‘I’m really sorry, Geraldine,’ I reply truthfully.
‘Don’t be,’ she says. ‘For so long, I’d been saying to myself: “I’m in my thirties, I need to get married – and Tom is my man.” He was the most convenient option because he was
there
. What I hadn’t stopped to consider was whether he was really the right option.’
‘I . . . see.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I loved Tom,’ she continues. ‘I
still
love Tom. But he’d become like a brother, not a husband. Not even a boyfriend. I’m not saying I wasn’t upset when we split up. When you’ve had three years with someone, that’s inevitable. But we’d grown apart. I knew that a long time ago but pretended it wasn’t happening because it wasn’t what my biological clock was telling me to do. By the end, I was with him for all the wrong reasons. We’re friends, Abby. Nothing more. You can’t get married to someone when that’s all you feel, can you?’
‘I guess not,’ I whisper. ‘And there’s still plenty of time for you to have the wedding and kids and—’
‘Cherie Blair had a baby at forty-four,’ she grins. ‘More important to find the right guy first, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree numbly. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Just before you left the club. The same week, now I think about it. But I’ve only really started talking about it now. The last thing we wanted was to have a grand announcement. You know what a hotbed of gossip the club is.’
‘And . . . how is Tom?’ I venture.
‘You know, I don’t really know,’ she says sheepishly. ‘I’d thought he’d be fine – after all, technically it was he who wanted to call it a day in the first place. But I haven’t seen him much since, even at the club. We’ve spoken on the phone once or twice but he’s been a bit evasive.’
‘Right.’ I stare into the distance.
‘I hope he’s okay though. Whatever happened between him and me, he’ll always be a friend. And he’ll be a fantastic husband one day – just not mine,’ she smiles. ‘Oh, listen, I’ve got to go and join the rest of the group – you should come with me. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t been lately. You’re one of us.’
Reeling from her revelations, the last place I want to be is with the rest of the group. But Geraldine already has me by the hand and is dragging me in their direction.
As we approach, the first person to turn and look at me is Oliver.
‘Abby,’ he grins, planting a lingering kiss on my cheek. ‘How’s my reluctant half-marathon runner? Still reluctant?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I reply.
‘And looking gorgeous,’ he adds, smiling the cutesy smile that used to have me in raptures – and now has precisely no effect whatsoever.
I suppress a smile. ‘You’ll never change, will you, Oliver?’
‘I’ll try not to,’ he says innocently.
‘Yeah well, watch out,’ I tell him, ‘or someone might come and poke you in those fairytale-moon eyes of yours.’
I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round. It’s Mau. Her outfit is the most spectacular yet – a pillarbox-red halter top and Olivia Newton-John leggings.
‘I’d hoped you hadn’t given up so close to the race, Abby,’ she says.
‘After all this training? You’ve got to be kidding,’ I reply. ‘I needed a bit of a break from the club, that’s all.’
She nods and pauses, looking at me as if something’s just hit her. ‘Exactly like Tom.’
I must blush, because she puts her hand on my arm and leans closer to whisper to me. ‘Don’t let that one get away, love . . . will you?’
My stomach is a whirlwind as the start approaches – and not just because of what I’m about to do.
I also keep replaying one sentence: Tom’s words when I last saw him.
The woman I’m in love with has been right in front of me.
I can’t even think about the implications of this, of what it might mean. I know what I
hope
it means, but the idea that he could have been referring to me still seems so unfeasible that I daren’t even wish it.
The loudspeaker announces that competitors are to line up at the start. As I follow the crowd and get into position, I find myself suppressing tears of frustration and confusion. Then I hear a shout.
‘Come on, Abby! I’m so proud of you!’
I look to the side and see Daniel, my lovely loyal Daniel, cheering me on. I manage to wave – and his face lights up. The idea of turning my back on him to pursue Tom, when he’s about to whisk me to Paris, doesn’t bear thinking about. Yet, I can’t help thinking about it. Stupidly. Because, by anyone’s standards, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Just because Tom and Geraldine aren’t together any more, doesn’t mean he’s mine.
There are thirty seconds to go and, my insides churning with nervous energy, I look ahead into a blur of runners, poised and ready.
At twenty seconds, the charged atmosphere surges up a notch, so that by the time the final ten seconds are counting, adrenalin is bursting from every cell in my body.
My eyes begin to focus on the runners in front, all of whom are facing straight ahead.
All, that is, except one.
One is twenty metres in front, looking the wrong way. He’s a lone face in a sea of hair and his eyes burn into mine for three seconds that last for ever.
The gun fires.
And Tom Bronte turns and runs.
Maybe it’s the electricity surging through every runner in the race. Maybe it’s the wintry sun breaking through the tumbling clouds ahead. Maybe it’s just that my brain has decided I’ve overloaded it with too many thoughts, issues and conundrums to process any of them for a moment longer.
Whatever it is, as I begin to run my mind clears of anything but the blood pumping through my veins, feeding the muscles in my legs. As I pound along, I marvel at the mechanisms of my body propelling me forward.
There’s something primitive about it. I’m doing one of the simplest and most beautiful things my body was made for, something people have done since the dawn of civilisation. I’m running.
The first five miles pass before I even notice, and when I grab a bottle of water from a drinks station I can hardly believe I’ve run so far already.
The next two are more of a challenge; my lungs burn slightly as if reminding me to be steady, but not complacent.
Miles eight and nine allow me to settle back into a rhythm; I run slower than at first, letting myself recover as I approach the final third. Then, I force myself to accelerate. My ambition had been just to finish this race, but I’m feeling so positive about it that I owe it to myself to try that little bit harder.
By ten and a half miles I realise my push has been too fast. The wind scratches as it hits the back of my throat and a blister begins to form between two toes.
By eleven miles I want to give up. I’d give anything to just stop. Rogue thoughts seep into my mind like poison . . .
Come on, Abby, you were never cut out for this. Whatever made you think you were?
Enough’s enough; you’ve proved your point. Eleven miles is great – and everyone would still give their donations anyway.
You can give up. No one would think any the less of you.
It’s all true. Nobody
would
think any the less of me. Except me.
I take in an enormous breath and from somewhere find reserves of energy I never knew I had. I zone out of my surroundings, concentrating on nothing other than keeping my legs going, my breath steady, my arms pumping.
I’m so focused on the task that by the time I hear Daniel calling from the sidelines I can hardly believe I’ve got less than half a mile to go until I reach the finish line, just next to where we started.
‘Come on, Abby! Come on!’
Knowing the finish is so close gives me a renewed energy. Then I hear other voices cheering my name.
‘Go on, Auntie Abby!’ Jamie shouts as loudly as his little lungs will allow. I manage to wave, before realising why Jess isn’t shouting too: she’s behind Jamie and deep in conversation . . . with Adam.
My already hyperactive heart does a somersault, but I can’t allow myself to concentrate on them. I have to keep running. Just keep running. Every step hurts now – hurts my feet, my legs, my chest. My whole body is begging for mercy.
Then I hear my mum’s dulcet tones, overlapping those of my dad: ‘Go on – that’s our girl! Go, Abby!’
Emotion rushes through me as I approach the sign that tells me I’m a quarter of a mile from the finish – so close that I can see it faintly in the distance.
I’m about to go for my final, glorious push, when I spot something that makes my feet slow before I can even think about it. Priya and Matt are at the side of the track, but unlike the other friends and family I’ve passed, they’re kneeling on the ground, huddled, as other spectators gather round.
I instinctively slow to a walk as runners push past, knocking my shoulders from side to side.
‘What’s happened?’ I shout, my chest heaving up and down. ‘Matt – what is it?’
He turns to look at me anxiously. ‘Heidi,’ he mouths.
I dart between runners until I reach them.
‘Someone called an ambulance, didn’t they? Please? Tell me someone called an ambulance?’ Priya is hysterical, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘Someone did,’ Matt assures her, then turns to me. ‘We were struggling to get a signal here, but a lady went to find one. I’m sure she won’t let us down.’
‘But what if she does?’ Priya cries. ‘I should have gone myself.’
‘Go now,’ Matt instructs her. ‘I’m here. I’ll stay with her.’
As Priya sprints away to try to phone an ambulance again, I look at Heidi, sitting on the ground, her ghostly face streaked with tears. ‘Heidi, what is it?’ I ask.
As she looks up, I see the blood on her head, matted into her hair in an angry knot. ‘It’s my leg,’ she replies, bafflingly.
‘Your
leg
?’ I ask.
‘It feels so weird, Abby,’ she sobs. ‘I’ve lost control of it. It was as if someone came along and kicked me in the back of my knees . . . and I just . . . fell. I banged my head on the pillar over there.’
I bend down and examine her forehead, trying to stay calm. ‘It looks nasty,’ I hear myself mutter.
‘It’s not my head I’m bothered about, Abby,’ she replies. ‘If you just knew what my leg felt like . . . it’s so weird.’
‘What – still?’
‘It’s hard to describe . . . I can’t control it properly. It feels almost hollow. It’s horrible.’
The next five minutes feel like an hour. There’s no sign of an ambulance and Heidi can do little except panic and beg for her mum. Eventually, I persuade Matt to follow Priya to see if she’s had any luck, and phone Heidi’s mother while he’s at it.
‘But you’ve got to finish the race,’ Matt argues as he heads to the road. ‘You’re only a quarter of a mile away.’
I turn to Heidi and put my arm around her as he disappears. ‘The ambulance won’t be long, I promise.’
It takes a few minutes for a paramedic to appear and push his way through the crowd before he starts asking Heidi questions. Her wide eyes seek out mine as she is lifted onto a stretcher.
I glance to the side, at runners whizzing past and straight to the finish line. Then I turn back to Heidi’s eyes, heavy with fear, and I know there’s only one choice.
I clutch Heidi’s hand as the ambulance heads to hospital at high speed.
‘How are you holding up?’ I ask.
‘Not great,’ she whispers. ‘I wish I knew what was happening to me.’
‘I can’t believe this has happened so quickly,’ I say. ‘It seems to have come out of nowhere.’
‘Not entirely out of nowhere,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been bumping into things and feeling really clumsy for a couple of days. I was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening – it’s one of the classic MS symptoms.’
‘Is that why you didn’t come to work?’
She nods and her face crumples. ‘Oh God, Abby . . . this is just the beginning. What the hell is my life going to be like?’
I squeeze her hand. It feels small and cold. ‘You’re going to be fine, Heidi.’
As the words escape my mouth, I regret their flippancy. Then I pause, scrutinising my statement, thinking about every word. And I say it again – slowly, but with conviction. ‘You’re going to be fine.’
I am hit by an overwhelming sensation that my assertion is absolutely true.
Heidi senses the shift in my demeanour. ‘How do you know, Abby? You’re not a doctor.’
She’s right, of course. But I do know, I really do. I understand that Heidi has multiple sclerosis, an incurable, debilitating disease. She has no idea what the future holds, except uncertainty. I also know that she is on her way to hospital, having experienced some physical symptoms that would be terrifying by anyone’s standards. And while I don’t know what the doctors will say, I am 100 per cent certain of something.
‘Heidi, you’re right. I have no idea – medically – what will happen to you. But I know one thing: you are not going to let this crush you.’
She lingers on my words, holding her breath.
‘You’ve never taken
anything
lying down, and that’s not going to change,’ I continue. ‘How could it? You’ll still be the same brilliant, vivacious, gorgeous and determined person you always have been. And your life will be
absolutely
as fulfilling as you deserve.’
Her lip stops trembling.
‘Do you know how I know this?’ I ask. ‘I know it because you, Heidi Hughes, would not have it any other way.’
As she closes her eyes, tears spill down her cheeks. When she opens them seconds later, she’s smiling. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t, would I?’
I smile too, though I realise as I do that my own cheeks are wet. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
She laughs, slightly hysterically. ‘Yeah, why are you crying? You’re not the one who can’t stand up properly.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t really know what to say to that.’
‘I always knew I’d find some way to shut you up,’ she jokes sadly. Then she looks at me, as if something has struck her. ‘You didn’t finish the race.’
I shrug. ‘I never thought I would anyway.’
‘Come off it. You never thought you would six months ago. You must have been a minute from the finish today.’