Page 36 of Unapologetic Love Story

An onlooker might have presumed Raina personally knew each and every runner, by the way she cheered and hollered for them. She bounced and whooped for each one and Tom felt a little warmer each time.

‘Do you do this every year?’ he asked.

‘Whenever possible,’ she replied. Her eyes were still fixed on the athletes.

‘I didn’t know they had a disability race.’

‘They don’t.’

Tom frowned. ‘What? Then what was that?’

‘They’re part of the elite class. They’re athletes. They set off at the same time as the other elite runners.’

The shameful feeling now transformed into a gelatinous cube of horror, sloshing around inside and making him feel queasy. He loved to tell himself that he was the kind of man without a biased bone in his body, but Raina seemed to trip that comfortable idea of himself up quite regularly.

‘It’s okay that you didn’t know,’ Raina finally said, her voice soft and pensive. ‘Most people don’t.’

There was a world of stories in those three words, Tom realized.

Eventually, an empty calmness fell over mile twenty, signalling a respite. The next batch of athletes would be the charity runners, and Tom wondered if the sight of men in tutus and giant London landmark costumes could be enough to knock this uncomfortable feeling to one side.

‘How’s your piece coming along then, Your Majesty?’ Raina asked without preamble. ‘Just how much trouble am I in for?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Tom bristled. ‘I’m not cancelling anyone – I’m writing about you and your podcast.’

‘Well, what do you want to know now?’

‘I want the name of your past stalker so I can pay him a visit.’

She blushed. ‘No. Next?’

‘Funding?’

He expected her to recoil at the question but she showed no visible reaction.

‘We have extra content for patrons; they pay a monthly subscription. Plus, advertisements and sponsors. I’m not embezzling from anyone.’

The ‘arsehole’ at the end of her sentence was implied, rather than spoken.

‘Studio rental?’

She laughed at that. Loudly and unguardedly. ‘I have microphones, two chairs, a tripod and a desktop in a small room on the first floor of my house. That’s the studio. I might splash out on a mini-fridge if we get nominated for the Mondays, you never know.’

The Monday awards were given to radio and podcast creatives. Tom remembered a previous ceremony. A sports commentator got into a fight with a soap star and the night had gone downhill from there. However, he knew that they’d grown into one of the more coveted award listings.

‘Is that something you want? An award nomination?’

‘Sure, why not?’

‘Just seems a little frivolous.’

‘Yeah, put that in your notes. Uppity podcast host has ambition for accolade that might allow her audience to grow. More disabled women welcomed. Just awful. Seriously, write that down.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, you seem better than trivial accolades. You’re above them.’

She didn’t respond for a moment. He wanted to cuss himself out. He’d never felt so verbally clumsy in his life. She turned him into a babbling idiot with no filter.

‘One of my subscribers is a charity runner,’ she finally said. ‘Deedee. She’s raising money for multiple sclerosis.’