‘There’s a spare seat over there.’ The woman holds out a non-committal arm, gesturing towards the corner of the room, and I shuffle forward as quickly as I can and slide into a grey chair. I look up at the man sat opposite me. He is slumped backwards into his seat and is chewing gum like a camel toying with spit. His dirty-blond hair is long and droops over his face in lank curtains and he is wearing a checked shirt that pulls open at the chest to reveal a stretch of manicured skin.
I watch as his eyes flick over my body randomly, lingering on my chest.
‘Ready?’ the girl calls. ‘Your six minutes start . . . now!’
She dings a bell and I jump slightly, feeling as if I have been pushed into some sort of sumo wrestling ring.
‘Hi,’ I say quickly, desperate to speak before we’re both drowned by an unbearable silence, ‘I’m Georgia.’
‘Hi,’ he says back, ‘I’m Rocko.’
I pause, stumped.
Rocko? Did he just say Rocko? His name is Rocko?
That’s . . . that’s a dog’s name.
I feel my lips quiver and I will my expression to remain neutral. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
Rocko remains draped over his chair like a castaway outfit from the night before. I remain uncomfortably upright, as if I am scared to sink into the back of the chair in case I need to escape.
‘How are you?’ I offer.
‘Good,’ Rocko says idly. ‘So tired, man.’
I nod politely.
Did he just call me man?
‘Oh, really?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.
‘Yeah,’ he looks over his shoulder and exhales deeply, ‘I’ve literally come here straight from the gym.’
I feel my shoulders sag.
Oh, great. Here we go.
I take a sip of my wine. ‘Oh, right,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he continues, apparently unfazed by my bored expression, ‘I try and go twice a day.’
‘Mhmm.’
‘I’m really into it. I’ve just finished my cardio, now I’m moving back to the weights.’ He flexes his arms under his shirt and a smug smirk crawls on to his face.
‘Oh, cool,’ I reply.
He hasn’t even asked me how I am. He hasn’t even finished the small talk.
‘Do you do any fitness?’ he asks, shooting me a look that suggests he thinks it doubtful.
I puff out my chest indignantly.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly, ‘I’m actually training for a 10k next week.’
Rocko’s eyebrows twitch. ‘Really?’
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘And I—’
‘I ran a 10k yesterday,’ Rocko interrupts. ‘I run them almost every other day, when I’m not doing weights. It was a staple part of my cardio. Yeah,’ he stretches his arms above his head, ‘now that I’ve moved on to weights I don’t have to run as much, but I reckon I will. Just to keep the fitness up.’
I stare back at him.
What on God’s green earth is he talking about?
‘Really?’ I manage.
This is the longest six minutes of my life.
‘Do you go to the gym?’ he snaps his gum loudly.
Urgh, really? Is that the best question he can ask me?
‘No,’ I say shortly, craning my neck around to see how everyone else’s dates are going.
That girl is laughing! That is so unfair. How did she manage to sit with a funny guy and I’m stuck with someone who has the personality of a wooden spoon?
I force my eyes back to Rocko and, to my amazement, realise he is still speaking.
‘. . . the weights are the hardest part, for what I want, but the cardio and the HIT workouts I’ve done will give me a good leg-up. So I won’t find it as hard. I’m thinking about personal training too, maybe running my own business. Or some modelling.’
I gawp back at him, failing to control my eyebrows, which are creeping into their sarcastic expression.
Oh God. Come on, six minutes. I can’t listen to much more of this. What is he even talking about? All this has stemmed from me asking how he bloody was.
‘Right!’ the girl shouts as the bell rings. ‘Okay, lovebirds. Next date.’
Without looking at Rocko, I jump to my feet and race over to the guy next to him. I quickly pull out my piece of paper and write in large letters:
Rocko: NO.
‘Hi there.’
I look up and focus on the guy sat opposite me. He has olive skin, salt-and-pepper hair and a neat beard. His bright eyes are framed with square glasses, and he is wearing a colourful Christmas jumper.
Okay, well, I don’t think this guy goes to the gym.
‘Ready,’ the girl calls, ‘and, GO!’
‘Hi,’ I say back, ‘I’m Georgia.’
‘Hi there, Georgia,’ he says pleasantly. ‘I’m Lewis.’
I feel my body relax slightly. Okay, I managed the first six minutes, I can survive this one. This guy seems quite sane – if nothing else, we will just have a pleasant conversation.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I smile. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m actually a student,’ Lewis replies, in a posh drawl that oozes out of his mouth as if it has been soaked in cream. ‘I’m studying for a PhD.’
‘Oh, wow,’ I say, genuinely impressed, ‘that’s amazing.’
Lewis cocks his head to the side and lets out two long, horsey laughs.
‘Har, har. Yes, I suppose it is.’
I blink back at him.
Oh no. Is he weird? He’s weird, isn’t he?
‘So,’ I say eventually, ‘where are you studying?’
‘Cambridge,’ he slurs.
‘Wow,’ I pick up my wine, ‘impressive.’
I’m dangerously close to needing another drink. Why don’t they offer table service? Maybe I’ll write that on the score card as some constructive criticism.
Lewis smiles again. ‘Yah,’ he says, ‘I’m actually studying on a scholarship.’
‘Oh?’ I say.
Come on, six minutes. Come on, six minutes. Hurry the bloody hell up, six minutes.
‘Yah,’ he drawls again.
I feel my body slump against the back of my chair. I take another glug of my wine.
‘What did you get a scholarship for?’ I force myself to ask.
He runs his hands through his hair, a wry smile creeping on to his face.
‘Oh, for being gifted,’ he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘You know, in the arts, sciences, maths, humanities, music, literature . . .’
I gawp at him, aghast, as he slowly lists every subject ever created.
‘Theology, philosophy, languages . . .’
What?
He must be lying. Surely he isn’t a real person. A real person could not sit opposite a stranger and deem themselves remarkably gifted in every subject ever invented.
‘Technology, sports, politics—’
‘Right!’ the girl shouts again. ‘Time’s up!’
I sag in relief. Oh, thank God for that.
I nod Lewis a quick goodbye and scuttle on to the third person. Come on, one of these dates has to be passable.
I drop into my third chair and almost fall out of my seat in fright at the man opposite, who is looking at me as if he hasn’t eaten in four weeks and I am a delicious carve of roast beef. His mouth is hanging open slightly and a line of saliva is visible between his cracked lips. His veined, bulbous nose is purple in the centre of his otherwise waxy face, and his yellow eyes are wide and staring. I glance down at his hands in alarm and the first thing I notice are his hairy knuckles and fat fingers, followed by nails that are chipped and rotting.
Oh my God.
This is it. This is how I’m going to die. This is the guy who is going to kill me and hide me under his floorboards. For years I have mentally panicked about this moment and now I have to endure a six-minute date with him. I’m going to kill Natalie. If he doesn’t kill me first, that is. Which he will. Obviously.
I feel myself deflate in my seat as my eyes dart around the room, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs.
Oh God, this is going to be terrible. This will be the worst six minutes of my life.
My gaze accidentally crosses with his and I feel a pang of guilt.
Am I being mean? Maybe it won’t be terrible. Maybe it will be okay, he might actually be really nice. After all, he can’t help how creepy he looks, can he?
‘Okay,’ the girl shouts, ‘ready? Go!’
Maybe this will be the best six minutes of the night. That will teach me for being so judgemental and disapproving. Maybe this is the life lesson I have been waiting for.
The man leans his crusty elbows on the table and cranes his neck forward.
Maybe this will be really fun and I’ll leave with a new outlook on life.
I look at him, trying to listen intently as I wait for him to speak.
‘So,’ he drawls longingly, ‘what’s your favourite colour?’
Nope. I was right. He is going to kill me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
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?!?!)
13/11 5k (Christ)
16/11 6k (Life flashed before eyes. Can’t go on much longer. Go on without me, Mo.)
23/11 7k (How does anyone do this for pleasure?)
25/11 8k (Urghhhhhhhhh. Whyyyyy do I have to run, whyyyyyyy???)
I drill my fingers on the desk and cross my legs, and then immediately cross them back over the other way.
I don’t know how to sit. How is one supposed to sit when waiting for a radio interview, when you have no idea what they are going to ask you?
I mean, I know what they’re going to talk about: the run. Unless they’re lying. Or they’ve got me confused with someone else and think I’m here for an interview on quantum physics.
I shake my head.
That won’t happen. That can’t possibly happen.
But what has Mum told them? I don’t trust her judgement at the best of times. What if she’s told them I am an experienced runner and they want to ask me for fitness advice?
This thought makes my eyes stray to the mini sausages poking out of the top of my handbag. I shove them back inside quickly and glance around.
Much like Amy’s hospital appointments, the entire family have decided to troop along today. Thankfully, we were all directed to a green room upon arrival, and I stashed them inside and made a run for it. I don’t want them anywhere near me when I have to speak live on the radio.
I run my fingers through my hair.
A 10k run. A 10k run for charity, raising money for research into Multiple Sclerosis, on Saturday. Right. I can remember that. That’s what I have to say. Worst comes to worst, I’ll just manically repeat that sentence until they’re forced to play a song.
Mum has told everyone that I’m going to be on the radio. She even tried to send out a last-minute family newsletter. When we pointed out that she has never sent anything like that in the past, she retaliated by saying that she’s never had anything worth writing in it. Which was a bit harsh.
I mean, hello? What about the time I won the gin drinking contest at university? That was a pretty big deal.
‘Georgia Miller?’
I twitch in alarm as my eyes snap up and land on Lenny Hilroy, my Year 12 boyfriend.
‘Lenny!’ I yelp, leaping to my feet. ‘Hi!’
His once bristly hair has grown out into a sweeping, blond quiff and his teeth have shuffled back to their original crooked position. The weight around his face has dropped down to his stomach, which strains against a woollen Christmas jumper, and his chin is masked by a matted beard that springs from his chin. I haven’t seen him in about eight years.
‘Hi,’ he says back. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, slightly confused. ‘Do you work here?’ I add.
‘Yeah!’ Lenny nods. ‘I program the shows. I work with Nigel. We’re almost ready for you,’ he adds, pulling his sleeve up to check his watch. ‘Do you want to follow me?’
I jerk forward. ‘Sure,’ I mumble, my stomach churning with nerves. I follow Lenny down a dark corridor, dragging my feet as if they are made of lead.
I can’t believe I am about to be interviewed on the radio when I can’t even answer calls from unknown numbers.
‘How is Amy?’ Lenny asks, as we push through a set of double doors. ‘I think it’s amazing,’ he adds, ‘what you are all doing for charity.’
I feel my cheeks burn.
‘She’s okay,’ I say. ‘We’re all focusing on the run.’
Lenny nods. ‘It’s this weekend, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘on Saturday.’
Lenny stops walking and I glance around as we reach a glass studio, filled with computers and large equipment, with strings of gold and silver tinsel draped across the ceiling. Greg, the radio presenter, is leaning into his microphone and chatting merrily, and another woman is sat next to him, tapping away at her computer and smiling.
‘Well, let’s hope that we drum up some more support today,’ he says, picking up a clipboard and scanning it quickly. ‘It’s a great cause.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my heart swelling. ‘I think so too.’
*
‘One last time, Georgia,’ Greg says into the microphone. ‘Remind us of the details for Saturday.’
I smile and pull my body towards the microphone.
‘The Miller Run,’ I say slowly, ‘this Saturday, the first of December. The run starts at 1 p.m. and we’re going to have a raffle, and hot drinks and a cake sale, and lots of fun things to raise money for the MS Society.’
‘Great cause,’ Greg replies. ‘You heard it here, folks. Hope to see lots of you down there on Saturday. Now, up next we’re checking in with the news, but before then here is some James Blunt for you.’
Greg clicks a button, and my body sags in relief.
I did it. It’s over. I take a deep breath and feel my nerves slowly evaporate.
I can’t believe I just took part in a live radio interview.
‘That was great,’ Greg says, standing up. ‘You’re a natural.’ He holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Best of luck with the run on Saturday.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, getting to my feet, ‘thank you so much.’
‘Georgia!’ I turn and see Lenny sticking his head around the studio door. ‘Can we borrow you? We’ve got an idea.’
I shake Greg’s hand and follow Lenny out of the studio and back into the blue corridor, my heart rate slowly returning to its normal speed. Lenny shuts the door behind me and leans against the wall.
‘So,’ he says, ‘how did you find that?’
I smile and take a sip of my water, desperately trying to add some moisture to my dry mouth. ‘Fine,’ I say honestly, ‘I actually really enjoyed it. Which I was not expecting.’
Lenny nods. ‘You were great,’ he says. ‘We had a lot of social media activity while you were being interviewed. People wanting to get involved.’
‘That’s great!’ I cry.
Lenny smiles. ‘We were thinking,’ he says, ‘how about we come down and cover the run? We could push people to donate whilst the run is happening, create a buzz. What do you think?’
I stare at him, my eyes expanding to the size of dinner plates.
They want to cover the run?
‘Really?’ I breathe in amazement. ‘Lenny, that would be amazing. Thank you so much.’
Lenny claps me on the shoulder and grins.
‘You’ve got the community behind you on this,’ he says. ‘We’d love to get involved.’
*
I slide my foot into my trainer and pull the la
ces tight.
‘You were so brilliant!’ Mum chirps, dancing around me excitedly. ‘We were all listening, weren’t we?’
‘Oh yes!’ Dad says merrily. ‘And so was everyone from the golf club.’
‘And everyone from yoga!’
‘And I think Uncle Jim recorded it.’
‘We can play it at Christmas!’
I laugh, unable to fight the jolly atmosphere circulating around the room. The interview went well, really well. Everyone there was so enthusiastic and desperate to talk about the run. I’ve had loads of messages too – from people I used to go to school with, who must have been listening – all promising to come down on Saturday. Everyone wants to help Amy in some way. Everyone remembers her.
I look up at Amy, who is smiling at me from her wheelchair. Her face is lit up, and the creases that were once drawn around her eyes have vanished. Her cheeks are bright pink, and her whole face is glowing as if she has been dusted with sugar. I beam back at her. She looks like the old Amy. The positive Amy. The happy Amy. I lace up my other trainer and stand up.
‘Oh,’ Tamal says, quickly getting to his feet, ‘before you run off, Georgie. We’ve got a surprise for you.’
Amy grins at Tamal as he sidles out of the living room. I wait, curiosity spinning through me.
A surprise?
‘Oh!’ Mum coos excitedly. ‘Of course!’
I look back at Mum, when Tamal reappears in the doorway carrying an enormous brown box, which he dumps on the floor with a thud. I look down at it as Tamal and Amy grin at each other. Tamal bends down and sticks his arm into the box.
A surprise for me? What is it?
Is there a puppy in that box?
Tamal straightens up and holds out a white T-shirt that unfolds to reveal the words:
THE MILLER RUN
01.12.18.
RAISING MONEY
FOR THE MS SOCIETY
My stomach flips as I read the words over and over.
‘Isn’t it fun?’ Mum cries. ‘Amy and Tamal have had T-shirts made up!’
I walk forward and take the T-shirt. The words are entwined with my design, which runs behind the words and across the body of the shirt. My eyes sink into it as my heart swells with pride.
That’s my design! My design is on a T-shirt!
‘Do you like it?’ Amy asks.
The List That Changed My Life Page 23
