I manage three dances with Oliver, before the Managing Director of Preciseco taps me on the shoulder and I’m sucked into a whirlwind of networking. I’m itching to get back to Oliver and the rest of the running group, who’ve joined him to dance, but it becomes impossible. Every time I attempt a comeback, I’m approached by a contact, client or potential client. Which is one of the reasons I can’t complain: by the end of the night my clutch bag is bursting with business cards from possible leads.
When I’m finally in a position to get away and hunt out Oliver, I find him by the cloakroom. That’s the upside. The downside is that he’s chatting to a leggy brunette with a Grand Canyon cleavage and a tan that looks distinctly more real than mine.
‘Abby!’ He smiles and heads over, leaving his brunette pornographically applying Vaseline to already well-nourished lips.
‘Are you leaving?’ I squeak, cursing my failure to sound cool and collected.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He smiles in a manner I can’t work out. ‘But it’s been a lovely evening. I’ve really enjoyed myself.’
‘Do you need a cab?’ I glance round his shoulder at his companion as she taps her sky-high heels impatiently.
‘No, I bumped into Nina.’ I smile pleasantly as if I’m delighted for the two of them. ‘She lives three roads away from me so we’re sharing a taxi.’
‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Is something the matter?’ he asks.
‘Of course not,’ I beam.
He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and his lips linger for longer than I was expecting. I experience a rush of pleasure so intense that when he starts to pull away, I have an urge to grab him by the lapels and snog him as if the lives of my future grandchildren depend on it.
But with Nina, clients and various others hovering, I can do nothing of the sort.
‘Good,’ he says softly, holding my gaze. Then he turns and walks coolly over to Nina, offering his arm for her to link as they head outside.
Just when I think I might cry, Oliver stops in his tracks, spins round and walks back to me as my face burns. He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear and whispers, ‘By the way, Nina’s married.’
‘Oh, er, right,’ I reply, flustered.
‘We’re friends, that’s all,’ he smiles, locking eyes with me. ‘I just wanted you to know.’
It’s gone two by the time the stragglers have left. I share a cab home with Adam. He’s slightly the worse for wear – the first time I’ve seen him like this – but the idea of chatting with Jess’s husband for twenty minutes doesn’t fill me with the dread it once did. I’ve seen him in a new light.
‘Seriously, Adam, thank you so much for buying the necklace,’ I tell him as our cab rattles along the motorway at a speed that almost gives me a facelift.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s for a very good cause – and I’ve been wondering what we can do to help.’
‘Have you?’
He nods cheerfully. ‘I often wish I could do something like this, but it’s a question of finding the time. There isn’t room for two fitness fanatics in one family.’
The more Adam talks, the more my new, enlightened view about him is reinforced. Maybe it’s because I haven’t any kids of my own that it had never occurred to me how much time Adam spends looking after the children; or indeed how much he clearly adores them.
‘Besides,’ he says, ‘exercise and I don’t really mix. The last truly sporty thing I did was the egg-and-spoon race, and even that gave me a nose bleed.’
I laugh.
‘Of course, I was twenty-two at the time – and probably shouldn’t have rugby-tackled that six-year-old.’
This is the other thing. Adam, it appears, does have a sense of humour. I don’t know where it came from or how I’ve never really noticed it. I can only think that my views were so firmly entrenched I simply never chose to.
‘When are you going to give Jess the necklace?’ I ask. For some reason, I feel myself blush as I ask; worried that my sentence will give away what I know about their relationship. What I know and he doesn’t.
‘I’m going to surprise her on our wedding anniversary next month. Will you ask the rest of the group at the running club not to mention it? I asked most of them to keep schtum, but if you could remind them of that I’d be grateful.’
‘Of course,’ I reply.
‘Do you think she’ll like it?’
‘How could she not?’
‘Well, I hope so,’ he says. ‘You know, I’m probably only saying this because I’ve had a few beers, but I feel so lucky to have her.’
‘Do you?’
‘God yes,’ he laughs. ‘When Jess and I first met I never in my wildest dreams thought she’d be interested in someone like me. Plus, you know Jess: she doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve, even now.’
The sentence makes me wince: to think that he’s never heard her say she loves him – and possibly never will.
‘I’m not much of an extrovert and people who don’t know me think I’m . . . well, they probably think I’m dull.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case!’ I protest, my face getting redder.
He shrugs. ‘That’s the trouble when you’re a bit shy.’
‘You’re a bit shy?’ I echo, incredulous that someone with such a high-flying job could possibly feel like this.
‘It’s not something I go round telling everyone,’ he confides, ‘but I feel that way sometimes even in front of people I’ve known for years. Take you, for example.’
‘Me?’
‘You must think I’m a terrible bore—’
‘I don’t!’
‘Don’t worry, Abby,’ he says kindly, ‘the point I’m making is that, even after we’ve known each other for such a long time, I’ve felt awkward in front of you. My dad and brother were the same. I’m lucky that Jess saw through that. Honestly, I love her even more now than I did when we first married.’
I try to think of something to say, but my lip is trembling.
‘Is everything okay?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’ My voice breaks and I turn it into a coughing fit. ‘A bit drunk, that’s all.’
‘You won’t tell her about the necklace, will you?’ he asks. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’
The fact is, I’m dying for Jess to know about this necklace – and everything that it represents. I’m dying for her to know that I don’t think her husband is dull or boring or any of those things I used to think. And most of all, I’m dying for her to see how much he loves her.
‘Abby? You
promise
you won’t say anything?’
‘Of course.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Seriously.’
‘I
am
serious,’ I reply.
‘I can trust you, can’t I?’
‘I won’t tell her, Adam, don’t worry,’ I say sincerely. ‘You have my word.’
Two days later, glowing from the success of Heidi’s ball, I decide to take a further step in my training for the half-marathon.
‘Really? You’re doing the Ten K? As in, the Ten K
this weekend
?’ asks Jess as she gives me a lift to the running club.
‘Is that so ridiculous? I managed the Five K no problem. And you said yourself you thought I was doing well.’
‘I
do
think you’re doing well,’ she agrees. ‘Only . . . well, you haven’t run ten kilometres even in practice yet.’
‘I’ve do
ne seven.
One or two more M&Ms will help me go the extra mile,’ I wink.
‘One and three-quarter miles, actually. Why are you so determined to do this?’
‘I thought it’d be good practice, that’s all. A nice, ambitious target. Plus, it’ll set me up for the running holiday.’
‘O . . . kay,’ she says tentatively.
‘Also,’ I squirm, ‘well, you might think it naïve of me to imagine that performing well in this race would elevate me in the eyes of Doctor Dishy . . .’ My voice trails off.
‘But that’s exactly what you think?’
I grin. ‘I’m captivated.’
She winces. Jess has been a bit funny about discussing any man issues since her own relationship wobble. I’ll be glad once Adam gives her that necklace. First, because I am sincerely hoping it will cement him back in her affections, and second because I’ll then be able to talk about the damn thing.
I’ve always been rubbish at keeping secrets. It’s like asking Max Clifford to look after media relations for MI6.
‘Anyway, you were the one who said I should be ambitious,’ I continue.
Jess shrugs. ‘Okay. You’ll be fine as long as you pace yourself.’ She pulls into the car park.
‘How are things, by the way?’ I ask tentatively as she steps out and slams the door.
‘Things?’ she repeats flatly. ‘Oh, things are all right. Largely because I’m pretending other things never happened.’
‘Successfully?’
She sighs. ‘Not really.’
Tonight’s session is a steady run of eight kilometres, and I must admit it’s not easy. In fact, it’s bloody hard. But I’m not perturbed. I’ll be fine when doing this competitively, with the adrenalin of a proper race. Plus, I’ve still got a few days to practise.
The following night I run eight and a half kilometres, then on Thursday I do nine. I never hit the ten-kilometre mark in a practise session, because Jess tells me that on Friday and Saturday I should rest – an instruction that’s music to my ears.
The only trouble is, when Friday comes, resting in the traditional sense isn’t easy. There’s a flurry of meetings, phone calls and invoicing, as well as chasing up the ever-late Preciseco, hot on the heels of my not-so-subtle hints to their MD at the ball.
I also have some seriously exciting news: the Marketing Director of Diggles, my gorgeous garden centres, phones to say that on Monday they’ll be announcing that they’ve bought another company, growing the firm massively. As a result, they want to embark on a big rebranding – doubling River Web Design’s work overnight.
I put down the phone, quivering with excitement: this will take us into a different league. Of course, we’ll have to take on a new staff member to cope with the work, but the extra income will more than cover it. I draft a job advert to put online immediately.
All of which is amazing, but doesn’t do a lot to fulfil Jess’s instruction to relax before the race. With this uppermost in my mind, I decide to spend Saturday at home doing something rather delightful:
pottering
.
How I love that word. Pottering is a concept so alien to my life that on the rare occasions I do it, it’s with total relish. I water my neglected plants. I reorganise my bookshelf. I even sort out my CDs, unable to resist giving them a spin. But I stop when, midway through my
Chicago
soundtrack, I’m spotted high-kicking to ‘Razzle Dazzle’ by the postman.
By the afternoon, I’m considering reading a novel when I remember a job I’ve thought about doing for the last year. I open my underwear drawer and cast a critical eye over its contents, realising how much sooner this Sort Out should have come.
What a shambles!
If anyone broke into the house and rifled through this drawer, my overwhelming emotion wouldn’t be disgust at the pervert perpetrating the crime – it’d be shame at what he discovered. My knickers, in short, are knackered.
There is no assortment of delicate, lacy and matching undergarments. There are only one or two grade A sets, saved for best like my grandmother’s front room. Everything else is a tangle of stray elastic, of fraying fabric, of crap patterned pants in eye-watering shades of Hubba Bubba pink.
I empty the lot on my bedroom floor to see what matches. The answer is – not a lot. Aside from the aforementioned posh knicker sets, it’s a mess.
The only thing for it is decisive action. Putting aside the decent undies, I gather up the rest, chuck them into a bin bag and drive to the local tip where I decant them into a skip overflowing with mouldy mattresses and decomposing fabric toys.
The purge is unbelievably satisfying – and I go home a happy woman.
I spend the rest of the evening devouring a plate of pasta (Jess’s instructions again), drinking so much water that I’m sick of the sight of my downstairs lavatory, and by 9.30 p.m. I’m tucked up in bed feeling blissfully rested, obscenely hydrated and nicely full of spag bol. I drift into a deep and satisfying sleep in the knowledge that, when I get up at eight-thirty the next morning, I’ll be as prepared as I possibly can be for the big race.
At 1.30 a.m. I wake abruptly, startled from a highly enjoyable dream in which I have a new career as a dancer on
Strictly
and have been assigned Doctor Dishy as my partner. I’m correctly positioning his inner thigh during the Paso Doble, as ruffles on his see-through shirt tickle my nose, when I am struck by a terrible thought: what the
hell
am I going to wear under my running shorts?
The sum total of my collection of smalls is now three black lacy thongs.
I tell myself this isn’t a big issue. That a black lacy thong will be absolutely fine. Probably. Trouble is, I’m awake now. I open my eyes and look at the ceiling. Then the clock. Then the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the clock. And after several hours of this routine, I realise there is absolutely no way I’m going to get back to sleep, so manage an hour of my novel again, until the clock reads 8.27 a.m. and I finally drift off.
I am woken three minutes later by my alarm, which goes off with a drill that shakes the cobwebs from my very soul.
I force myself out of bed, sick with tiredness, and can barely drag myself into the bathroom. How on earth will I manage a ten-kilometre race circuit?
The race is at 11 a.m. at Sefton Park, a huge, leafy oasis in south Liverpool.
‘You don’t need to come to these things,’ I tell my mum as we’re directed by a race official.
‘I don’t know why you’re shy all of a sudden,’ she tuts.
‘I’m not shy,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just that this isn’t a big deal. The one in January is. Save yourself for that.’
I locate Jess as arranged next to the Palm House, a Victorian three-tier dome conservatory stocked with a rich collection of exotic plants. She’s not the only one I bump into. Despite the thousands of people, I spot Tom almost immediately, limbering up while his grandad sits on a bench, leafing through a copy of the
New Scientist
.