I try to think of a reason to protest, why I should go running alone. But it’s super early and my brain isn’t all lit up yet, and I can’t think of the reasons. I nod my assent and Peach flies past me, lumbering quickly up the stairs to get changed.
* * *
Five minutes after setting off on our run, I am full to bursting with the reasons I usually do this on my own. Top of the list is the fact that running is my lovely alone time, peace and quiet, a time to think and listen to my music and focus on nothing but the steady pound of my heartbeat and the feel of the air whipping at my skin. Peach has other ideas about what a run is. First of all, she thinks that ‘run’ is a euphemism for medium- to slow-paced walking with a stop-off for frothy coffee along the way. Secondly, Peach wants to talk on our run. She wants to talk a whole lot. Since our night out at Twisted Spin, it’s like Pandora’s box has been opened and a new, chattier Peach is starting to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. Which is great. It’s awesome that she’s starting to feel more confident – her shoulders aren’t as hunched, she’s mumbling less, it’s fab. But I’m still the only person she feels comfortable talking to, which means that everything she wants to say out loud, she says to me. And after twenty-six years of barely talking to anyone, there’s a lot of stuff she’s feeling the need to share. By the time we’re halfway down Kensington High Street, I’ve zoned out a bit.
‘. . . and then at senior prom it was all planned out, but Lyle lost the room key and the mood sorta fizzled. And I never quite got around to it. And that’s the story of why I’m still a virgin. Then in 2004 I decided—’
My mind zones back in immediately. ‘Wait – what?’ I stop outside Marks &Spencer’s and turn to Peach. ‘What did you just say? You’re still a virgin?’
Peach nods. ‘I sure am. Not for lack of wanting, just lack of opportunity, I guess.’
‘Wow,’ I breathe. I lost my virginity at eighteen. On Summer and mine’s first night out together at uni, actually, the week after my mum died. I can’t imagine having reached twenty-six without doing it. Sex is ace. How does she get her kicks? How does she cheer herself up? I examine her curiously.
‘I have got my eye on someone,’ Peach grins, taking a hefty gulp from her water bottle.
‘Who?Who?’
She fiddles with her ponytail of frizzy curls. ‘Gavin.’
‘Who is Gavin?’
‘Our postman, duh!’
Aha, the stocky blonde fella.
‘He’s cute,’ I say approvingly as we cross over to the other side of the road.
‘I know.’ Peach smiles wistfully, her round cheeks pink. ‘But he’s sorta shy too. I’ve been taking all that eBay stuff for delivery so I’ve seen him lots at the post office recently, but we’ve never managed to say more than a few words to each other. I wanted to ask you a favour, actually.’
‘Go on.’
‘I feel more . . . confident when you’re there, if you know what I mean? Like I can talk a little easier.’
I don’t know quite what she means, but nevertheless, at her words, I get a tiny flutter of pleasure in my chest.
‘So I was hoping that the next time Gavin came around with the post, you would answer the door with me. I wanna ask him out for a date and I don’t know if I’d be able to do it unless you were standin’ by me.’
I laugh. ‘You’re going to ask him out? That’s awesome.’ I give her a high-five. ‘It’d be my pleasure to stand there creepily looking on during that intimate moment. Oh God, Peach, you should totally tell Gavin that you want his special delivery. Ooh, I know, ask him if he’s got a big package for you.Pleaseask him that.’
‘Should I really ask him that?’ Peach’s gentle grey eyes widen solemnly.
‘Er, no. No, I’m kidding, Peach. Don’t say that . . . at least not yet.’
‘You’re weird.’ Peach guffaws to herself in a vexed way, as ifI’mthe peculiar person in this duo.
‘Can we do some actual running now?’ I moan, hopping up and down on the spot. ‘We’ve got barely any time left and Matilda will be awake soon.’
‘Of course,’ Peach pants, joining me in a couple of star jumps. Then she stops. ‘But first, let me tell youallabout my life in 2004. It was January fifteenth, and the opening day of Alabama’s world-famous national peanut festival . . .’
I take off into a sprint.
* * *
Later that morning Grandma and I gather in the drawing room to tot up our eBay earnings. I get comfy on the sofa, place my laptop on my knees and call out figures to Grandma who, from her favourite blue chair, adds them all up on a massive old-as-time calculator.
As I get to the last sold item – an old Tiffany table lamp − I peek up at Grandma in excitement for the total. I watch her face, waiting for the smile to appear, the look of relief to soften her taut, worried features. But that doesn’t happen.
‘We didn’t make enough,’ she says in a small, dejected voice.
