Girl on the Run (35 page)

When I don’t respond, she turns to me, saying, ‘Are you all right, love? Oh, you won’t say anything, will you? I’d be in terrible trouble if it went public before they wanted it to.’

‘No, Mau. I won’t tell anyone.’

In the event, I don’t need to, because Jess has heard the same rumour – not from Geraldine herself, but one of the middle-group girls. At first, I don’t know how to react. Then I realise I don’t
need
to react. I go on as usual: turn up, run and go home.

Tom, however, doesn’t take the hint.

He clearly thinks a reasonable course of events is for him and me to rekindle our friendship and behave as we did before the events in Tenerife. I wish I could, but it’s not possible; in fact, it’s not even thinkable.

In his quest to return things to normal, he makes futile attempts to raise a smile from me before or after the club, and even resumes our once-regular email correspondence. I ignore them of course, pretending if he asks that I’ve had technical difficulties.

As one lands on an average Tuesday morning at work, I open it with sweating palms and a flushed neck. I realise quickly as I scan the body of the email that it’s just another flimsy excuse to get in touch . . .
blah, blah, another opportunity
. . . It’s the postscript that catches my attention.

I head over to chat to Hazel about the latest work she’s done for Diggles’ rebranding. Our new staff member is quieter and less experienced than the others, but the work she’s done so far shows real promise – and Diggles are thrilled. After that, I have a quick meeting with Heidi and Priya about our final fundraising push – welcome light relief from my non-existent yet strangely complicated love-life.

We’re up to over nine thousand pounds now, a figure I’d never have believed possible when I started out. I’m particularly pleased because it’s given Heidi a focus at a time when the opposite could have been the case. She’s been symptom-free for months, which is fantastic – but that doesn’t stop her being consumed with anxiety. You can see it in her face.

‘We’ve had another letter from Building Services,’ announces Priya, opening the mail.

‘Blimey, they’d been quiet, hadn’t they?’ says Heidi.

Priya clears her throat. ‘“It has come to the attention of the Building Services Manager that certain members of a Certain Business on the fourth floor have been utilising a Banned Substance.”’

‘What? They’re accusing of us drug use now?’ I say.

‘Hang on,’ Priya continues. ‘“As All Businesses were informified by Building Services at the start of the year, it is completely not permitted to make use of reusable pressure-sensitive adhesives – commonly known as ‘Bloo-Tack’. This is because, as Building Services stated at the commencement of the year, it is a bugger to pick off the walls. Any further evidence of future utilisation by the Certain Business on the fourth floor will be treated highly gravely.”’

‘Sounds like it could get sticky this time,’ says Matt.

Heidi groans and throws a Post-it pad at him.

Priya shakes her head softly. ‘You’re getting worse,’ she grins, catching his eye. This is the most tolerant I’ve seen her of his abysmal jokes.

He grins back – and winks. ‘I hope not.’

I glance down at my documents, and on top of the pile is a bank statement, which I have a quick look over. I’m using the overdraft more than last month, but this isn’t anything to worry about because, once the increased payments from Diggles start rolling in – the first of which is due tomorrow – I’ll hardly have to use it at all. I’m not due to sit down with Egor until just before Chistmas, but I know he’ll be happy with the way things are going.

That said, I’ll be more comfortable once the half-marathon’s over in January. Then I can reduce my running to more normal levels – twice a week, maybe – and focus 100 per cent on driving the business forward, instead of having to intersperse normal life with fundraising meetings and training.

Until that happens, however, needs must. So this afternoon I’m having coffee with one of the North-West’s wealthiest, most eligible bachelors. Like every other single woman he goes out with, I want his cash. The only difference is that it isn’t for me.

The lobby of the Hard Days Night Hotel is glitzier than ever, its usually subdued lighting ablaze with Christmas decor. I head to the busy bar, sink into an armchair and order a coffee while I wait.

Daniel Whale is the thirty-five-year-old owner and Chief Executive of Whale Insurance and he wants to meet me about a potential charitable donation. He was apparently at our fundraising ball, heard our speeches, and has been intending to contact me since, but only got round to it last week.

I’ve heard a lot about Daniel, but have never met him personally because his company is based in Leeds, with only a small office in Liverpool. What I do know is that he’s a wealthy man, having inherited the company he runs from his dad – and tripled its turnover in five years.

I’ve met scores of Daniel’s type since I set up the company and know exactly what to expect: sharp suit, blingtastic watch and cockiness galore. My opinion does an about-turn the second I set eyes on him.

‘It’s Abby, isn’t it? I’m Daniel.’ His face is jolly, with soft, attractive features and cottony tufts of fair hair. He’s dressed expensively, but with understatement, and his voice is sweet and generous.

‘Daniel, nice to meet you.’ I shake his hand as he joins me at the table. ‘Thanks for getting in touch.’

‘I’m only sorry I left it so long,’ he smiles. ‘I meant to be in touch ages ago, but – well, you run a business. You know how difficult it can be.’

‘My tiddler of a company hardly compares with Whale Insurance,’ I say.

‘We all have to start somewhere. And in my case, I had a head-start thanks to my dad.’

Daniel hadn’t had much to do with his father’s business until five years ago when, having settled in Florida as a Management Consultant for a big IT company, he was finally persuaded to take over the reins as Mr Whale Senior retired to the golf course.

I get the feeling there was a small sense of duty over desire: the company doesn’t, at least on paper, sound the most exciting – it’s a corporate insurance broker – though he’s clearly embraced the opportunity. And it’s equally clearly paid off.

‘My idea,’ he tells me, ‘was that, while I’d be happy to donate some money anyway, it’d be nice if I could kill two birds with one stone.’

‘Oh?’ I sip my coffee.

‘We’re looking to gain more corporate clients in Liverpool, so I thought I’d see if River Web Design would be prepared to give something back: some introductions. You clearly know everyone there is to know in this city, and it could be a real help to us.’

‘No problem,’ I tell him. ‘I’d be more than happy to make some approaches for you. Who does your website, by the way?’

He laughs. ‘Sorry, but I’m very happy with our website.’

‘I’ll try not to hold it against you,’ I smile.

He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Actually, Abby . . . I’m not being entirely honest. I should lay my cards on the table.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Please do.’

‘It was three birds I was hoping to kill.’

‘You’ll have the RSPB on your case at this rate.’

He chuckles. ‘I didn’t get a chance to speak to you properly at the ball. If I had, I’d have asked then.’

He puts down his cup and says: ‘I wondered if you’d allow me to take you out to dinner?’

I’ve spent my whole life afflicted with a psychiatric condition that surfaces once a year: Obsessive Christmas Disorder. I get as excited as I was aged five, spend far too much and decorate the house so extravagantly that it has been suggested that if I threw in a couple of elves, I could charge people to bring their kids. But for the first time ever, Christmas week feels damp and lacking in sparkle. It’s partly because, despite the prospect of a date with Daniel just after Christmas, there is a string of niggly difficulties to sort out before I can lock up the office for the festive season – including the discovery that, for the first time ever, Diggles have been late paying. It’s nothing to worry about – a glitch in the new financial system installed after their acquisition of another business – but a pain nonetheless.

My meeting with Egor, four days before Christmas, isn’t exactly full of festive frivolity either. ‘I’ve done the accounts to the end of November,’ he tells me, ‘and we need to have a look at some of the new work you’ve taken on recently.’

Until the moment when he pushes his specs up his nose and curls his lip into a frown, I’m convinced he’s going to congratulate me on the increase in new business. ‘The thing is, some of it doesn’t appear as profitable as you thought.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask defensively, toying with the idea of eating one of the mince pies Priya left for us.

‘Well, the work involved a lot of extra cost – the materials for the marketing collateral, for example, plus the extra staff member. You’re only just covering that – which is why your overdraft’s creeping up.’

‘That’s a temporary measure,’ I tell him. Egor’s such an old woman sometimes. ‘There are payments due that’ll sort that out.’

‘Okay. But haven’t you agreed to pay the staff two days before Christmas instead of on the normal date? That will take you right to your overdraft limit.’

‘Yes, I know. But we’re about to get a massive payment from Diggles which will cover
everything
. There’s really no need to worry.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Any day – they’re a bit late, that’s all,’ I reassure him. ‘God, don’t look so worried! They’re the most reliable business in the world – they’ve just had some teething troubles since their merger, that’s all.’

‘Okay,’ he replies. ‘Well, that sounds fine. At least in the short-term. But you do have a longer-term issue about properly costing out these jobs before you take them on.’

He sees me glowering at him.

‘Just a tip,’ he grins nervously.

I sigh. ‘No, you’re right. It’s a good point – consider it taken.’

‘Very well,’ he says, shuffling his papers. ‘So we’ve just got the VAT bill and the PAYE to discuss now. Eight grand for the VAT is due on the thirty-first of December so that’s the most pressing one. If you’re certain this money’s coming from Diggles, I can speak to the Inland Revenue and tell them the cheque’s on its way. We’ll get an extension by a couple of days. And that payment will cover the PAYE bill too?’

‘Absolutely,’ I tell him.

‘Good. Now, is there anything else?’ he muses.

‘Mince pie?’ I say, holding up the plate.

‘Ooh,’ he grins. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

The festive season is the quietest I’ve ever known. I spend Christmas Day at Mum’s house, where she has a tree that appears to have been shipped in from Yosemite and insists on dragging me to Francine and Jon’s – her neighbours – for the most competitive game of Trivial Pursuit I’ve ever played. If you imagined Francine was Julius Caesar and Mum was Brutus, that wouldn’t even hint at both women’s determination to win. ‘Well, that is typical,’ huffs Mum as we walk back to her place after our narrow defeat. ‘We get bombarded with questions about particle physics. They only had to name the dog in
EastEnders
.’

Even New Year’s Eve is a subdued one round at Jess’s place, where I’m at least pleased to see things are back on track with Adam. The sparkle in their eyes as they kiss at midnight is about as life-affirming as it gets these days.

I return to the office in the New Year with an elevated sense of new beginnings. I’m one million per cent fitter than I was this time last year, and my business has grown – albeit not as much as I’d have liked. And while I don’t want my forthcoming date with Daniel to assume an overblown importance, I can’t help hoping that might mark a new chapter in my life too.

Going out with someone who isn’t Tom, isn’t Oliver, and isn’t
anything
to do with the running club is exactly what I need. Daniel couldn’t have entered my world at a more perfect moment. I know little about him, but he is clearly dependable, nice and, despite being absolutely loaded, determinedly unflashy.

The date is in the first week of January at Chilli Banana, a pleasant but by no means pricey Thai restaurant on Lark Lane. I really enjoy myself. I love the absence of coy come-ons – unlike when I’m with Oliver. I love the fact that he’s single – unlike Tom. Our conversation is easy, fluid,
uncomplicated
. How I relish that word.

‘I think I’ve ordered too much rice,’ says Daniel when a waitress squeezes an enormous bowl onto the table.

‘Are we supposed to wash up in that dish after the meal?’ I splutter.

He laughs. ‘Maybe they’ll give us a doggy bag.’

‘You’re not seriously going to walk home with a bagful of rice under your arm?’ I giggle.

The night progresses like this; engaging chat, frequent laughter. I get a strong sense that Daniel likes me. He laughs when my jokes aren’t particularly funny, he looks enthused when my anecdotes aren’t the most enthralling. At the end of the evening, I step out of the restaurant with a pleasant buzz from a glass and a half of wine and go to hail a taxi. He beats me to it.

As he opens the door for me, he looks at me with hungry eyes.

‘I really enjoyed tonight, Abby.’

‘Me too.’ I become aware that he’s thinking about kissing me and I feel slightly panicky. My heart is pounding as he moves towards me, but at the last minute, he changes his mind and kisses me on the cheek.

His lips are thin but soft, and I can feel a pleasant prickle of stubble lingering after he moves away. ‘Can I phone you?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I reply, pleased that he asked. ‘Goodnight then. See you . . . soon?’

‘Definitely,’ he grins.

As I get into the taxi, I lean back and analyse my thoughts. I raise my hand to my cheek where he kissed me and wonder if this could be the start of something. Daniel’s dependable, amiable and solid – the sort of guy you’d absolutely want to have a relationship with.