Authors: Fiona Gibson
Mum on the Run (12 page)
‘Well, you can’t wear my trainers,’ Finn growls.
‘Oh, come on. Just this once. I don’t have any others.’
‘You’ll make them stinky!’
‘No she won’t,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Mummy doesn’t stink.
You
do. You stink of poo and wee and farts . . .’
‘Shut up,’ he mutters, flicking her house off Mayfair.
‘I won’t make them stinky,’ I insist. ‘I’ll only be gone for half an hour. It’s hardly a marathon and I won’t even go fast enough to break into a sweat . . .’
‘Wise move,’ Jed guffaws.
‘Why have you got lipstick on?’ Grace asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
‘Have you?’ asks Jed, squinting.
‘No. I don’t know. It might be some old stuff I forgot to take off.’
‘You
do
have trainers,’ Finn announces. ‘You don’t need to wear mine.’
‘I left them out in the garden,’ I explain, desperate to escape now, ‘and a cat must have peed on them or sprayed them or something because they smelt disgusting and I had to throw them away.’
‘Why do cats spray?’ Grace asks.
‘To mark their territory,’ I murmur.
Like, you know – women who pick stray threads off men’s tops.
Finn’s nostrils flare, as if infiltrated by said cat odour. ‘I wear those trainers for basketball. I have to carry them in my schoolbag with my books. And now my books’ll stink of feet . . .’
‘I’ll make sure they’re thoroughly fumigated,’ I say sweetly. ‘Bye, poppets.’
‘Bye, mum,’ Grace says, glaring at the spot on the board where her house used to be.
‘Be careful out there!’ Jed chortles after me. ‘Or should I say, break a leg?’
‘And don’t stink my trainers,’ Finn growls.
I step out into the crisp evening and scan the street. Wish I’d started this running lark in winter, not spring. It would be dark by now and there’d be less chance of being spotted. I walk briskly, head down, trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. I’m not planning to run along Bracken Lane. There are neighbours and passing cars with people inside them, looking out. At least the park should be nice and quiet.
I arrive ten minutes early so I can practise before Danny shows up. I know that running, like going to parties, doesn’t sound like something you’d need to practise, but I don’t want to risk any mishaps. Perching on a damp wooden bench, I try to rev myself up mentally. I’m sure that’s a huge part of it: having a positive attitude. I try to visualise myself as a world-class athlete, streaking over the finishing line to rapturous applause. I picture myself adorned with gleaming medals, standing on one of those podium things.
An elderly lady is striding along the path and veers onto the grass when she sees me. Maybe I look threatening, sitting here in a slightly too-small tracksuit for no apparent reason. Should I limber up, or whatever athletes do, to minimise the chance of snapping something?
I get up and start to trot lightly along the path. It actually feels okay. I’m hardly going faster than walking pace, but that’s fine. Don’t want to peak too soon. I check my watch: I have been running for twenty-five seconds and nothing terrible has happened. Another runner – see, I already consider myself a runner – hurtles towards me and gives me a nod of acknowledgement as he passes. Perhaps this is a club I
can
belong to. I look forward to swishing into those department store changing rooms, and trying on a playsuit while some woman struggles into a vast, salmon-coloured pantie girdle and exclaims, ‘Oh yes, that looks gorgeous. But then, you do have the figure to carry it off.’
I trot past the pond, its glassy surface rippled by a couple of meandering ducks. This is better than that poncey health club where the receptionist suggested I might like to attend a spin class, which made me feel giddy just thinking about it.
In the distance I spot a pink splodge. It’s tall and skinny and cantering towards me at an impressive pace, and with a sinking heart I realise it’s Naomi. ‘My God, it’s you, actually running!’ she cries. ‘I can’t believe it. Well done, you!’
‘Thanks,’ I gasp, jogging towards her. I’m unsure whether to speed up to impress her, or to slow down even further to conserve energy for when Danny shows up.
‘Didn’t know you were the running type,’ she exclaims, scanning my trackie-clad body and continuing to jog on the spot.
‘Well, I’m not really. I mean, I’ve never done it before . . .’
‘Well, good for you for trying. You’ll soon start to look a lot more toned.’
I smile tightly, wondering how Naomi manages to make a seemingly innocent, even encouraging remark sound faintly insulting. As she bounds up and down, ponytail leaping, I wait for her to zoom off and leave me alone. ‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ I add hopefully.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve already done five miles at race pace so I don’t mind taking it a bit easier. Why don’t we run together? That’d be fun!’
‘Um, another time maybe. I’d rather just have a little trot around on my own, to be honest, to see if I can, you know . . .
do
this . . .’
‘Oh no, you don’t want to run on your own,’ she insists. ‘It’s much more motivating to have a running buddy. Come on. Let’s do a few circuits together.’
‘I er . . .’ I check my watch. Seven minutes past eight. Maybe Danny’s forgotten our little rendezvous or has developed cold feet. It’s probably for the best. Running is horribly unphotogenic, and I’d rather he didn’t witness various bits of my body thrashing about in public view. I could do a few laps with Naomi. Just enough to acquire a healthy flush so Jed doesn’t think I’ve been shirking.
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ she says.
‘Okay, but I’ll have to take it fairly slowly,’ I warn as she breaks into a jog.
‘Don’t worry. It’s best to start slowly – you need to increase distance before pace. That way you’ll build up your stamina.’
‘Uh-huh . . .’
‘And then, when you’re fitter, you should add some hill training and fartleks.’
‘Fartleks?’ I repeat.
‘Yes. Alternating sprinting with your normal pace. It’s the best way to build up strength.’
Sprinting? Is this some kind of sick joke? And what ‘normal’ pace is she talking about? I don’t have one. This is beginning to feel anything but normal. We jog towards a teenage couple who are snogging enthusiastically on a bench. Alerted by the sound of my thudding feet, they spring apart and gawp at me. The boy snorts openly, and I see myself as he sees me: a tragic, middle-aged woman with a muffin top, staggering past in an ill-fitting tracksuit. He smirks and murmurs something into his girlfriend’s ear.
Cop a load of that arse,
probably. The malnourished-looking creature sniggers into her hand.
I wonder now if I’m really cut out for running, or should just be put out to pasture in some kind of sanctuary for knackered old mums like they have for horses. I quite like the idea of ambling around a field, munching oats, being sponsored by a kind family who come to take photos of me in my twilight years. ‘Hill’s coming up!’ Naomi announces with a freakish grin.
‘There aren’t any hills around here,’ I gasp. I must have been to this park eight thousand times; I’m familiar with every flake of paint on the see-saw, every rusting chain link on the swings. There is categorically No Hill.
‘Yes there is,’ she says with a cackle. And she’s right. It soon becomes apparent that there’s a definite incline that goes on and on, like some cruel optical illusion that’s only detectable when you’re running up it. A fat winged creature dives into my mouth, causing me to choke. ‘Lean into the hill,’ Naomi instructs. ‘Take small, bouncing steps and keep up a light, steady rhythm . . .’
Fuck off
, I scream silently. ‘I’ve swallowed something,’ I bleat, trying unsuccessfully to cough the thing up.
‘It’ll just be a fly,’ she says. Oh, that’s fine then. A fly that’s spent most of its life sitting on rotting food and poo. ‘Try to breathe evenly instead of wheezing like that,’ she adds. Now I’ve really had enough. I’d like to see her breathing evenly with a filthy great bug in her throat.
‘How long have we been running for?’ I splutter.
She checks her lime green sports watch. ‘Three minutes.’
Christ, is that all? It feels like
weeks.
Something weird has happened to make time virtually grind to a halt. Then a distant voice cries, ‘Laura!’
I stagger to a halt and launch into a coughing fit which pings the insect out of my mouth and onto the path. ‘Hi, Danny!’ I call back, conscious of the vile insecty taste in my mouth.
‘Who’s that?’ Naomi asks, stopping abruptly as he strides towards us.
‘Oh, just a friend. We’d planned to run together actually. Danny,’ I say as he approaches, ‘this is Naomi. We were just, um . . . warming up.’
‘Were we?’ Naomi asks with a sparkly laugh.
‘I’m impressed,’ Danny says with a smile. ‘The only warming up I’ve done is walk from the car.’
‘You haven’t stretched?’ Naomi asks, frowning.
‘Well, um, not recently, no . . .’ He chuckles.
She shakes her head, then demonstrates a sort of forward lunge with her back leg jutting out strangely behind her. ‘Do this,’ she says.
Danny flicks me a baffled look, then forms a rough approximation of her stance. He, too, is wearing tracksuit bottoms, plus a rather ageing black T-shirt. His dark hair is ruffled, his eyes even bluer than I’d remembered. I watch incredulously as Naomi repositions his leg, prodding at the thigh region and explaining, ‘You need to maximise the stretch to work your Achilles tendon, Danny. Don’t want to pull anything, do you?’
‘Er, no,’ he mutters. Oh to be a man. Not that I’d want Naomi to reposition anything of mine – but the fuss and attention they attract, like Jed and the playgroup biscuit scenario.
‘You could do with more supportive shoes,’ Naomi scolds, eyeing his scruffy trainers.
‘I’m not sure about buying new kit right now,’ Danny murmurs. ‘I mean, I’m just starting out. Me and Laura thought we’d . . .’
‘Shall we just get going?’ I cut in impatiently.
‘Sure,’ Naomi says brightly. ‘All set, Danny?’
‘Um . . . guess so.’ He casts me an unsteady grin as Naomi sets off, and we fall into step with her.
‘This pace okay for you?’ she trills.
‘Er, yes,’ he says, clearly assuming I invited Naomi to join us.
‘Done much running before, Danny?’ she asks.
‘Er, no. None at all actually . . .’
‘You’re doing great,’ she enthuses. ‘If we build up gradually, you’ll soon be running three or four miles.’ Hang on,
we
? ‘Where did you two meet?’ she wants to know.
‘At, er . . . in York,’ I bluster.
‘Really? Where?’
‘In Starbucks,’ he says.
‘Oh!’ She throws me a mildly shocked look, as if startled by my habit of picking up strangers in coffee shops. At least he didn’t mention Super Slimmers. I glance at him, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this. Although a little breathless, he’s showing no sign of fatigue. In contrast, my lungs are bursting and Finn’s trainers have started to pinch my toes. Surely a blister can’t be forming already. I’m lagging behind now, and Danny and Naomi – who are locked in jolly conversation – don’t seem to have noticed.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I yell in a lame attempt at a joke.
‘Come on, Laura,’ Naomi retorts. ‘You need to run for at least twenty minutes to gain full aerobic benefit.’
‘You okay?’ Danny calls back.
‘No!’ I yell, which they must assume is a joke, as they both chuckle whilst cantering ahead. Finn’s trainers seem to be shrinking and are now excruciatingly tight. I don’t
want
full aerobic benefit. I want to rip them off, plus Grace’s Scooby Doo vest, as my boobs are throbbing in protest at being so fiercely compressed. I wonder if they’ll ever revert to their natural shape. ‘Where are we going?’ I blurt out in alarm as, without warning, Naomi swerves out through the park gates and onto the pavement.
‘Thought we’d go down by the river,’ she says, ‘seeing as Danny’s doing so well.’ He glances back briefly, but Naomi carries on yacking at him and I can’t read his mood. From what I can gather, he doesn’t seem fazed by leaving the park for public streets. In a particularly cruel gesture, Naomi leads us past Café Roma which seems so alluring with its glowing lights and ravishing cake smells.
The inside of my mouth has shrivelled up, as if hoovered by the dentist’s suction device. For the first time in years, I could murder a cigarette,
and
a gin and tonic. Outside the Golden Lion, a group of elderly men clutch their drinks, watching us with interest. They are murmuring to each other, and I suspect they’re taking bets on how long it’ll be before I land in a sobbing heap on the pavement. Naomi is streaking ahead now, her glossy ponytail swinging merrily, her backside as taut and unmoving as a shop mannequin’s. ‘I’d never have believed this was your first time, Danny,’ she gushes.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, most people end up walking after two minutes. Want to come out again sometime?’
‘Er, sure, why not?’
Something snaps in me then. I stop dead, watching as they trot on, gassing away like old mates. ‘Hurry up, love!’ calls out one of the men from the pub. ‘They’re leaving you behind.’
‘Want a lift in my car?’ yells another.
‘I’ll give you a piggy-back,’ someone guffaws.
I try to muster a smile but it slides off my face and lands somewhere close to my throbbing feet. ‘Stop for a drink with us, darling,’ the first man calls out. ‘You look like you need some refreshment. What are you having?’
‘A mid-life crisis,’ I yell back, triggering much merriment. I stand and wait, catching my breath, expecting that either Danny or Naomi will realise I’ve stopped and come scampering back to rescue me. But nothing happens. They charge on, like that pack of gazelles in the mums’ race, then whip around the corner, out of sight.
‘Back already?’ Jed calls out.
‘Yep,’ I say, pausing in the hall while I try to compose myself. Although I walked home – limped, actually – my breath is still coming in ragged gasps. Blotting my face with my sleeve, I venture into the living room where Jed is engrossed in the newspaper, and Finn is reading a fat paperback with a fire-breathing dragon on the cover.
‘You weren’t long,’ Jed says, glancing up.
‘Long enough,’ I say. ‘To be honest . . .’ I plonk myself heavily on the sofa between them and pull out my ponytail band. ‘I think you’re right, Jed. I’m just not built for speed.’
Jed smiles and ruffles my damp hair affectionately. ‘Well, at least you tried. Running’s not for everyone, you know.’
Finn looks up from his book. ‘Can I have my trainers back now?’
‘Sure.’ I almost weep with relief as I pull them off and free my poor, mangled toes. Finn picks them up and inspects them for damage, holding them at a distance by the fingertips. I hobble upstairs to check on Grace and Toby, who are both asleep, then pad gingerly into the bathroom. After perching on the edge of the bath, and contemplating my blistered toe for a few minutes, I peel off my clothes, yanking the Scooby T-shirt over my head with difficulty, and glance down at my body. Disappointingly, I look exactly the same as before, apart from having acquired some angry chafe marks around my waist from Beth’s trackie bottoms, plus that pulsating blister. In fact my feet look pink and rather angry, so really, I’m in a worse condition than before I set out. You have to question the logic.
I shower for ages, hoping to soothe my traumatised flesh. Gradually, as I dry off and pull on roomy PJs and sheepskin slippers, I start to feel normal again. Let Naomi and Danny
fartlek
to their bloody heart’s content. I hope they’re very happy together. Finn drifts upstairs, still clutching his book, and I pull him in for a hug on the landing. He grudgingly allows it, now that I’m thoroughly de-stinked. Downstairs, I find Jed brewing tea in the kitchen. ‘So, that’s the end of that, is it?’ he asks.
‘The end of what?’
‘Running. Tub Club. All that “new you” business.’
I laugh uneasily. ‘I don’t know. D’you think I should quit the club as well?’
‘It’s up to you,’ he says with a small shrug. That’s so Jed. As if it doesn’t matter to him what size I am, because he doesn’t notice anyway. I take the tea he offers me and gulp it greedily, knowing that I shouldn’t have sugar, or be munching a restorative chocolate digestive. In fact I should really be sipping the pond water tea that Naomi so enjoys.
‘I’m probably dehydrated,’ I murmur. ‘In marathons they have all these water stations every couple of miles or so.’
Jed sniggers. ‘Don’t tell me no one had arranged that for you?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘How far did you go exactly?’ he asks, taking a biscuit from the open packet on the table.
‘Just round the park.’
‘Whoa! Steady on.’
I’m about to protest that it’s actually quite hilly – although not to the naked eye, admittedly – when my phone bleeps with an incoming text. I step away from Jed to read it. WHERE DID U GO? It reads. Danny. What a cheek. Where the hell did he think I went? I’m tempted to reply: AM BLIND DRUNK IN GOLDEN LION. Instead, I text a curt HOME and stuff my mobile back into my pocket.
Jed appears at my side and nuzzles my neck, triggering a small prickle of guilt. ‘Never mind, love,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sure even Paula Radcliffe has her off days.’
*
At breakfast the next morning a row erupts over who ‘stole’ the last of the orange juice. ‘Actually,’ I tease, ‘
I
bought the juice so technically, it was mine.’ Grace glares at me. Toby tries to shake dregs from the empty carton. Finn has his iPod on, which he isn’t supposed to do at the table because meals are meant to be family bonding time, haha. Even more irritatingly, he starts drumming with his fingertips on the table, keeping time with a song.
‘Please stop that, Finn,’ I say.
‘Uh?’ He looks bewildered.
‘It’s not very pleasant, trying to eat with you drumming—’
‘Why not?’ He pulls out his earphones.
‘You’re making the table vibrate and it’s rattling my brain, love.’
He yawns loudly. ‘I need to practise, yeah? For my next lesson . . .’
‘Forgot to tell you,’ Jed says, breezing in, seemingly oblivious to the squabble as he snatches a pile of work folders from the far end of the table. ‘Mum was on the phone, wondering what you’d like for your birthday.’
‘Oh, just something luxurious and decadent,’ I say, smirking, ‘like last year.’
Jed raises an eyebrow. ‘She mentioned a bread maker.’
‘Did she? What for?’
‘For your birthday. To, er . . . make bread, I guess. Or, um, maybe they do rolls as well.’
‘But you can buy bread in the shops,’ I remind him. ‘I don’t need to make my own.’
‘Well, home-made bread is pretty tasty, and she thought, in your copious spare time . . .’ He sniggers, clearly enjoying winding me up.
‘Yes, maybe you’re right. In fact I don’t even need a bread maker for that. I could get up at 5 a.m. and start kneading so we can have fresh bread for breakfast every morning. That’d make better sandwiches for your lunchbox, wouldn’t it, Finn?’
Finn is still drumming on the table with his earphones back in. ‘Uh,’ he says in response. Something must have filtered through, though, because he gets up from the table, finally de-iPodding himself, and picks up his lunchbox from the worktop. Flipping it open, he peers inside, peeling foil from his sandwiches and wincing slightly. ‘These ham?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Not wet ham, though. It was completely dry. I checked.’
He pauses, as if presented with a particularly unappetising restaurant meal, and shuts the lunchbox lid. ‘Nah thanks.’
‘What d’you mean,
nah thanks
?’
‘I’ll just have a school dinner in the canteen.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘You said school dinners are all soggy pizza and weird, bouncy meat. You said you felt sick the time you had that stew with floaty bits in . . .’ With a roll of his eyes, Jed dispenses kisses to each of us and heads off, with un disguised relief, to work.
‘It’s £1.20,’ Finn says, holding out a hand. I snatch my purse, rummage for change and find all of 37p.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, nipping upstairs to Toby’s room where I manage to prise off the rubber stopper from his piggy bank. Grabbing a handful of coins, I replace the stopper just as Toby stalks into the room.
‘What you doing?’ he asks.
‘Um, just borrowing some money, love, for Finn’s lunch.’
‘That’s my money!’
‘I know, but I haven’t been to the bank . . .’
‘You’re stealing it!’
‘I’m borrowing it, okay? And when I pay it back, which I’ll do later today, okay, I’ll give you some interest.’
‘What’s interest?’ he asks warily.
‘It’s extra money to say thank you.’ At that, he brightens, trotting downstairs behind me, and observes me depositing the coins onto Finn’s outstretched palm.
‘Uh, thanks,’ he says.
‘So what am I meant to do with the packed lunch I
lovingly
made for you at eleven-thirty last night, when I could have been tucked up in bed?’
Finn stuffs the coins into his pocket and pulls on his jacket. ‘Dunno.’
‘Give it to a homeless person?’ Grace suggests from the table.
‘Great. Good idea,’ I say tightly.
‘Anyway, I’m off to school,’ Finn mutters.
‘Hey, aren’t you walking with us?’ I call after him. ‘Hang on a minute. I just need to find Toby’s shoes and . . .’
‘Nah, s’all right.’ The front door bangs shut, and he’s gone. As Grace, Toby and I head out, I wonder what’s triggered this urge to reject my lunches and leave before us. For once we’re not running late but, even if we were, it’s not like Finn to worry about missing the bell. Clearly, he wishes to disassociate himself from me. Perhaps I should cease to exist completely, apart from when he requires a cooked meal or money or to be driven to a football game.
I kiss Grace goodbye at the school gates and drop off Toby at nursery via the newsagents (emergency Chunky Kit Kat required). As I head for work, rain starts bucketing down. Within seconds I’m drenched, and I stumble into the salon, making a beeline for the loo to towel myself down. ‘Morning, Laura,’ Simone calls out as I pounce for the loo door. ‘Your first client’s here already.’
‘Is she?’ I turn back and glance down at the appointments book. ‘I didn’t think I had a booking till ten.’
‘Not in the book,’ she adds. ‘He’s here – look. Popped in on the off-chance you could fit him in.’
Rain trickles slowly down my cheeks. I peer over at the sofa which Danny is occupying all by himself whilst pretending to read a copy of
Vogue
. ‘Who is he?’ she whispers.
‘Just . . . just a friend.’
‘Cute friend.’ She winks as I turn to greet him.
‘Hi, Danny,’ I say. ‘What brings you here?’
He looks up and smiles in a slightly lost way, as if he’s wandered in by mistake and really wanted the library.
‘I was just in town and, um . . .’ He pauses. ‘Thought I’d pop in to see you. Think I owe you an apology after our run.’
I shrug. ‘That’s okay. It’s not a problem. It was my fault really, for being so slow.’ Jess, our junior, takes care of our seamless playlist but has chosen this precise moment to opt for silence.
He glances down at the
Elle
s and
Vogue
s on the table. ‘Your friend . . . Naomi, was it? She was chatting so much, going on about fartleks or whatever, telling me how to breathe and use my arms to propel myself forward . . .’ He mimics her arm-pumping motion, and we both laugh. ‘With all that going on – God, all I wanted was a quick run, you know. Not a personal trainer . . .’
‘I know what she’s like. I mean, you can’t possibly just put one foot in front of the other, can you? It has to be all technical . . .’
‘And by the time I looked back,’ he adds, ‘you weren’t there. We came back to find you but those men at the pub said you’d stomped off.’
‘
Jogged
off,’ I correct him. ‘I jogged home. Anyway, I thought I’d probably gone far enough for my first time. Didn’t want to overdo it.’
‘Right. Good idea.’ I sense Simone watching us with rapt interest from the manicure table.
‘Anyway,’ I say breezily, ‘I’ve got twenty minutes till my first client’s due. What can I do for you?’
‘Huh?’ Danny says.
‘Just a trim or a total re-style?’ I tilt my head, appraising his dark brown, endearingly scruffy and rather damp hair.
‘Oh –
that.
’ He chuckles.
‘Well, we are a hair salon, Danny. It’s our speciality.’
‘Yes, um, of course . . .’ He rakes a hand through his hair as if seeking inspiration. ‘I don’t know, Laura. I suppose I’ll just put myself in your capable hands.’ He grins mischievously.
‘Okay. I’ll ask Jess to shampoo you and we’ll soon knock you into shape. You don’t mind that it’s my first time, do you?’ I tease him.
‘Is it?’ He looks momentarily worried, then cracks a grin. ‘Oh, I’m feeling pretty daring today. Happy to be your guinea pig.’
‘Great. See you in a minute, okay?’
While Danny’s at the basins, I dart into the loo to blot my wet hair with a towel and wipe away rogue mascara smudges from beneath my eyes. When I rejoin him, he’s swathed in a pale grey cape in front of the mirror.
‘No need to look so scared,’ I tease him. ‘We’re quite gentle in here.’
‘It’s just . . . I don’t usually come to places like this.’
‘A bit posh for you, is it?’
‘Well, y’know.’ A pause.
‘So where do you usually go? For haircuts, I mean?’
‘My, um . . . my ex used to do it.’ His blue eyes meet mine. ‘Haven’t got around to getting it cut since we broke up. That explains the state it’s in,’ he adds.
‘Oh.’ I comb out his hair, aware of him watching me. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s a state, Danny. It suits you actually. So, is your girlfriend – your ex – a hairdresser?’
‘Nope, we were just skint, trying to do up an old farmhouse, and she was pretty handy with the scissors.’
‘Well,’ I say, combing out his damp hair and beginning to cut, ‘she obviously had natural talent. I’m just going to take away some of the weight, thin it out a little while leaving most of the length, that sound okay to you?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
I smile, enjoying cutting the hair of someone so easy and pleasant, someone who wouldn’t dream of thrusting photos of unfeasibly glamorous Hollywood actors at me. That, I decide as I snip away, is what I like about Danny. Sure, he’s cute, with the dimply cheeks, and those startling blue, dark-lash-fringed eyes – but in a totally non-threatening way. His kind, friendly demeanour, and his soft, slightly chunky body in faded jeans and old sweatshirts all add to his appeal as a man I could happily hang out with and chat about whatever comes to mind. ‘So,’ I say, ‘when did you break up? If you don’t mind me asking . . .’
‘It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It happened a few months ago now, just before Christmas.’
‘Bad timing,’ I say. ‘Not that it’s ever good timing, unless you wanted it to happen of course . . .’ I tail off, suspecting that I’m in danger of overstepping the mark.
‘Well, no,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want it at all. Didn’t even want the farmhouse, if I’m honest – the whole creating-our-dream-property thing. We’d had a flat in Leeds and been quite happy for the two years we’d been together. But Sarah wanted a big project, something to get her teeth into, I guess . . .’
‘And you went along with it?’
He smiles ruefully. ‘I was so infatuated I’d have done practically anything she’d suggested. That’s probably why it went wrong.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘that doesn’t sound so terrible. Being willing to give it a try, I mean.’ I check his reflection. With less hair around his face, his bone structure is more defined. Before, he looked cute; now he’s startlingly handsome. I snip a few stray hairs from above his ears.
‘It hardly sounds dynamic, though, does it? I’d have been perfectly content to stay in Leeds. I had a photography business which was doing pretty well, but when Sarah had this idea about setting up a spa, a kind of holistic therapy place . . .’ I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from firing more questions. ‘And then,’ Danny adds, ‘she went off with our builder.’