I look up, surprised. ‘Is that how you interpreted that meeting? That it’s very likely to be a yes?’
‘Well . . . no,’ he confesses. ‘But no one else needs to know that, do they?’
I head back to the office as panic sets in. I can concentrate on nothing. And, despite having a million and ten things to do, I decide I will instead spend the afternoon organising my paperclips.
‘Abby!’ says Priya as I walk through the door. ‘We’ve just had another two-hundred-pound donation. This money just keeps rolling in.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ I force a smile as I take a seat.
‘Oh, and I’ve set up my first meeting with Jim Broadhurst at Caro and Company for next week,’ says Heidi. ‘What an exciting company.’
‘Matt’s already had a look at loads of ideas for their site,’ adds Priya, then glances away in a manner that I’d almost describe as shy – if it wasn’t her.
The ideas are nothing less than inspirational. My team is bursting with enthusiasm and excitement and I know already that their work will blow Jim Broadhurst’s mind.
Which makes the question surging through my brain so much more painful: will any of them have a job by this time next week?
In a strange way, this prolonged crisis is a helpful distraction from the botch-up that is my love-life. I channel every ounce of energy into work, leaving my unwanted obsession about Tom and growing fondness for Daniel to linger in the background, along with the – still pending – decision from the bank.
Paperclips organised, the team and I work flat out on the Caro & Co. contract and have a renewed energy and enthusiasm for existing projects. It pays dividends: our work is more vibrant, exciting and original than anything we’ve done for months. Which makes the possibility that it could all be snatched away with the wrong decision from the bank even more hideous.
Still, in the three days following my meeting with Gary, I get a taste of what life might be like if it was a bit more stable. The team is on top of our work and my relationship – with a man who’s genuinely good for me – is . . . well, it’s lovely. Daniel phones when he says he will, never looks at other women, doesn’t mind that I snore like a nasally congested goat when I fall asleep on his sofa after an horrendous day at work (though I still wish I hadn’t done that).
On Thursday night, I drive to the running club for a hill session. I’m on the final countdown to the big race and know for certain now that I’m capable of running thirteen miles. I pull in and am heading for the changing rooms, when my phone rings.
‘Miss Rogers?’ It’s Gary, my Business Banking Manager.
‘Yes?’ I say, as my heart pulverises my ribcage.
‘This is Gary Majors.’ I hold my breath as I wait for the verdict. ‘From your bank?’ he continues.
‘Gary! How are you?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks for asking,’ he replies. ‘I think I’ve got a sore throat coming on, but I’m sure it’ll pass.’
I say nothing, not least because I can think of little I want to discuss less than Gary’s throat – with the possible exception of one or two other parts of his body.
‘Plus, I was supposed to be getting a washing machine delivered this morning but they never turned up. Don’t you hate it when that happens?
And
my mother-in-law’s been on the phone banging on about her . . .’ He pauses. ‘Miss Rogers?’
‘I’m here,’ I say anxiously.
‘Oh good. Sometimes this line goes a bit fuzzy,’ he goes on. ‘We have to report it to this call centre and—’
‘Do you have a decision?’
I blurt out. ‘About the overdraft? Sorry to interrupt but . . . well, it’s playing on my mind somewhat.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to let things play on your mind,’ he replies. ‘These things cause terrible stress if you leave them unchecked. We have an occupational therapist here at the bank and she tells us—’
‘Gary!’ I snap, then compose myself. ‘Please – put me out of my misery. Have you made a decision?’
‘Oh, the decision! Of course,’ he says, as if the future of my company was incidental to a more crucial conversation about his domestic and work pressures. ‘Well, Miss Rogers, we at Barwest Bank aim to work hard with small businesses such as yourselves.’ I hear a rustle of paper in the background, as if it wasn’t already obvious he’s reading from a script. ‘But with the economic struggles of recent times, it’s been difficult to maintain the level of borrowing that we’d like.’
‘Right.’ My heart sinks.
‘That said,’ he continues, clearly relishing this operatic level of drama, ‘you and your accountant, Mr Brown, put together a very persuasive case.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And while for many banks that really wouldn’t have been the issue . . .
‘Gary.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I please have your decision. Are you going to let me borrow the money or not?’
My heart thunders through my ears as I realise that this is it: crux time. When River Web Design sinks or swims.
‘Yes, Miss Rogers,’ he laughs, as if this is the final, jolly scene of a pantomime. ‘Yes, we
are
going to lend you the money. You’ve got a super business and we’re delighted to help. Congratulations!’
Of course, I can’t wait to tell my mum. And Egor. And Jess. But, after discovering that my company has a future – and a secure one at that – there’s one other person I simply have to see. Now.
Without Tom, I’d be sitting at home, broke and drowning my sorrows in a bottle of Listerine, with the jobs of four people on my conscience.
I owe him everything. Yet, bizarrely, he hasn’t a clue.
It’s a misty night and, as I sprint to the other runners warming up under the floodlights of the sports centre, I seek him out with euphoria rushing through my body.
He’s chatting to Mau as swirls of cold air wind round his muscular legs, sweeping up his body.
As I take in his face, his beautiful features, his twinkling eyes, I’ve never longed to reach out and touch someone more in my life. To sink into his arms and feel the strength of his embrace. I manage to suppress these thoughts, but still can’t keep my heartbeat from pounding through my head as I approach.
‘Tom,’ I say softly. He turns and looks at me immediately, breaking off from whatever conversation is engrossing Mau. As our eyes meet he seems to freeze. Then he relaxes and smiles. ‘Abby.’
‘Have you got a minute?’ I sound breathless, though I’ve only run a few metres.
‘Of course,’ he says, nodding to Mau.
We walk to a side of the track as the others continue warming up. He’s away from the floodlights now, the light of the moon casting shadows on the contours of his face as I fight my desire.
‘Is something the matter?’ he says.
‘No. Yes. I mean . . .’ I look away, trying to compose myself, but as I turn back, I can’t help a huge smile breaking out on my face. ‘Tom, I’ve got so much to thank you for. Honestly,’ I babble. ‘I know you fought for me to be able to re-tender for the Caro & Company contract and, well, look . . . winning this is such a big deal.’
‘I’m glad,’ he replies, looking over his shoulder.
‘Seriously, you’ll never know just
how
big a deal it is, Tom,’
He smiles awkwardly. ‘I’m pleased everything worked out for you, Abby.’
I can’t tell Tom we were in trouble because I don’t want anyone at Caro & Co. to find out – ever. But I do have to stress how much this means to me.
‘It did. Big time,’ I continue. ‘I . . . God, I don’t know what to say except thank you. From the bottom of my heart.’
Every bone in my body wants to leap on him and kiss him, to fulfil the unquenched passion we experienced in the swimming pool. I tell myself instead to shake his hand, with a firm friendliness, to underline my appreciation. And honestly I’m about to do that.
But then my body does something my brain doesn’t tell it to. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. As my lips touch his skin, it’s as if a shot of lightning is fired between us and I find myself closing my eyes, drinking in his smell, his taste. I can feel him linger, his body seeming to melt. I have to drag myself away.
I look into his eyes and he looks almost shell-shocked, holding his hand to his cheek. I gaze at him, embarrassed, silent, wondering what the hell he’s thinking. I have no idea what is going to happen next and for a second I stand there wanting to say something but failing to find the words. Then something changes.
I can sense Geraldine standing next to us before I see her.
When I turn to look, she stares at us with cold, unforgiving eyes and for a second it’s as if she’s caught us at the swimming pool. If she has any idea of the desire and guilt pumping through my veins she might as well have.
I look at my shoes, thinking of what to say, but when I look up again, she’s marching away.
‘I need to go after her,’ says Tom.
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply frantically. ‘I didn’t mean to make things difficult.’
‘It’s okay,’ he sighs. ‘Only – well, Geraldine and I hadn’t wanted to make a big announcement. Not yet anyway, but I’d like to tell you – if you can keep it quiet, at least for the moment.’
‘Oh. What’s that?’ I obviously know he’s talking about their engagement but, true to my promise to Mau, I feign ignorance.
‘Geraldine and I have made a decision.’ He looks as if he knows this news will be devastating for me, so he doesn’t want to go too over the top.
‘I finally realised what I want from life, Abby.’ He swallows and looks into my eyes. ‘So much of what you said in Tenerife made sense.’
I close my eyes, stung by the memory of what I said: I had urged him to marry Geraldine.
‘Good,’ I mutter, my insides twisting.
‘You know how much Geraldine wants to get married and have kids,’ he continues.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Well, I guess I finally realised that the woman I’m in love with has been right in front of me and I’ve . . . failed to take the bull by the horns. Until now.’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘I’m rambling, aren’t I?’
‘No,’ I say, fighting the tears in my eyes. ‘You’re making perfect sense.’
He nods. ‘Good. Because . . . look, it’s difficult to talk here. Perhaps we can meet afterwards?’
I always knew I loved Tom, but to hear him confirm his and Geraldine’s engagement is more than I can take.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I manage, finding my resolve. ‘My boyfriend is coming over.’
He says nothing.
‘He’s called Daniel,’ I tell him.
‘Oh.’
Applause from the rest of the group breaks the spell, and I shake out my arms as if warming up. ‘Better join the rest of them,’ I say, darting away. ‘Catch you later.’
‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Later.’
My chest feels raw as I breathe in the icy air. So many thoughts are swirling round my head as I run, I can barely see straight. I can hear my feet pounding the pavements but can’t feel them. I picture Geraldine’s face as she looked at me earlier and feel sick to my stomach.
The venom in her eyes can only mean one thing: she knows about the indiscretion in the pool. No wonder she hates me. I was half-naked in a swimming pool with the man she’s marrying.
A thought strikes me. I should have said congratulations. Now I must seem petty and jealous, when really, my overriding feeling is simple sadness. How can I possibly look at Tom and Geraldine again?
I’m less than a quarter of the way through the circuit when I decide to turn back. I announce it to no one, dropping out of the group and sprinting to the changing room then my car as fast as I can, a frosty wind whipping my cheeks. I open the door with fumbling hands as the sweat from my body seems to ice over as soon as I stop moving. I turn on the engine, put the car into gear, and then reverse – straight into a lamp-post.
‘Oh, great,’ I mutter, clambering out to check the damage. Fortunately, it’s just a scuff and I climb back into the car and shut the door.
My mind is a riot of confusion, but as my windscreen mists over and hot tears spill down my cheeks, I know several things for certain.
That it is 19 January.
That there is just a week and a half to the big race.
And that tonight is my last ever session at the running club.
Last time things became weird between Tom and me, he bombarded me with emails and phone calls. But in the days after I last saw him, the silence is deafening. Only his grandad has sent me a Tweet, saying he’d finally remembered who I reminded him of and it wasn’t Reeny after all, but a girl who lived next door to his cousin Billy and advocated washing her hair with Daz.
Even that didn’t bring a smile to my lips. I’m plagued by morbid dreams of standing in church on his and Geraldine’s wedding day. The vicar asks if anyone knows of any lawful impediment, and I leap up, attempting to call a
Four Weddings
-style halt to proceedings, only to trip over a handbag and torpedo down the aisle like a bowling ball, taking out bridesmaids and pageboys.
Then I wake up in a sweat and chide myself: Be
happy
for them, Abby! Tom is your friend. Geraldine is your friend. Like he said: she’s the woman he’s in love with.
So
get over it.
‘Abby? Abby!’ Priya peers at me from over the top of her computer. ‘Did you hear what I said about the fundraising target?’
‘Hmmm? What? No, sorry, Priya,’ I mumble.
‘We’ve smashed it!’ Matt tells me triumphantly.
‘Really?’
‘Courtesy of a final fifty quid from the Building Services Manager,’ Priya grins. ‘He sent an email saying that, despite your reckless disregardification for his new system for stacking paper cups at the water cooler, he wanted to help out.’
‘Wow,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I take back everything I’ve ever said about that man. And I’ll never disregardify his edicts again. What’s the total?’
‘Drum roll, please,’ grins Matt.
Priya reads from the website. ‘Ten thousand, four hundred and twenty-two pounds.’
My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘. . . and forty-seven pence.’
‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ says Matt.
‘I . . . I . . . yes.’ Quite by surprise, my eyes feel hot, and a lump appears in my throat.