‘Right …’
He coughs, suddenly not meeting her eye.
‘OK, good,’ she reassures herself.
‘Good,’ he repeats after her.
‘Well, I should probably get home …’
He looks as though he is going to say something, but he pauses. ‘Of course. The Tube is this way.’
Alfie doesn’t try to fill the silence on the journey back. And when Tilly pulls a book out of her bag on the Underground, he swallows hard, pressing his lips firmly together and then turning to studiously read all the advertisements plastered around the carriage.
Once they reach their stop, they pause outside the station entrance. It is cold and dark now, the street quiet.
‘Well. Thanks for a good day. See you soon.’ His shoulders are rounded, hands in the pockets of his green duffel coat.
‘Yeah, see you.’
As soon as she’s inside she kicks off her shoes and reaches for Joe’s grey hoody, hanging on the peg. She swaps her coat for the hoody, tugging the sleeves down over her hands. There’s still a lingering trace of Joe’s smell of cedarwood and jasmine, and she lifts the fabric to her nose and inhales deeply.
She wears the hoody to sleep, curled up on Joe’s side of the bed.
On the sofa in his flat, a few streets away, Alfie flicks through his copy of the Lonely Planet guide to London, colourful Post-its flashing as the pages whizz by.
Then he closes the book, stands up and slips it in between an unused guide to South America and a copy ofThe Art of Travel, knowing he isn’t going to need any of them any time soon.
46
Each morning Tilly goes for long runs, getting in her last days of training, going further than she strictly needs – to avoid the bookshop and the part of the canal she knows a certain bike rider frequents.
As she runs, she thinks back over the past year, not quite believing that she has now reached the point where she can run and think about things other than running. Her adventures flash through her mind as she takes each step: her first visit to the bookshop, the evenings spent cooking new recipes in her flat, the trips to Bali and Italy with Harper and the silence that now stretches between them – the longest they have ever gone without speaking. She pictures sunlit Parisian streets and rolling Tuscan countryside, the steaming pavements of New York and the wild, wet shores of Jura.
And there in the background of her memories is Alfie. She runs faster and harder.
The day before the half-marathon an email arrives.
From: [email protected]
Subject: London meeting
Dear Tilly,
Just checking in to confirm our lunch on the 15th November, 12.30 p.m. at The Ivy.
I look forward to seeing you and telling you more about the opportunity coming up at Alphabet Books. I think you could be a great fit …
As she runs, looping her way around Regent’s Park and along the canal through Camden, Tilly pictures herself running through Central Park and along the Hudson River instead, exploring new neighbourhoods, skyscrapers towering above her. If the conversation with Liz goes well, then a new job in New York could be exactly the new start she needs. A new adventure.
It would mean leaving her life here behind. But what does she really have keeping her here?
Hyde Park is buzzing with swarms of people dressed in bright running gear and fancy dress, race numbers pinned to their chests, stretching as they wait for the race to begin. Motivating music pumps through speakers, giving the occasion the atmosphere of a party – which feels a little strange for just before 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning. But Tilly is happy to take all the motivation she can get.
She glances at her phone, cued up with her favourite energizing playlist.
Rachel:
