I’m high. Exhilarated. Endorphined to the max. The feeling stays with me for at least five minutes.
• • •
“Saturday morning you’re coming with me for a walk,” says Sarah when she rings.
“Whatever for?” I reply.
“Because I don’t like having a fat arse for a sister, that’s what for.”
Only Sarah can get away with this kind of thing. She can say anything she wants to me, and I won’t take offense. It works
the other way round as well.
“But how is a walk going to help?”
“I’m not talking about the kind of walk you’re already so good at: the one that involves getting from the taxi to the curb.
Or poodling down Bond Street between Donna Karan and Nicole Farhi, musing on how you’re ever going to spend that ginormous
clothes allowance.”
“That was then.”
“I know that was then. Which means you’re doing even less exercise now.”
“But you’ve no idea how much time I spend walking up and down Kilburn High Road and Hampstead High Street.”
“Yes, and instead of stopping every two minutes to try on a little blouse or pair of boots, you’re stopping every five seconds
to stuff your face with cappuccinos and croissants and raisin toast.”
“But I’ve started going to the gym.”
“Good, but not good enough.”
“You’re such a bossy cow.”
“And you’re such a control freak.”
“Yeah, a control freak who can’t control anything anymore. Not a good situation.”
“You’re coming.”
“Once.”
“Once to start with. And then again.”
“Once.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten to eight.”
“You must be mad. It’s out of the question.”
“I thought you couldn’t sleep anyway, so what difference will it make?”
“You don’t get it, do you? I can’t
get
to sleep. Often not until nearly four o’clock. But once I’m asleep, then I can’t wake up. And since I’ve nothing to get up
for, it doesn’t matter. Ten to eight is not a good moment of the morning for me.”
“Too bad. And wear an anorak and some decent walking shoes.”
“Will trainers do? And a denim jacket?”
“Fine if it’s dry. Useless if it isn’t.”
“But doesn’t it get called off if it’s raining?”
“Do you have a problem with rain? It’s designed to make things grow, you know, not just to make your hair go frizzy.”
“I don’t have an anorak.”
“Then buy one. You’re loaded, remember?”
“I could bring an umbrella.”
“It’s not that sort of walk. If you take a brolly, you’ll just end up poking your neighbors in the eye with the spokes.”
“Neighbors? Which neighbors?” Since my recent encounter with Vanessa, I panic even at the mention of the word “neighbor.”
“The rest of the walking group, ninny. I’ve told you about the walking group. Not listening as usual, I suspect. Anyway, enough
of this. See you Saturday at ten to eight. Bye.”
It’s true, Sarah has mentioned something about a walking group before. I just thought she got together with some pals and
went strolling over Hampstead Heath with them. This sounds rather more serious. No umbrellas! Anoraks! How peculiar.
• • •
I refuse to speak to Sarah during the ten-minute ride to Hampstead Heath. It’s been larks and owls with us throughout our
lives. She is so perky first thing in the morning that all I want to do is thump her. I often tried to when we were little,
but I was always groggy first thing, and she was always too nimble for me. But by nine p.m. midweek, she’s in her dressing
gown reading herself good-night stories.
When I was working, the only way I could get through the first couple hours of the morning was with coffee. A black coffee
the minute I got up, another after my shower, and a cappuccino when I got to the office. Plus coffees at half-hourly intervals
until midafternoon. After which I’d be raring to go until midnight, which was about how long it must have taken to get the
caffeine out of my system.
Sarah turns right in to the Kenwood car park and backs into the nearest space. Over in one corner is a large clump of people—about
thirty, it looks like from here.
“I don’t suppose we could—”
“What? Go home?”
“No, I wasn’t thinking of going home. I was just wondering if we might walk on our own, without the rest of them. It would
be good to talk.”
“That’s a joke. You’ve not talked to me properly for months. If you really want to talk—and you’ve been avoiding me from the
first of January right up until this very second—we can do it some other time. Like this afternoon. But they’re my friends,
and they’re expecting us.”
“What, all of them? Your friends?”
“In a way, yes. They’re my walking friends. You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. It will just confirm that
you’re the snobby, standoffish bitch they expect a glossy-magazine editor to be.”
“Thanks, Sarah, for giving me the big buildup.”
“Come on, you big lump of lard. What’s happened to the old sparkling personality? Why not give it an outing?”
“Even if I hadn’t lost it, I wouldn’t be able to bring it out at this time of the morning. Let’s get this over with.”
We walk toward the crowd. My God, they’re noisy. Everyone’s talking at once. It’s like a bloody cocktail party. People are
actually kissing one another. Some are even dressed for a cocktail party. There’s a woman over there wearing gabardine trousers,
a velvet blazer, and Tod’s loafers. The only missing item is an Hermès handbag. She looks ridiculous. I’m starting to feel
rather grateful for Sarah’s advice on the dress code.
I sincerely hope I don’t bump into anyone I know. For what possible reason could I want to hang out with a bunch of geriatrics
who need to be taught how to put one foot in front of the other?
“There can’t be a single person here who’s a day under forty,” I hiss at Sarah.
“Yes, little sister, and you can’t be a day under fifty, remember?”
This is seriously depressing. And who is that woman over there wearing head-to-toe Lycra, clasping a clipboard and blowing
a whistle? “Registration, over here,” she’s booming. “All new members of the group must register over here.”
I look at Sarah for help. She nods and points. “And have your fiver ready.”
“What fiver?”
“The fiver for Henrietta. Henrietta, also known as Henri, is our leaderene. Where she goes, we follow. When she blows her
whistle, we shut up and listen.”
I’m stumped.
“This fiver. Is it a one-off? Or every time? Does it go toward the upkeep of the Heath?”
“No, it’s not a one-off, it’s every time, and no, it doesn’t pay for maintenance, it’s how Henri makes her living. When, that
is, she’s not walking other people’s dogs, doing distance Reiki healing, and running her Blobby Bellies empire.”
“Oh, I see,” I say, not seeing anything. For protection, I put on my sunglasses. Henri greets me with what seems to me an
unnecessary amount of joie de vivre.
“So lovely to have you with us,” says our gracious hostess. “And not to worry if you fall behind. I have Nick here as backup,
and we’re in constant communication on the walkie-talkies.” She gives Nick a little wink and a thumbs-up. Nick does a thumbs-up
back. “He’ll keep pace with the slowest of the group and file regular progress reports. That way everyone can walk at the
pace that suits them best, and I can relax knowing that you’re safe and sound.”
Have I got this wrong? Is this Hampstead Heath or the Himalayas? Is Henri concerned that I might get altitude sickness or
find myself cut off from civilization somewhere around Parliament Hill?
“You seem to be going to an awful lot of trouble—” I start to say. By way of response, Henri turns her back on me and blows
her whistle. Everyone stands to attention, or at least a little straighter than they were before.
We’re off.
I look round for Sarah, but she’s deep in conversation with a couple I take to be husband and wife, as they’re wearing matching
fleeces and baseball caps and both have pouches round their waists with various flaps and pockets; from one protrudes a water
bottle. It’s like some weird sect, with uniforms and rules and secret hand signals.
I try not to catch anyone’s eye. I’m deciding between hovering near the back and trusting to luck that I don’t get noticed,
or striding off toward the front and proving that I’m fitter than the rest of them put together and I don’t need someone to
teach me how to walk. It has to be the latter.
We’re heading down toward a small gate, beyond which the Heath opens out into a large meadow, green as far as the eye can
see. I take long, fast strides, but no matter how long and fast my strides, I seem not to be able to make it to the front.
The only possible way I can get into the lead is by breaking into a jog. This would bring attention to myself, which I most
definitely don’t want to do. I’m getting very warm, and we haven’t even reached a hill yet. I try to remove my hideous new
anorak and tie it round my waist without slowing down. This proves impossible. I’ve now slipped into last place, and Nick
is glancing over at me with a slightly worried expression.
“You okay there, Hope?”
“Great, thanks. Just trying to sort this anorak out.”
“I’ll hang back with you, if you like. It’s not a problem.”
“No need.” I smile stiffly, trying to tie the arms of my anorak at the front of my waist and surging forward at the same time.
“Whoops!” My right foot has caught on my shoelace, and I lunge toward Nick, arms outstretched.
“Gotcha!” he shouts triumphantly, saving me from falling.
I extract myself from the arms of this stranger, who’s smiling at me with nice crinkly eyes.
“Ever so sorry. I’ve clearly forgotten just how complicated this walking business is,” I say.
“No worries,” he says to me. “May I suggest a double knot might be a good idea.” For some reason, I don’t take offense. Must
be the crinkles.
There’s no way I can carrying on walking while tying my shoelaces, and I’m quite grateful to be getting my breath back. Nick
updates Henri on his walkie-talkie while I get my laces in order. Then we set off and fall into step. We’re approaching a
hill. If I can get him to do most of the talking—and even I realize it would be rude to refuse to speak to him after he’s
been so courteous—then he won’t notice me getting out of breath. As we begin to mount the hill, I bark out questions, keeping
them as brief as possible and hoping he’ll respond expansively.
“So how did you get started on this?”
“Sally and I—my wife, that is, and I—are planning on trekking in the Atlas Mountains in the autumn. We’re raising money for
this charity we run, and this is part of the training to get us into shape.”
“Tell me about the charity,” I puff, looking for the top of the hill. It hasn’t yet come into view. This should keep him busy
for a bit.
“When our little girl died—”
“Oh God, how awful, I’m so sorry.”
“I know, it always comes as a shock when I say it so bluntly, but there’s no other way to put it, really. Our sweet Cat—Catherine—was
only six when she died of cardiomyopathy.”
“Car . . . ?”
“Cardiomyopathy. She caught this virus that went to her heart and set off an inflammation. It’s not inevitably fatal, but
in her case, it led to complications, and we lost her. Six years ago now.”
So much for the cocktail-party chatter.
“And the charity?” I can barely breathe, and my thighs are killing me, but compared to this . . .
“It was about six months after Cat died. It was Sally’s idea, in the main. She kept saying how she couldn’t communicate with
anyone anymore, how no one understood what we were going through because no one we knew had been through a similar experience.
She got it into her head that what people needed when a child was terminally ill, or after that child had died, was a safe
haven—somewhere to go, possibly away from the family, or even as a family group—where they could meet up with others having
to face this particular, and particularly devastating, loss. So she conceived the notion of nationwide family drop-in centers.”
“What a wonderful idea.”
“Yes, it is a wonderful idea. And thanks to Sally’s incredible determination, we’re almost there. We’ve bought a building,
started the conversion, and with a few more fund-raisers, we’ll be ready to open. It will be totally unique. We’ll have bereavement
counselors, family therapists, yoga, and meditation; a games room for the older kids and a play area for the younger ones;
a coffee and snack bar. And when that’s up and running, we’re going to try to get another one going in Edinburgh, Sally’s
hometown.”
I’ve been so engrossed in Nick’s story that I’ve forgotten about my own physical discomfort. We’re almost at the top of the
hill, and the rest of the group is waiting for us. “Well done, Hope,” shouts Henri. “Time for a stretch.”
“Yes, well done, Hope,” says Nick. “Pretty good for a first-timer.”
“Thank you for looking after me,” I say.
“All part of the soft sell,” says Nick, smiling again in his nice, crinkly way.
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Meaning, by next week we’ll have you signed up for that trek in November.”
“No way.”
“Are you willing to take a bet on that?”
“Oh, yes, please,” I gasp gratefully as Henri proffers her water bottle. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Nick waves and wanders off. For the next five minutes, Henri has us lined up in front of a long sweep of railings, stretching
our muscles according to her instructions. We all grab the railings for balance as we wobble around on one leg while trying
to grab the foot of the raised leg and bend it backward from the knee. “This will release tension in your thighs and prevent
stiffness,” says Henri authoritatively.
“Fry-ups all round when this torture’s over,” whispers a particularly plump woman to my right.
“Fancy sneaking off into the bushes for a cig?” asks an even plumper bloke to my left as he produces a pack of Marlboros from
the back pocket of his shorts. “
Heil
Henri doesn’t let us smoke,” he says, grinning, “but we have ways of escaping her instructions.” He pats the side of his
nose a couple of times with his index finger.