run,’ she finishes.
I nod.
‘This will be my first run,’ I say, ‘the 10k.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sally says. ‘When is it?’
I shuffle in my seat, ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I think we are going to make it a charity event to raise money for the MS Society. A sponsored run or something.’
Sally’s face twitches.
‘I would like to volunteer,’ she says. ‘I will help.’
I glance up at her, my chest inflating.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Wow, that’s so kind, Sally. Thank you.’
Sally nods abruptly and steers the car around another corner. ‘Anything I can do to help.’
*
I push my parents’ front door open with my pointed elbow, my large bag tipping off my shoulder.
‘Hello!’ I shout, as I crash through the door. ‘Is anyone here?’
‘We’re in here, love!’
I kick the front door shut and drop my bags on the floor, heat searing up my shoulders and scratching at my muscles.
I think I am the opposite of Mary Poppins. It doesn’t matter how lightly I try and pack, my bag always feels like I’ve packed my entire bedroom and every available kitchen sink in Elephant and Castle.
I follow Mum’s voice through the kitchen and spot her and Dad in the living room. I do a double-take as I see that Mum is holding Dad’s hands in the air.
They both snap their heads round to see me, their faces animated.
‘Err . . .’ I manage, ‘hi?’
What on earth are they doing?
‘Hello!’ they chime in unison.
‘You’re just in time!’ says Mum in a jolly voice.
I sink on to their sofa and feel my eyebrows rise in alarm.
Oh God. Just in time for what?
‘What are you doing?’ I ask dubiously.
Mum and Dad look at each other, excitable grins spreading across their faces.
‘Well,’ Dad chortles, ‘me and your Mum took a leaf out of your book.’
‘Well,’ Mum quips, ‘your and Amy’s book.’
I scowl at them. What are they talking about? Book? Me and Amy don’t have a book.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
Mum lets go of Dad’s hands and shoots me a look of exasperation.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she cries. ‘We’ve taken up dance classes!’
‘Not Salsa,’ Dad says quickly, reading the look of horror on my face.
‘Oh no!’ Mum giggles. ‘We’re doing ballroom. Like on Strictly! Look, we’ll show you.’
Mum holds her hands up in the air like a well-stringed puppet, and Dad carefully slots his hands into hers.
Despite myself, I feel my appalled face break into a smile.
‘Right,’ Mum says, her eyes locked on to Dad’s, ‘sing us a melody, Georgie.’
What?
‘What do you mean?’ I manage, my face hot. ‘I’m not singing anything. I can’t.’
As if I’m going to sit here and casually serenade them. Who do they think I am, Paul Potts?
(A question I will never voice.)
‘Oh, Georgia!’ Mum snips, her eyes still glued firmly on Dad’s face. ‘Just sing us something. Don’t be difficult.’
I stare back at them. They are both stood, frozen in time, as if they are the centrepiece of a music box.
Oh great. What on earth does she expect me to sing?
I sink back into the sofa awkwardly as every song except ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ vanishes from my mind.
I am not having them dance to Shakira. No way.
‘Okay,’ Dad says into the silence, ‘I’ll sing something.’
My body jolts again.
He’ll sing? Dad can’t sing! Can he?
I look at my dad as he stares into Mum’s eyes, and starts humming a tune. Together, they move their feet in time to Dad’s song and slowly rotate around the room. At the third spin, Mum tilts back her head and laughs.
‘What do you think?’ she calls over her shoulder, as Dad twists her around the room.
Warmth spreads through me and I smile.
‘You’re actually pretty good!’ I say honestly, sitting forward and resting my chin in my hands.
‘See,’ Dad flashes me a wink as he stops singing, ‘Amy’s list is benefiting us all.’
I look back at them as Dad
dips Mum into a final position and they both grin at each other.
‘I guess it is.’
*
I scowl at my laptop, propped on the kitchen counter.
The quick and easy way to make the perfect Victoria sponge!
I have a strong suspicion whoever wrote this didn’t fully understand the words ‘quick’ or ‘easy’. I glance down at the lumpy mixture in my bowl and feel a pang of dismay.
Why can’t I do this? Amy said that this was the easiest cake to make. Children make cakes! Really old people make cakes! Why can’t I do it? What is wrong with me?
I wipe my forehead with the back of my floured hand. Honestly, they don’t make it look this hard on The Great British Bake Off. They just chuck it in, whisk it, chat to Paul Hollywood and poof! There you go, the perfect cake. I, on the other hand, have been whisking for what feels like four years and am being taunted by several stubborn lumps of butter. At least this recipe doesn’t require any egg whites.
I toyed with the idea of baking in my flat. Then I realised you couldn’t bake a cake with only a frying pan and a bread knife so gave up quite quickly.
I glare at the lumps as they poke out of the mixture arrogantly.
Melt! Why won’t you melt? Why won’t you bloody melt, you stupid thing?
My eyes scan the recipe.
Pour the smooth mixture into two tins and bake for twenty minutes.
Right. Well, my mixture is definitely not smooth but I can’t spend any longer on this. Decisively, I tip the mixture into the tins and shove them into the hot oven. The butter can melt in the oven. Assuming that is what the lumps are – not something else terrible that I have created by accident. Is that possible?
I look up as Amy walks into the kitchen. She flicks the kettle on and eyes me.
‘Tea?’ she says.
I smile and nod. This is the first time she has spoken to me since our fight. Well, her fight. I hardly fought with her. I just sat there.
‘How’s it going?’ she asks, gesturing to the oven as I kick it shut with my slippered foot.
‘Oh, you know,’ I say sarcastically. ‘About as well as everything else you put on that impossible list.’ I stick out my foot, pointedly, and to my relief Amy smiles. She pours the boiling water into two mugs and we sit on the kitchen chairs. There is a silence as we both wrap our hands around the burning mugs and the familiar wave of anxiety creeps up on me, as it does every time I think of Amy.
Eventually, she speaks.
‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ Amy says quietly. ‘I’m glad you’re doing the list.’ She raises her swollen eyes to look at me. ‘Really glad.’
I reach forward and curl my fingers over hers. ‘I’m worried about you,’ I say.
A small laugh tumbles out of the side of Amy’s mouth as she looks down at our hands. She drags her wet eyes back up to meet mine and my heart twinges.
‘I’m worried about me too,’ she manages, her voice thick. ‘I don’t feel well. I’m worried this is going to beat me. It’s taking over my life.’
I grip my hands tightly around hers as tears fall down her face, a dull ache of sadness expanding in the back of my chest. Amy is always okay. She is never not okay. She’s always fine.
‘You can’t let it,’ I say, desperate to keep my voice steady. ‘You have to look on the bright side. Mind over matter, like you always say to me.’
‘What if I end up in a wheelchair?’
The thick words fire out of Amy’s mouth and they strike me in the stomach like a physical blow. I take a deep breath and try to fight the hot emotion ripping up my throat and clawing at the back of my eyes.
‘You won’t,’ I say firmly, squeezing her hands, ‘you won’t.’
At my words, Amy sags and her body seems to deflate like a punctured balloon. I stare back at her. I wish I had the power to make Amy better.
Amy pulls her hands away from mine and lifts her head. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and takes a deep breath, uncoiling her spine as if she is being pulled up by an invisible string until she is sat in front of me, the confident Amy I know. She faces me, her eyes suddenly bright and her wet face glistening.
‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘I needed to hear that. I’ve been going mad, in my own head.’
I squeeze her hand. ‘Whatever happens, Ames,’ I say, ‘we’ll work it out. We’ll always work it out.’
She nods, and I move my mug between my hands.
‘I think,’ I say, ‘you need something to focus on. You gave me this list to challenge me, why don’t you let me give you something to challenge you?’
Amy sips her tea. ‘The run?’ she asks.
I nod.
Amy places her mug back on the table and moves her eyes towards the window.
‘I do think it’s a good idea . . .’ she says. ‘Anything we can do to raise money to help people with this horrible thing is a good idea. And,’ she looks up at me, ‘I’m so proud of you. Everything you are doing, you are really pushing yourself out of your comfort zone.’
I meet her eyes.
‘It’s you, Amy,’ I say, ‘it’s always you.’
*
I stick my head around Natalie’s office door and spot her scowling at a stack of papers.
‘Tea?’ I ask, waving my empty mug in her direction.
Natalie holds her mug up towards me, her eyes still firmly glued to the paper. She must be counting. I take the mug off her, when I hear a loud ripple of female laughter from the kitchen and I stop in my tracks, my ear craning towards the sound.
The kitchen isn’t very big. It can fit three people maximum, and that is if everyone stands completely still, which leads to very awkward, intense small talk.
Obviously I am always very cautious as to who I will go into that kitchen with. (Usually only Natalie or Jack. Unless Sally creeps up on me.)
I am also madly avoiding Sharon from HR, after Bianca’s whole coffee debacle. Sally’s tried to put a call from her through to me five times in the last week and can’t understand why it keeps ‘mysteriously cutting off’ every time I pick up the phone.
Although I can’t keep that up for much longer, or she’ll get Derek from IT involved.
Christ, that’s all I need. Yet another person at work to avoid. I haven’t even been at this job a year and I would have already created two enemies.
Well, three, if you count Shirley from reception and the whole Secret Santa scandal.
(I’m not getting into that now. You can guess what happened. Let’s just say I was wildly inappropriate with her ‘joke present’ and Shirley does not approve of flashing Santa thongs.)
The woman squawks again and I pull out my phone, until I hear Jack’s voice, quivering with laughter.
‘Go on!’ he cries. ‘Do it again!’
My ears prick up and I feel myself leaning towards the kitchen like a malnourished sunflower.
Who is he talking to?
‘Go on!’ he repeats.
The woman’s laughter rockets around the room, and I hear a gasp of breath, followed by a voice that I suddenly recognise as Bianca’s.
‘No!’ she cries. ‘I can’t!’
That’s her laugh? I’ve never heard Bianca laugh like that before! Usually her laugh is all tinkly and flowery, like she’s made out of china.
‘Please!’ Jack manages. ‘One more time! This is the best thing you have ever done!’
I hover awkwardly. I don’t feel like I should be listening to this, but I can’t bring myself to leave.
I hear another laugh rattle through Bianca. There is a silence as Bianca calms herself, then eventually she speaks, but not in her normal, composed voice.
‘Diana is on the toilet, Billy!’ Bianca growls, in a deep, throaty accent. ‘You’ll have to use ya coupon later!’
At this, Jack roars with laughter and I hear the familiar squawk erupt from Bianca.
‘What . . . is . . . that!’ Jack manages between laughs. ‘What even is that? That isn’t an
accent! He sounded nothing like that!’
Bianca’s laugh peals through the corridor. ‘He did!’ she squeals. ‘He did!’
I feel a small laugh tickle its way through my body as a strange sense of warmth fills my chest. Me and Amy used to get the giggles all the time. All Amy has to do is look at me in the wrong way and it sets me off. It’s how I got banned from her Pilates class. It’s also how she got kicked out of her Year 11 leavers assembly. She’s never forgiven me for that. She almost didn’t let me come to her graduation.
I hear Jack burst into another splutter of laughter and I turn to walk back up the stairs. I’ll make the tea later. When me and Amy get the giggles, it takes us hours to calm down.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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?)
05/10 3k (Am doing v. well. Kudos to me. I am superior to all. Bow to me, Usain.)
‘That’s so cool.’
I leap out of my seat and jerk my head around as Jack sticks his neck over my shoulder, peering at my illuminated screen.
I quickly minimise my open designs, my face burning. ‘Thanks,’ I mutter.
I thought I had the office to myself. I never would have worked on my designs if I thought there was a chance I would get caught.
He frowns at me. ‘Why have you got rid of them?’
I glance around to check Bianca and Sally are out of sight. Jack pulls up a chair next to me. I shoot him a mock-annoyed look and pull the designs back up, a balloon of pride swelling inside me.
‘Wow,’ Jack says, ‘these are really good.’
I cock my head as I let my eyes sink into the design, and my fingers coil around my pencil.
‘It’s the only thing I really know how to do.’ I glance at Jack, ‘I don’t have to think about it, you know?’
Nobody ever looks at my designs any more. Except my family – and they don’t count, because they think everything I do is brilliant. I glance sideways at Jack as he leans towards the screen.
I am particularly proud of this design. I have been working on it for weeks.
‘What’s it for?’ Jack asks.
I shrug. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s following the supermarket brief.’
The List That Changed My Life Page 14
