She looks nice. She looks much nicer than the woman who served me last time and tried to convince me to take out a business loan when I joked about becoming a freelance busker because the man outside seemed to be making a fortune.
‘Hello,’ she says, ‘I’m Shannon.’
‘Hi.’
‘How can I help you today?’
I shuffle in my seat, feeling my face redden with guilt.
For God’s sake, why do I feel guilty? It’s my money!
‘I’d like to move some money about please,’ I say, realising in alarm that I sound like a drug dealer.
‘From my savings,’ I add quickly.
The woman nods. ‘Pop your card in,’ she says, gesturing to the card machine sat proudly on the desk. I do as I’m told and tap my pin number in.
Argh. Any second now she is going to see my bank balance. I wonder what she will think? Probably something like: ‘How on earth did this girl manage to reduce her bank balance to minus ten pence? Is she an actual moron?’
‘How much would you like to move?’ she asks.
‘One hundred, please,’ I say quickly, desperate to only say it once in case the ghost of my grandma is lurking, ready to curse me for spending my inheritance on tins of baked beans.
Shannon nods and taps at her computer.
‘Okay,’ she says, ‘that will just take a moment.’
‘Okay.’
‘How is your weekend?’ she asks politely.
I smile back at her.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I say, ‘I’m training for a run.’
‘Oh!’ she coos in approval. ‘For charity?’
I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘we’re running a sponsored 10k to raise money for the MS Society. My sister got diagnosed with it earlier this year. So I’m training for that.’
Shannon looks back at me.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your sister,’ she says softly, ‘my aunt has MS.’
I tilt my head. ‘Really?’
She taps at her computer and then leans towards me. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘the bank has a community engagement fund to make charitable donations. I’m sure we could donate something towards the run.’
I stare back at her.
‘Really?’ I say.
She nods and hands me a pen and paper. ‘Jot down your email address, love,’ she says kindly, ‘and I’ll speak to my manager and see what we can do.’
I take the pen and scribble down my details, my heart thumping.
‘Thank you,’ I gush, ‘thank you so much.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.)
19/10 4k (Finishes right by Burger King! Coincidence?!?!)
‘Right,’ Amy says, propped on the stool in the corner of the kitchen, ‘so it says, cream together the—’
‘Cream?’ I interrupt, baffled. ‘I don’t have any cream. You didn’t tell me that we needed cream. Cream wasn’t on the recipe list, I’m sure of it.’
‘Stop saying cream,’ Amy says teasingly. ‘It says, cream together the butter and sugar. Cream is the verb.’
I raise my eyebrows at her.
‘Well that’s stupid,’ I observe. ‘Why would they use a word that is a food to describe cooking two other foods? How ridiculous.’
‘We’re not cooking,’ Amy says knowingly. ‘Remember, we’re baking.’
‘You’re not doing anything!’ I retort, jabbing my wooden spoon in her direction. ‘You’re watching.’
Amy laughs and cups her head in her hands. I glance down at my bowl dubiously, and begin pushing the butter against the sides as the sugar dances around it.
Is this right? It doesn’t look right. But I’m sure this is what Mary Berry does. I’ve seen her do it on BBC2.
‘So,’ I say, panting in between beats as I force the spoon into the thick lumps of butter, ‘how has your week been?’
‘Good!’ Amy chirps, swinging her long hair over one shoulder and crafting it into a plait. ‘I feel good this week. I’ve been in school every day. Some bits are harder than others, but generally speaking I feel good.’
I smile at her over my bowl, relief spreading through me.
‘Good,’ I say, ‘that’s so good to hear.’
‘I mean,’ Amy continues, ‘the doctors have said that I will have good days and bad days, but it was nice to have a few good days in a row.’
‘Of course,’ I say gruffly.
Bloody hell, this is hard! Why is this so hard? My arms are killing me! And it looks nothing like cream.
‘How are you getting on?’ Amy asks, peering over from her chair. ‘Does it look pale and fluffy? That’s what it says in the recipe.’
I glower at the bowl. My mixture doesn’t look pale and fluffy. It looks lumpy and ill.
‘Screw it,’ I say crossly, ‘I’m going to whisk it. I’m sick of creaming. It doesn’t bloody work.’
I drop the wooden spoon defiantly and begin searching in the kitchen for Mum’s whisk.
‘How has your week been?’ Amy asks.
Mum has a really fun habit of rearranging the entire kitchen every time she throws a dinner party. She says it relaxes her, which makes me wonder how we can possibly be related.
Urgh. Where is this damn whisk? Where has she put it?
‘Yeah,’ I say, pulling my head out of the depths of a cupboard stacked with saucepans, ‘good, thanks. Actually,’ I say as the reminder dings in my brain, ‘I forgot to tell you. We got another sponsor this week.’
‘For the run?’ Amy asks, her voice excited.
‘Yeah!’ I say. ‘We spoke to a beauty parlour about donating something for the raffle, and it turns out that the owner loves running so is going to sign up! And we spoke to a florist who is going to donate something too.’
I stick my head in another cupboard.
‘Wow!’ Amy cries. ‘I can’t believe how well you’re doing.’
Ah ha! There it is. Right at the back.
I angle my body forward and attempt to manoeuvre the whisk out without causing a culinary avalanche.
‘Well,’ I say, prying the whisk from the back, ‘Jack has been helping me. He really is the brains, he just knows all of this stuff.’
‘Hey,’ Amy says brightly, ‘maybe if I keep feeling this good then I could do the run too!’
‘Yeah!’ I say, as the electric whisk finally falls out of the cupboard. I jab it into the plug socket happily.
Right. Pale and fluffy. Let’s have you.
‘Georgie,’ Amy says quickly, ‘are you sure about that? It says, cream.’
‘I need to get this bloody thing off my list. Cream is a food, not a verb,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’
Decisively, I shove the whisk into the bowl and switch it on. This is an action I regret immediately, as great chunks of butter cling to the whisk and propel themselves out of the bowl before splattering across my black top.
‘Argh!’ I yelp.
‘See,’ Amy laughs, ‘I told you cream was a verb.’
*
I glance at my reflection in the mirror and feel a bubble of pride rise up my body.
I don’t mean to be arrogant. But I look incredibly expensive today.
Not like a prostitute, obviously. Like a woman in her mid-twenties who is doing extremely well for herself, and not like a woman in her mid-twenties who has been eating butter-free toast because she can’t afford a new tub until bloody pay day.
Today, I am wearing my cropped trousers, my favourite autumnal jumper and (the crème de la crème) my Prada shoes that I bought last year in a charity shop!
The only slight niggle is that they are extremely uncomfortable and I can barely stand in them. But, let’s be honest, I can barely stand in any of my shoes with
this fat ankle – and what’s the alternative? That I wear trainers? No thank you.
I slink out of my flat and swing my bag over my shoulder as I make my way towards the bus stop and the autumn breeze nips my skin.
Me and Jack have been speaking to businesses about sponsoring the event, and so far they have all been thrilled to! Jack says that they always need to do their bit for charity, but he is especially good at getting their support. We’re going to have a raffle, and some of the prizes are amazing! One of the travel agencies has offered a trip to Gran Canaria! I lightly suggested to Mum that I might fix the raffle so that I win that prize, but she got all shirty and called me ‘immoral’. I was only joking. Sort of.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I flip it over, to see an incoming call from Jack. I smile as I answer the call.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘you okay? I’m on my way.’
Jack’s voice cuts across me. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
I pause as I turn a corner.
Okay. So, my feet are killing me. Oh my Lord. I didn’t even pack any emergency flats. I toyed with the idea and then got all stupid and proud about being a ‘real adult’.
Urgh. Why am I like this?
‘Oh?’
‘I think,’ says Jack, ‘we should take some of the money that one of these companies has given us and invest it.’
I frown.
Invest it? Like, buy a holiday home in Devon or put it in the pension pot?
I need to put something in my bloody pension pot. Actually, I need to start a pension pot.
Do I need an actual pot? Or is that just a figure of speech?
I think I’d like a green one.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ Jack powers on, not missing a beat, ‘I think, with a bit of marketing, we could make this event pretty big.’
‘Right.’
‘So we could advertise it, online, using the money the investors have given us. We could advertise for more runners. If we say every runner has to raise, like, one hundred pounds each, then twenty more runners would be . . .’
‘Two grand!’ I cry.
Wow, that was quick maths! Where did that sudden stroke of genius come from? Maybe that bowl of bran flakes I stole from Tina is paying off!
Jack laughs. ‘Exactly!’
I notice the bus stop and stride on, tottering on my impossible heels.
‘We already have the artwork you designed,’ Jack continues. ‘It looks like such a great brand. What do you think?’
‘Great idea!’ I say. ‘I really think—’
‘Georgie?’
I almost drop my phone in shock as Bianca’s voice pounds into my ears. I blink around hopelessly. Why is Bianca in Elephant and Castle? Finally, I spot her, hanging out of a black cab and staring at me in horror. I hang up my phone in haste.
‘Hi . . .’ I say in bewilderment, staggering forward, ‘Bianca.’
Oh my God, why is she here? Has she followed me? What have I forgotten to do? It’s a Sunday!
‘What are you doing?’ she cries in dismay. ‘Why are you waiting at a bus stop?’
I pause, baffled.
‘Err . . .’ I manage, trying to avoid the eyes of the fellow bus travellers who are shooting Bianca looks of disgust, ‘because I’m getting a bus?’
What kind of question is that?
Bianca looks at me as if I’m speaking in Finnish.
‘I’m getting the bus,’ I repeat in a slower voice.
Bianca flinches as if the very idea of getting a bus makes her gag. Suddenly, she throws open her cab door.
‘Get in,’ she orders.
I freeze.
‘Really,’ I protest, ‘it’s fine. I always get the bus. I—’
‘Now!’ she barks.
I glance around at the bus queue, and climb inside apologetically. Bianca is draped on the back seat, surrounded by a sea of large, square shopping bags and neat little boxes piled on top of one another.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks.
I falter as a bolt of panic shoots through me.
I’m on my way to meet Jack. Oh no.
‘Clapham,’ I say weakly, my brain freezing under the pressure and sacrificing every other place in London I could suggest.
Bianca nods towards the driver and we shoot forward, leaving my sad bus stop behind.
What’s happening? Why am I sat in a cab with Bianca, on a Sunday in Elephant and Castle?
‘Have you been shopping?’ I ask conversationally.
Bianca’s eyes flit down to the dozen bags propped by her feet.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Jonathan is away this weekend.’
‘Ah.’
‘So,’ Bianca continues, pulling out a nail file and buffing her long nails one by one, ‘it is just me and Jack. He has decided to stay with me right up until the wedding, which is nice.’
My body jars.
Oh no. Why has she bought him up? Does she know? Is that why she has got me in this taxi, alone? Is she going to drive me to the middle of nowhere and then drop me in an abandoned quarry?
‘Oh yes,’ I say lightly. ‘That’s nice of him.’
I try to control the manic beats of anxiety reverberating up my throat.
I should never have got into this taxi.
‘What are you doing today, then—’ Bianca glances sharply towards me. ‘In Clapham?’
I look up at her, my mouth dry.
Does she know? Is she playing with me?
‘Just meeting a friend,’ I manage weakly. Thankfully, this seems to satisfy Bianca and she nods.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘that will be nice.’
‘Yes.’
An awkward silence stretches between us and I glue my eyes to the view outside the window as we speed through London.
‘What about you?’ I say eventually.
My eyes flit back to Bianca and she screws up her nose. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I don’t know. I might see what Jack is doing. Maybe we can go to the cinema.’
She pulls her phone to her ear and my stomach lurches.
Oh no. Is she calling him, now? What if he says that he is busy, meeting me? I have no escape. I can’t throw myself out of the taxi, I’d splatter like an egg.
‘Hi, Jack.’ Bianca smiles into the phone as he answers. ‘Listen, I’m just on my way back from shopping. Where are you?’
She pauses as he answers, then to my horror her eyes flit to me. I feel myself jerk in my seat, as if I’m preparing to throw myself out of the window.
‘Oh really?’ she says, her eyes fixated on mine.
Oh my God. He’s told her!
My face burns as I pull out my phone, pretending not to listen to her conversation as I scroll through Twitter.
‘That is so weird,’ Bianca continues. ‘I’m with Georgie and she is going to Clapham too. You know Georgie, right? From the office? One of my assistants?’
Heat flares up my face.
‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ she says, and pulls the phone away from her ear. She looks up at me and laughs.
‘Well!’ she says. ‘You’ll never guess where Jack is?’
I blink back at her weakly.
‘Where?’ I manage.
‘In Clapham!’ she cries, laughing as if this is all just some big coincidence. ‘You’re going to Clapham, Jack is in Clapham. Maybe I should go to Clapham!’
Bianca slaps her slender leg lightly as she laughs at the idea. I look back at her, my face red hot and my cheeks burning. I force a polite laugh and cross my legs.
‘Maybe you should.’
*
I look up from my computer screen as Jack darts into the office.
‘Hi,’ I say, as he drops into a chair and yanks it over towards me.
‘I need your computer,’ he says, grabbing the mouse.
I scowl, taken aback, as he stretches over me. Doesn’t he have his own computer?
‘Look at this,’ Jack says, angling the keyboard towards him and
clicking on our sponsorship page. My eyes follow his gaze and widen as they fix on the screen.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathe.
‘And . . .’ Jack adds, now logging on to Facebook, ‘look at this.’
He pulls Facebook up and suddenly my screen is filled with my design.
ARE YOU A RUNNER?
JOIN OUR 10K RUN ON 1 DECEMBER
AND
RAISE MONEY FOR THE MS SOCIETY
SIGN UP NOW!
‘Wow,’ I say quietly, my eyes lingering on the bright yellow advert.
I have never seen any of my designs in use before. Seeing one as an advert causes my heart to flutter with emotion. It’s like looking at my child.
Six thousand likes. Two thousand shares.
I lurch forward and grab the mouse off Jack, then click on the ‘like’ section.
‘Jack!’ I cry. ‘This is mad! How has it reached so many people?’
Jack grins. ‘Well, we had to pay for it,’ he says, ‘it’s the investment we spoke about.’
‘So many people are engaging in it,’ I whisper, my eyes scrolling up and down the list of people I have never heard of.
‘That’s because of your design,’ Jack beams. ‘It looks so great.’
A smile spreads across my face.
‘And,’ Jack adds, taking the mouse back, ‘look at this.’
He clicks to pull up the sponsorship page.
‘We’ve had thirty new runners sign up since we launched the campaign’ he says, scrolling down the page. ‘They’ve all agreed to raise one hundred pounds for the run.’
‘Thirty?’ I repeat.
‘Georgie,’ Jack turns to me, his eyes shining, ‘I think we could make this event pretty huge.’
My eyes return to the sponsorship page and the staggering amount already raised.
‘I think we could too.’
*
‘You look like Miss Miller, Mrs Miller.’
I look at the small boy, his big eyes staring at me under a mop of matted red hair.
I smile. ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘but I am not a Mrs. I’m Miss Miller too.’
The boy cocks his head in confusion. ‘You have the same name?’
I nod. ‘At the moment, yes. Neither of us is married.’
The List That Changed My Life Page 16
