‘I’m fine,’ Rachel breathed, not entirely sure it was true.
‘Ach, you know she—’
‘Means well,’ Rachel finished. ‘So you keep telling me.’
Rachel realised that her voice had thickened and her eyes were filling up. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she said urgently. ‘Let me tell you about work. I’ve switched teams, I got a bit of a pay rise. And the new client I’m working with looks like a posh walrus.’
He laughed. ‘Well, that all sounds great … Apart from the walrus-looking fella. That’s unfortunate for him.’
Rachel sniffed and made a watery sound a little like a laugh. She told him about her move to the pro-social side of the agency, the British House and Garden Heritage account, working with Isaac and her new and improved job title.
Without even realising she was doing it, she edited Jack out of the story, minimised Humphrey’s awfulness and omitted any other details that might give her family cause for concern. Stressing out her parents had been anathema to Rachel for almost half her life and – short of refusing to stay with unsuitable boyfriends – she always did her best to avoid it.
Rather unjustly, Rachel’s Sunday-morning run felt no easier than usual after a sedate Saturday night home alone.
Anna had gone over to Will’s as soon as she knew he was back from Edinburgh, so Rachel had read a book, eaten cheese on toast and – determinedly ignoring the bottle of wine on the kitchen worktop – tried not to think about Jack, or the tension that had built between them during Friday’s car journey.
All weekend she’d been refusing her mind permission to remember the look he’d given her right before she scrambled out of his car. No good could come of dwelling on it – of wondering whether, given another few seconds, he might have tried to kiss her. Nor did she want to consider whether she’d have let him. He was spoken for, and even if he weren’t, she’d already been burned by him once. Things were quite awkward enough between them, and tomorrow they had to get back to work as normal.
Now, with Lady Gaga blasting loud through her headphones, Rachel was gladly incapable of thinking about anything but putting one foot in front of the other.
Walk a bit.
Run a bit.
Try not to throw up or die.
This was one of the benefits of running, Rachel had found: it forced her to be in her body instead of in her head. If it weren’t for how exhausted the exercise made her, it might almost have felt restful.
She was still painfully slow, and the effects of exertion typically turned her pale skin the colour of slow-cooked red cabbage, but Rachel couldn’t deny that her fitness and stamina were improving as she pressed on with Couch to 5K.
Last week, finally convinced she wasn’t going to give up before she hit her target, she’d treated herself to a pair of high-waisted olive-green leggings with black power-mesh panels, plus the matching top. Both garments were a feat of engineering: they pushed everything in and up without being uncomfortable, preventing Rachel’s squishier bits from wobbling as she ran along.
She’d been going for at least twenty of her allotted thirty minutes, and she was starting to flag.Come on, she admonished herself.Dig a bit deeper. Do – not – stop.
Finsbury Park was busy this morning. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by coming to a halt. There was safety in movement: a sense that she was anonymous, invisible, as long as she didn’t stand still.
Rachel tried not to notice other, fitter runners, nor let them bother her. If she was going to get better at this, she knew she needed to stay in her own lane; remember that she was only competing against her former more sedentary self.
Of course there was the odd moment when Rachel couldn’t help sneaking a peek at someone who sped past. Occasionally she’d spot a handsome man among the Proper Runners, enjoying these brief encounters as perks of the programme – a few diverting seconds during what usually felt like a torturous half-hour.
As she rounded a tight corner, Rachel’s attention was caught by someone with hair the colour of sea-washed sand. He was very tall, and lean in a way that made her think ‘strong’ rather than ‘skinny’. Even from this distance, and although her view was obscured by his blue T-shirt sleeves, Rachel could tell he had good arms. Not pumped up, gym-honed or big, just …good. He was holding himself perfectly straight, running from his core, propelling himself forward at a speed Rachel could only dream of. Whoever he was, this guy was fit – in more than one sense of the word, she admitted to herself.
They were moving closer together. They were going to run past one another any moment now. Rachel knew she looked red, dishevelled and clammy. She wished she were one of those girls who could exercise without ending up a drenched, half-dead mess.
At least if this man nodded to acknowledge her as he flew by, Rachel’s ensuing blush wouldn’t be obvious on her already flaming cheeks. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her staring at him.
He was only a few metres away now. And he was … waving at her?
Why was he waving at her?
Holy mother, it wasTom. Tom was the tall, fit runner.Tomwas waving at her. Rachel came to a clumsy stop, almost tripping over her own feet.
Tom steadied her, laughing, and pulled her off the path onto a grass verge still crunchy with frost.
‘Hey,’ he said, breathing heavily, looking down at her and smiling. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I always forget people don’t recognise me when I’m not wearing my glasses. Sorry if I’ve put you off your stride.’
‘Haha! My stride?!’ Rachel said, her voice a panicky screech.
