Girl on the Run (21 page)

It wasn’t a surprise, but I still spend the day brooding about what the Caro & Co. contract could have done for us – our turnover and reputation. This isn’t like me: normally, I pick myself up, brush myself off and look for the next opportunity.

But this is different. This one was so big and significant, and I’m burning with an excruciating sense that it could have been mine, if only I’d given it the attention it deserved. The fact that it was won by Vermont Hamilton – a company they’ll surely regret hiring – is no consolation. And I have no one to blame but myself.

Despite this, I also can’t help dwelling on Jim Broadhurst’s words: ‘the decision was unanimous’. I’m not saying I deserved any favours as Tom’s friend, but . . . okay, maybe I am saying that. What harm would it have done for him to fight my corner? He said himself he knew how good our work was. While I know I wasn’t brilliant in the presentation – and that the dummy incident didn’t help – I wasn’t atrocious. Not really. With a little persuasion from Tom, things could’ve been different.

That night at running club, he marches towards me during the warm-up and my brain whirrs with clever responses to the inevitable digs I’m about to receive. I’m not expecting anything deliberately hurtful, but Tom is fond of banter – and I’m afraid I’m still too sore for that.

‘Abby.’ His tone is warm and rough and impossible to interpret.

‘Yes?’ I reply curtly.

‘I’m sorry about the contract.’

I look up, startled. ‘Forget about it.’

‘If it means anything, it was close – we all agreed on that.’

‘Yes, I’d heard you were all in agreement,’ I hear myself mutter.

‘And you can’t win ’em all,’ he grins. It strikes me that his notoriously irresistible smile isn’t irresistible to
me
in the slightest. The only response it provokes in me, today at least, is a desire to swipe him over the head with my handbag. Preferably with a small brick in the pocket.

‘Of course you can’t win them all,’ I say, ‘but I’d rather like to have won a three-grand-a-month one.’

He stops stretching as my mood registers. ‘I hope you’re not taking this personally,’ he says.

‘Oh
no
.’ I’m being sarcastic, but my heart is beating wildly as he glares back.

‘There’s no need to be like that, Abby.’

‘Tom, if you’d ever run your own business, you’d understand why I’m upset.’ I wish my voice would stop wobbling. ‘Particularly when I lost out to a firm whose average employee is barely intelligent enough to tie his own shoelaces.’

‘They came across very well,’ he replies firmly.

‘And especially when someone I thought was a friend was partly responsible.’ I’m aware as I’m saying this that I’m probably being unfair. I wouldn’t have even had the opportunity if it hadn’t been for Tom. But I can’t help myself. And he
could have
fought my corner.

‘I
was responsible?’ he says incredulously.

‘I said partly. You voted for Vermont Hamilton, didn’t you?’

‘I think you’ll find as “someone who runs your own business” that
you
were responsible, Abby. Even you said your presentation was awful.’

‘Can I tell you something, Tom? Slagging off a girl’s presentation is like slagging off her parents. Only I’m allowed to do it.’

‘Fine.’ He throws up his arms in exasperation. ‘Blame everyone but yourself.’

My heart is assaulting my ribcage, pounding with indignation, when Geraldine appears next to Tom, oblivious to our exchange, and kisses him on the cheek.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she beams. ‘How’s it going?’

His eyes dart away. ‘Fine. Great.’

‘Ooh, Abby,’ she smiles, turning to me, ‘I’ve got to show you the pic of my new nephew.’ She removes a personalised key ring from her bum bag and holds it out proudly. Studiously ignoring Tom, I gaze at the young baby with wide eyes, chubby thighs and an explosion of vanilla-coloured hair.

‘He’s lovely,’ I say. ‘How old is he?’

‘Three weeks. Oh, he’s gorgeous, Abby – I adore him. But then, I have to – there’s no prospect of my own on the horizon,’ she says meaningfully. Apparently, open references to her obsession have become mutually acceptable.

As the three groups prepare to set off on their run, I head to join the others. As I’m about to start, I look up and get the one and only pleasant surprise of my day: Oliver is looking at me.

I mean,
really
looking at me.

In fact, this is the most overtly flirtatious glance he’s managed, a gloriously brazen signal of interest. It sends a shot of euphoria through my heart that lasts well beyond our break of eye-contact – and for much of my run.

By the time I return to the sports centre, I’ve cheered up no end and am dying to see him again. I stretch self-consciously, catching my breath, when I feel a hand on the small of my back.

‘I’m told you did well on Sunday.’ Oliver looks shy again now we’re face to face, but as he’s gorgeously sweaty and, well,
just gorgeous
, I’ll let him off.

‘Oh! I’m sure it was slow compared with most competitors. But I got under thirty minutes, so I was pleased.’

‘Congratulations.’ When he smiles, his dimples appear and I struggle to take my eyes off them. ‘You deserve it. You’ve worked so hard.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply, noticing a bead of sweat the size of a pear drop on the end of my nose. I wipe it away surreptitiously. ‘I definitely need to keep working on it.’

‘Glad to hear it. Running club wouldn’t be the same without you these days.’

Having cooled down since I stopped running, a shot of heat is propelled to both cheeks.

‘I’m sure you’d cope,’ I mumble. ‘Besides, I’m not going to be giving up in a hurry. I want to make sure I’m in good shape for the race.’

He holds my gaze, his confidence visibly returning. ‘You look in pretty good shape to me.’

‘Why on earth have you brought us here?’ I ask as Jess squeezes past a group of students to the bar at the Willow Tree. ‘Is your premature midlife crisis rearing its ugly head again?’

This isn’t an obvious student pub: it’s cosy and well-maintained with oak panels and beer pumps so shiny you could use them to pluck your eyebrows. It’s also the place I realised, if there’d been any doubt, that Jess and I would be friends for ever.

When we applied for universities, we’d both hoped to end up at Glasgow. But having missed out on a single A-level grade, Jess ended up at her second choice, Reading. We phoned each other nightly at first, something I anticipated eagerly.

Then I settled in, made new friends and started to enjoy my curious new world. And remembering to phone Jess all the time suddenly became a chore, something I’m not proud to confess.

Before I knew it, it was two weeks since we’d spoken, then three. Between studying, partying and Poetry Society (though I didn’t last long in that one) I came to the conclusion that Jess and I had moved on.

It was halfway through my second term that I met Kristoffer, a Norwegian Geography student with lips I could happily have kept moist all day – and I fell hopelessly, obsessively in love.

Jess phoned one night – out of the blue – sounding vague and awkward, but all I could concentrate on was Kristoffer nuzzling my neck at the payphone. Instead of realising something was wrong, I returned to my room where he peeled off my clothes as I sank onto the bumpy mattress of my single bed. We spent weeks under that duvet, surfacing only for a rare lecture and to consume nutritionally vacuous foodstuffs.

I didn’t want it to end. Only it did – abruptly – when he left me two weeks before my exams for a six-foot Sociology student with a cleavage you could lose change in. Predictably, I failed all but one exam and had to resit the lot.

I couldn’t face staying in Glasgow to revise, so I returned home to study so hard that some nights there must have been smoke coming out of my ears.

I travelled back to Glasgow for the resits and after my last one phoned Mum at the station, as I was about to board the train home. She said Jess had been in touch, asking if I wanted to catch up. The timing of her call had been sheer coincidence, but when I walked into the Willow Tree that night, I’d have cried with happiness if I hadn’t been so ashamed at how much I’d neglected our friendship.

‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ I said anxiously.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said breezily. ‘Come on – do you still drink snakebites?’

She wouldn’t let me dwell on it. That night was for getting drunk and picking up where we’d left off. So I told her about Glasgow, Kristoffer, Killer Cleavage Woman and the exams I’d failed. She told me about Reading, Ethan, Killer Legs Woman and the exams she’d almost failed.

It was an emotional reunion. And a drunken one. But it underlined a fact that I’ll never question again: we’ll always be there for each other – no matter what.

Jess and I only intend to stay for one drink – it is midweek and I am supposed to be off the booze. But after having
one of those days
, it also turns into
one of those nights
, when we talk about everything and nothing. Yet, despite the abundance of conversation, there is an elephant in the room. It’s only when I’m on to my third drink that I decide to bring it up.

‘Are things any better between you and Adam?’

She sighs. ‘Things between Adam and me are fine.’ She pauses and gives a resigned shrug. ‘Adam and I are – by most standards – a happy couple. We love our kids. We have a stable home. We don’t row a lot.’

‘I know. Bit unnatural, if you ask me,’ I joke.

She suddenly looks serious. ‘That’s what I think too.’

‘Jess, I was only joking!’

‘I know, but . . .’ she swirls her wine glass around. ‘I read once that if you have to think about whether you still love someone, then you’ve already stopped. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so uncomfortable telling him I love him. Not because of the repressed streak I’ve inherited from my mum, but because I don’t any more.’

‘But Jess, you never told him you loved him even when there was no doubt in your mind about how you felt. Even when you told
me
you loved him. You always thought it was naff.’

‘I suppose,’ she shrugs.

‘And that stuff about sometimes questioning your feelings – that’s natural after such a long time together. Seriously,’ I tell her. ‘We expect perfection these days, but nobody can be perfect. We expect the excitement and thrill and lust of first love to last for ever. It doesn’t. It
can’t
. Just because someone doesn’t give you goose bumps after ten years doesn’t mean you should stop loving them.’

‘Of course, but—’

‘Take my mum and dad,’ I continue. ‘All that crap my mum spouted about her and Dad having “grown apart”. How bloody annoying! Couples only grow apart if they let themselves. In my parents’ case, my mum let herself. If it’d been up to Dad, they’d still be together. They
should
still be together.’

I stop and take in the look on Jess’s face.

‘I don’t know what went on between your mum and dad, I can only speak for myself,’ she says quietly. ‘And while I don’t entirely disagree, you’re speaking from the perspective of someone who hasn’t been in a relationship that lasted, what . . . more than two years?’

‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ I say. ‘Besides, Harry and I were together for two and a quarter. Admittedly, he was also with someone else for six months of that, but still.’

‘I’m not trying to rub it in. You know I’m not. Look, ten years ago I’d have agreed.
One
year ago, I’d have agreed. But now . . . oh, maybe I’m just having a wobble.’ She blinks. ‘Or maybe not.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

It’s then that I notice the creases on her forehead and the red swell around her eyes. I touch her elbow, unable to believe how upset she’s become so quickly.

She looks at me, then glances away, her lip trembling.

‘I wish I could turn back the clock,’ she whispers shakily, but she’s not talking to me now. She’s talking to herself.

‘Jess, you can get the excitement back in your marriage. Perhaps you just need a couple of romantic nights out or a weekend away or—’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘What
do
you mean, then?’

‘Abby,’ she sniffs, taking a huge, shuddery breath. ‘I slept with another man.’

It takes me a second to realise I’ve heard her correctly. ‘You did what?’ I ask, but don’t really need her to repeat it. ‘When?’

Her breathing is shallow and tearful. ‘The night before we went out for dinner – a couple of weeks before your birthday,’ she mumbles. I knew she’d been acting strangely that night; you’d think that asparagus had been laced with arsenic, she was so reluctant to eat it. I hadn’t appreciated how strangely until now.

‘But how?’

She raises an eyebrow solemnly. ‘The usual way.’

‘Jess, for God’s sake, I’m your best friend.’ I reach over and clutch her hand. It feels fragile and cold from the ice in her drink. ‘If you can’t talk about this with me, then who can you talk about it with?’

She squirms. ‘It’s more complicated than you think, Abby.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I concede. ‘But . . . who was it?’

She briefly closes her eyes and swallows. ‘Someone at work. John. Maxwell. He works in our Sales Department.’

‘Have I ever met him?’

‘I don’t think so. He started while I was on maternity leave.’

My mind is spinning with questions and they spill from my mouth before I can think straight. ‘Is he married too?’

‘No,’ she responds numbly, as if talking is causing her physical pain. ‘Don’t make me tell you the details, Abby. All I can say is . . . I was, momentarily at least, captivated. I suppose part of me still is.’

‘Oh my God! Is it still going on?’ I hiss, trying not to attract the attention of the other drinkers. ‘Is it . . .
an affair
?’

‘No,’ she leaps in. ‘I slept with him once. That’s it. I’ve been resisting his advances ever since. But, I’ll be honest – it’s difficult, especially when I have to see him all the time.’

‘One of the many downsides of an office fling,’ I mutter.