‘Is everything all right?’ asks Matt.
‘Yep,’ I say in a choked voice.
‘So have you decided whether you’re going to Paris or not?’ adds Priya.
Oh yes, Paris.
I never mentioned that, did I? Daniel’s asked if I want to join him on a business trip.
The idea is that we fly out on the Saturday and spend two nights enjoying the city, before he has a short meeting on Monday morning. The only downside is that we’d need to fly out on the afternoon of the half-marathon, my plans for which had been settled long ago: to collapse in an exhausted heap. But I know it’s exactly what I need right now to take my mind off Tom.
‘Er, yeah, I’m going,’ I croak. But as a tear creeps down my cheek I push back my chair and dive out of the room.
I’m in the Ladies within seconds, followed swiftly by Priya.
‘What’s up, Abby?’ she says, putting an arm round me.
‘Nothing, honestly,’ I sniff. ‘I’m happy about the total, that’s all. And . . .’
‘And what?’
I grab a piece of loo roll and blow my nose. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine though.’ Then I look in the mirror at the blotches on my face. I have the pallor of Alex Ferguson. ‘Oh God, I’ve got a pitch in an hour.’
She hands me another tissue. ‘Nothing a bit of concealer can’t fix.’
‘I’ll need enough to fill a cement-mixer,’ I sniff. Then: ‘Heidi’ll be thrilled about how much we’ve raised, won’t she?’
‘She’d better be,’ grins Priya. ‘Or I’ll be having words.’
I pause. ‘She phoned in with flu, right?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘And you believe her?’ I want to know. ‘She’s not hiding something, is she?’
Priya looks thoughtful. ‘I don’t think so. She’s been open about her MS so I’m sure she’d have said if it was a flare-up.’
‘You don’t fancy popping over to see her tonight, do you, just to double-check? I’d go myself but I’ve got to do a run tonight, as well as rehearse a presentation that I absolutely have to give my full attention to.’
Priya looks a bit awkward, then replies. ‘Okay. Yes. Yes, I should.’
‘If you’ve got something else on . . .’
She shakes her head unconvincingly.
‘Priya! Have you got something else on?’
The sides of her mouth twitch, suppressing a smile. She nods.
‘A date?’
She nods again. There’s something about the reluctance with which she does it that makes me suspicious.
‘Well, who with? Come on, spit it out.’
‘I . . . I can’t. But I’ll go and see Heidi, like you said.’
‘No, I only meant if you weren’t doing anything else. Besides, you’re right; Heidi’s got flu. She’d tell us if it was something else.’
‘Okay,’ she mumbles.
‘Priya, who’s your date with?’
‘Oh yeah. My date.’ She braces herself visibly. ‘Matt.’
My jaw is suddenly millimetres from the floor. ‘You are kidding?’ But the second I say it, I realise that I have noticed something between them recently – that their friendly banter has turned more coy than usual. Blimey.
She bites her lip. ‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’
‘Why would I be annoyed?’
She shrugs. ‘Matt thought you might feel funny about us having an office romance, with there being only five of us in the company.’
‘Not at all!’ I protest, then stop and think it through. ‘Although how are you going to feel if he . . .’ I can’t bring myself to say the cruel words.
‘Dumps me?’ she finishes.
I nod reluctantly.
‘That’s a risk I’ve got to take, Abs. I’m . . . well, I’m crazy about him.’
My face breaks into a wide smile. ‘If that’s the case, you mustn’t let anyone or anything stop you.’
I know it’s good advice. I only wish it was possible to apply it in my case.
The pitch goes like clockwork – just like all my pitches in the last month. It’s as if, having been thrown a lifeline by the combined efforts of my bank and Caro & Co., I’ve got a fire in my belly that would make the heat from Mount Etna look like a back-garden barbecue.
If all the pitches I’ve done recently come to fruition, I’ll be on course to pay off my overdraft within two months, and put the company back where it should be.
It’s not the only thing that’s going well.
I’ve been conscious of the effect leaving the running club could have had, and have therefore stuck to the training schedule meticulously, determined to keep on track. As the big day approaches, while I wouldn’t say I think it’s going to be a breeze, I also know I’ve prepared diligently, steadfastly, determinedly. I’ve done everything I can.
I head to the office to drop off my presentation material, planning to go straight from work for my run. The rest of the city is in Friday-night mode heralding the start of the weekend.
I scurry past windows in the stance I’ve adopted since my last running club night – head down, arms pinned to my side, refusing to make eye-contact with anyone. It’s only this month that I’ve realised that Liverpool’s business district is rather too compact for my liking; every corner I turn round I fear bumping into Tom – and frankly I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.
I know it’s inevitable it’ll happen some day. It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened so far, given the number of meetings I’ve had with the team at Caro & Co. That in itself has prompted a plethora of paranoias, not least the suspicion that he’s deliberately avoiding me.
I’m annoyed at myself every time Tom barges into my thoughts. Annoyed that he pushes past the man I
should
be thinking about. I’ve had so much on in the last month that I’ve only seen Daniel once or twice a week. But when I have, he’s been kind, sweet and immensely good fun.
We haven’t slept together or anything, but his offer to go to Paris is still a no-brainer, despite it being a logistical nightmare. There’ll be no hanging about after the race to congratulate myself – I’ll have to dart home, shower and change before taking a cab straight to the airport.
As I head along Castle Street, someone rushes past, apologising for his haste as he clips me on the shoulder, forcing me to spin round next to the window of a busy restaurant. It takes a second for my eyes to focus away from the convivial glow inside – and on the couple directly in front of me, behind the glass.
The couple fit right in – like all the others enjoying a first, or perhaps second, date. The woman throws back her head, giggling uncontrollably as the man smiles widely, unable to suppress his delight at the sound of her laughter.
When she returns to look at him, her laughter dies down and they hold each other’s gaze. His hand reaches for hers and her expression becomes serious as the space between their fingertips closes.
Their hands are millimetres apart, breathtakingly close, when he becomes aware of my presence behind the glass. He turns and looks at me – then she follows suit, their shock immediately apparent.
But I can’t move. I can’t do anything. All I can do is feel the force of a whirlwind tearing up my insides as I stare at the couple.
At my mum and dad.
‘Your father and I wanted to discuss your business situation,’ Mum explains too forcefully as I watch bubbles fizz to the surface of my sparkling water.
‘I see,’ I say, removing the lemon from my glass and plonking it into a dish. ‘Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You can check over my accounts, if you like. I’ve got six proposals out and if even two come off, I’ll be able to get rid of the overdraft.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Dad coughs, in a blatantly token contribution.
I narrow my eyes. ‘You can’t have much faith in me.’
‘It’s not that,’ Mum blusters. ‘You’ve seen how easy it is to get into trouble. Your dad and I simply thought we’d put aside our differences and get together to discuss ways we might help – if it ever became necessary again. Which I’m sure it won’t.’
‘Right.’ I’m keeping an open mind, but I can’t help feeling my heart deflate slightly. Mum’s explanation, loath as I am to admit it, is not just feasible, but probable – exactly the sort of thing they would do in a situation like this.
Yet, through the window, did they really look like two people talking business? Is it possible to have that much fun while deliberating over a profit and loss account?
‘So what’s your verdict?’ I demand, having somehow acquired the tone of an FBI interrogator. ‘What would you do if I cocked it up again?’
They shift uncomfortably in their seats, as if I’ve asked them to furnish me with the answer to an algebra equation. ‘Well, we haven’t come to any conclusions yet,’ says Mum. ‘I mean, there’s a lot to discuss. We’ve only just got going.’
I down my water and put my glass back on the table, before grabbing my coat. ‘Right then. If you’ve got lots to discuss, the last thing you want is me getting in the way.’
‘You don’t need to go!’ Mum protests.
‘I was about to head home,’ says Dad.
I stare from one to the other. ‘I thought you said you’d just got going?’
Dad hesitates. ‘The point is, you’re welcome to stay.’
I put my hand on his arm and stand. ‘No. This is my final week of training before the half-marathon. I’ve got to go for a run.’
Before they can say anything else, I put on my coat, unable to suppress a smile. It doesn’t even matter if there’s no more to their tête-à-tête than Mum claims. That’s such a huge step forward from where they once were i.e. barely in contact.
I’m about to turn and leave, when something strikes me. ‘As a matter of interest, whose idea was it for you to get together and do this?’
They both look shifty, as if they’ve just been collared for shoplifting. Then they exchange glances, wondering what the right answer is. When they do respond, it’s in precise unison.
‘Mine!’
I grin and walk out of the restaurant, happier than I have been for weeks.
The night before the half-marathon feels like the day before my wedding. Not that I know what that feels like, but I can imagine. I’m trying so hard to relax that I think I may burst a blood vessel in the process. And the big race tomorrow isn’t the only thing on my mind.
First there’s Mum and Dad. Maybe my interpretation of their get-together is wishful thinking. Who knows? But I indulge in the fantasy, if only because my other persistent fantasy – about sabotaging Geraldine and Tom’s wedding – makes me feel perfectly vile.
They haven’t officially announced their engagement to the rest of the group. Jess knows it’s her job to report back to me the second they do, though she tells me Tom’s hardly been there lately. But it’s still the first thing I think of every time the phone rings and her number flashes up.
I go for a bath in an attempt to calm my nerves, but with my mind elsewhere, inadvertently pour in half a bottle of aromatic oil and emerge with skin like a sea lion. After a quick shower, I head to the living room in my dressing-gown to find some suitably untaxing television. The only thing on is the
Take Me Out
gameshow, which I can’t deny falls into the untaxing category – in fact, it makes
Ant & Dec’s Push the Button
look like
The South Bank Show
– but it fails to hold my attention. I’m flicking through the channels when the phone rings.
‘Abby!’ The voice is familiar, though I can’t quite place it. ‘It’s Bernie. From Diet Busters.’
‘Oh! Hi, Bernie. How are you?’
‘Fine, love, fine. I’m phoning because we’ve got a special offer. You can resume your Diet Busters membership entirely free of charge, and if you introduce a friend you get a free pack of Sugar-Free Liquorice All Sorts – RRP one pound forty-two – and a Zedometer.’
‘A Zedometer? What’s one of those?’
‘It’s like a pedometer, except instead of counting your steps for you, you do that bit yourself. It’s a bit basic but a lot more cost-effective.’
I wander to the bathroom. ‘I’ll pass, Bernie. I’ve lost a load of weight anyway recently.’
‘Oh aye? How much?’
I stand on the scales and watch as the needle pings back and forth. ‘Good God!’
‘Are you there, love?’
‘I’ve lost a stone and a half, Bernie. A whole stone and a half! Without even trying.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she sighs resignedly. ‘Did you defect to Slimming Universe? I’m losing everyone to them these days. It’s the free measuring spoons. I can’t compete.’
I go to bed unfeasibly early, hoping that a hot drink and good book might quell my nerves enough to induce sleep. I’m halfway up the stairs when the phone rings again. I go back down, the words already forming on my lips. ‘Bernie, I’m sorry – you could be offering glass precision scales and ten per cent off my next three hundred meetings. I still wouldn’t be tempted.’
But it’s not Bernie.
‘Abby?’ My name comes out as a sob, rather than a fully formed word, but I can tell who it is.
‘Jess? What’s up?’
‘It’s Adam. He knows I slept with Oliver.’
I open my mouth but have no idea what I’m going to say. Jess beats me to it anyway. ‘He’s left me, Abby. He’s gone and left me.’
There are few things to be thankful for in this situation, but the fact that Jamie and Lola went to bed hours ago and are asleep, blissfully ignorant of the hurricane that has torn apart their parents, is one of them.
Jess is beyond distraught. As I perch on her sofa, watching her pace up and down – hair dishevelled, mascara ravaged across her face – I want to reach out and hug her. Only I can’t. She’s too wound up to stop, marching across her living room, then back again, muttering dementedly.
Occasionally she pauses to pick up the phone and try Adam’s mobile. She’s done it approximately twenty times since I arrived, but again it goes straight to messages, prompting her to wail and fling it on the sofa in a rage.
‘Jess, please sit down,’ I beg. ‘Come on. Let’s try and think of a solution.’
At first I think she’s going to do as I’ve asked. Instead, she picks up her glass of wine – the third since I’ve been here – and throws it down her neck as if she’s bleaching a toilet.
‘A solution?’ she sobs. ‘What sort of solution? My husband left me. He knows I slept with another man. He’s never coming back. What solution is there?’