Girl on the Run Read online

  Also by Jane Costello

  Bridesmaids

  The Nearly-Weds

  My Single Friend

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Jane Costello, 2011

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Jane Costello to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-84739-626-6

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-270-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX

  This book is dedicated to my friend Debbie Johnson

  Thanks for everything, Debbie . . .

  I’m sure you know why

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  I can never say thank you enough to the fantastic people who’ve worked behind the scenes on my books and played such a huge part in their success.

  My agent Darley Anderson’s wisdom and support remain as invaluable today as when we first met – and for that I’m grateful to both him and his team, especially Maddie Buston and Kasia Thompson.

  My friends at Simon & Schuster have, as ever, been an utter joy to work with, and I’d like to say a special thanks to Suzanne Baboneau and Libby Yevtushenko for the enthusiasm and tender loving care they continue to lavish on my books. I’m so grateful to you both.

  I needed some technical guidance on aspects of Girl on the Run and owe a great deal to Phil Wolstenholme (a.k.a. Dad) for helping to shape my heroine Abby’s business affairs, as well as Richard Price for his knowledge of multiple sclerosis.

  During the writing of Girl on the Run a series of events took place in my life that underlined several important truths for me, the greatest of which was the value of family and friends.

  My parents have shown more love and support than I ever could have asked for and I’d like to thank both them and my children, Otis and Lucas, who grow simply more gorgeous by the day.

  I have been lucky enough in the last year and a bit to be surrounded by friends – mainly women – with endless supplies of loyalty, patience, strength and good humour. In all sincerity, I don’t know what I’d have done without them.

  For that reason, I’d like to extend a heartfelt thanks to Alison Bellamy, Emma Blackman, Debbie Johnson, Nina Owens, Rachael Tinniswood, Rachael Bampton-Smith, Cath O’Grady, Madeleine Little, members of the Friday Night Book Club and the scores of others with whom I’ve talked, laughed and shared a glass or two (ahem) of wine. You’re all amazing – and I’ll never forget it.

  Chapter 1

  I live in fear of a four-letter word. One that pings through my brain almost constantly, teasing and tormenting me with the fact that, sooner or later, it’ll trip me up.

  The word? Late. As in, I’m going to be. Often catastrophically.

  Okay, so the consequences have yet to be catastrophic, but it’s become inevitable, since lateness and I flirt with each other with scandalous frequency these days.

  In the meantime, I stumble to presentations in the nick of time, sticky-browed and apologetic, realising as my cheeks flame to the shade of a well-hung salami that I’ve forgotten something. Such as a memory stick, or hand-outs, or . . . knickers.

  Oh God, my knickers. Fortunately, I realised my error midway down the path this morning and raced to the house to start again.

  But on days like this, when impossible scheduling means I drive to my next appointment as if on the run from the law, I can’t help but despair.

  The frantic, twenty-minute journey has mirrored my day as a whole – a multi-tasking hell in which I’ve combined driving with several other feats: draining my phone’s battery on approximately seven calls, applying concealer to my bruised under-eyes and eating lunch. I use the word in its loosest sense, given that my anaemic fries and limp burger merely teeter on the verge of being edible.

  I take a final bite and discard the burger’s remains on the passenger seat as I glance at the clock and register that it’s 3.45 p.m. In an attempt to distract myself from my wild palpitations, I instead focus on my presentation. I’ve memorised the first three lines, as instructed on the public-speaking course I did last year.

  ‘Ladies and GENTLEMEN.’ I grip my steering-wheel and smile demonically – the tutor insisted anything less enthusiastic would give off the wrong vibes. ‘A VERY good morning to you ALL.’

  It’s afternoon.

  Brilliant start, Abby. Bloody co
nvincing entrepreneur you are.

  It’s a term at which I still cringe. As if I think someone like me – aged twenty-eight and still fumbling through the business world a year and a half after starting out – is in the same category as Richard Branson.

  I may own my own company; I may possess business cards with the words Managing Director on them, but I doubt I’m fooling anyone. I couldn’t be a less convincing tycoon if my name was Miss Piggy.

  ‘I’M Abigail Rogers and TODAY I’m going to tell YOU about what River Web Design can do for YOU.’

  That’s got to be too many vocal inflections. I know the tutor said to emphasise three words a paragraph, but I sound like Braveheart.

  I often wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable with the idea of being the boss. When I joined a big firm straight out of college, it wasn’t something to which I’d aspired. And I enjoyed my last job, so I can’t say I was driven to do this by a swine of a manager or vile clients who didn’t appreciate me.

  On the contrary, it was hearing that I was good at what I did – and one too many episodes of The Apprentice – that planted the grain of an idea which eventually made me take the plunge. I’ll only feel qualified to say whether it was the right decision in another year’s time. Or ten.

  ‘River Web Design is a small but HIGHLY PROFESSIONAL team of four. We pride ourselves on our CREATIVITY’ (strategically-placed pause), ‘our DILIGENCE’ (ditto) ‘and our ability to understand what clients and consumers REALLY WANT.’

  Cue another demented grin.

  I spend a ridiculous amount of time in my car these days; a fact which only mildly justifies the obscene amount of money I paid an insurance company to renew my policy yesterday.

  I’ve been particularly unlucky on the automotive front in the last year; one scrape against a BMW while negotiating a supermarket place and another at a mini-roundabout with an articulated lorry has left me with the sort of premium they charge to insure a Lear Jet.

  The lights change and I glance at my map, cursing the fact that I left my sat-nav in the office. I slow down and peer at a sign on the left, my heart flipping as a driver toots his horn.

  ‘Shit!’ I’ve taken a wrong turn.

  I slam my foot on the accelerator, scanning my surroundings for somewhere to turn. With a convoy of exasperated drivers behind, I dart along a narrow road between two buildings and find myself in a small, tightly packed car park. I whisk round the steering wheel to begin a three-point turn.

  Glancing at the clock, I pause momentarily to stuff a handful of fries in my mouth and wash them down with Coke. I slam the drink into the holder, throw the car into reverse and hit the pedal as I swallow my food and begin again.

  ‘Good AFTERNOON, ladies and gentlemen, and WELCO—’

  The thud reverberates through my car as it stops suddenly, throwing me forward with a whiplash-inducing jolt. Panic races through my veins and I look down to see Coke glugging over the handbrake. Breathless and shaking, I turn to look out of the rear window.

  But I can’t see anything except the concrete wall of the council building at least ten feet away. I must’ve hit a bollard. Oh, thank God – I’ve only hit a bollard!

  I’m trembling when I prise open my car door. Then I see it.

  It takes a second to register the hand with its immobile fingers, curled lifelessly next to my tyre. A gasp escapes from my lips and I find it difficult to breathe.

  I don’t believe it. Have I killed someone? Have I actually gone and killed someone?

  Chapter 2

  Oh. My. God.

  I leap from the car and race round to the back as my heart, stomach and other vital organs go into meltdown. My victim is sprawled on his back, his helmet several feet away. The motorcycle lies on his muscular thighs, its dark blue paint glistening in the early July sunshine.

  I bend to touch his hand and find it still warm. It’s a beautiful hand, big and strong, with tanned skin, scuffed around the knuckle. It strikes me how young it is. How, because of me, this hand won’t grow old and arthritic as it rightfully should.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whimper. ‘So very, very sorry.’ My eyes are heavy with tears as I attempt to think straight. I stand and scan the car park, but nobody’s around, only the sound of traffic tearing through the adjacent street. I sprint to my open door and reach for my handbag, in which I frantically locate my mobile. I hit 999 and press Call . . . when the battery dies.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I start attempting the controlled pants my best friend Jess did at her antenatal classes. They are as effective at reducing my anxiety as a high-voltage defibrillator.

  I run to the back of the car, hoping against hope that the man I flattened with my back wheels will be sitting up, alive and well.

  He isn’t.

  I pick up his wrist, desperate to feel a flicker of life, but I can’t find a pulse. There’s nothing.

  ‘HEEEELLLLPP!’ I cry, my voice echoing round the car park before I realise that not a soul is going to come to my aid.

  I hitch up my skirt and fall to my knees to examine him: he’s muscular and broad, with the body of an athlete.

  Come on, Abby. There’s only one thing for it. You’ve got to do CPR.

  YES!

  Except I don’t know CPR.

  I decide to give it a go anyway and attempt to recall every scrap of emergency First Aid knowledge I have. It amounts to a Girl Guide badge taken in 1989 and last week’s Holby City.

  Think!

  Do I do the kiss of life first or those compression things with the heels of my hands? I think it’s the former. But I need to get him ready for the latter anyway. With fumbling hands I unzip his jacket to reveal a powerful chest, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

  I check his mouth for foreign objects. I’m sure I read that somewhere, though God knows what it is I’m looking for. Some loose change perhaps or an odd sock? Maybe one of those weapons of mass destruction that never turned up . . .

  Why am I thinking these things?!

  I tip back his head and take a deep breath. Okay. This is it. My mouth moves towards his, my heart thrashing round my ribcage. Finally, I take a gulp of air, close my eyes . . and sink my lips onto his.

  At the exact moment that I realise I’ve made an error – I’m meant to have closed his nose – I realise something else. His lips don’t feel anything like those of someone who is unconscious. And certainly not dead.

  It takes a second to work out why – and when I do, I get the shock of my life. His lips are moving. His lips are . . . oh my God, we’re kissing!

  I jolt back and glare at him with ping-pong eyes.

  He’s in his early thirties, absurdly handsome with a tanned, defined jaw and sumptuous lips. His hair is dark, a shade lighter than black, and cropped to disguise the slightest curl.

  He bites his lip slowly, as if tasting me, and his eyes flutter open. They’re green. Or brown. No, both – kind of forest-coloured. More importantly, they’re the eyes of someone very much alive.

  I watch in astonishment as he blinks and wriggles his jaw from side to side, as if awakening from a deep sleep. He looks at me. And I laugh. I laugh uncontrollably at the sheer joy that I haven’t added manslaughter to my list of achievements today.

  ‘Oh, thank You, God. Thank You!’ I can’t restrain myself. ‘And thank You again!’

  Then I look down and register the stranger’s expression – and realise I have some explaining to do.

  ‘Do you always reverse your car at forty miles per hour?’

  His solid thighs bear the weight of his body as he sits on his haunches, examining his bike. There’s only one thing I know for certain about motorbikes, and that’s that I can’t stand them. But it looks expensive. At least it did. It now looks as if it’s been trampled on by a herd of rhinos.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to retain my cool, ‘but it was nothing like forty miles an hour.’

  He turns and glowers. He’s physically imposing, with arms that flex as he yank
s a piece of bodywork.

  ‘It was fast enough to nearly kill me,’ he snaps.

  ‘Oh, let’s not exaggerate.’ I smile nervously, attempting to lighten the mood.

  ‘Exaggerate?’ he repeats, making it clear that my attempt was far from successful. ‘I don’t need to exaggerate. You knocked me out cold.’

  Despite the circumstances, there’s something about the way he says it that’s mesmerising – he has the sort of voice that floats across a room and wraps you up. Between that and his looks, I can only conclude that this guy fancies himself rotten.

  ‘This is going to cost a lot to fix,’ he says next. ‘I hope you’re insured.’

  My heart plunges at the mention of insurance, bringing with it a tidal wave of other issues such as my cataclysmic premiums and non-existent no claims.

  ‘Of course,’ I say in my best non-committal tone – the one I’ve taken years to master. ‘Though maybe . . .’ I’m about to offer to cough up and not even consult my insurance company, when I pause, scolding myself for almost falling into such an obvious trap.

  I read an article recently reinforcing the importance of never admitting liability in the heat of the moment, no matter how tempted you are to start apologising. It struck me at the time that this is possibly where I’ve been going wrong – as well as causing all the crashes in the first place, of course, but we won’t dwell on that.

  ‘Did you say something?’ he asks, fiddling with another knob on his bike. He looks up with brooding eyes.

  I smile sweetly. ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ He stands and brushes his dusty palms against his thighs. ‘Well, if we could exchange details, I can speak to my insurance company as soon as possible.’

  ‘O-kay,’ I say cagily. ‘You’re assuming I’m responsible then?’

  His expression darkens again. ‘Of course you’re responsible.’

  ‘Well,’ I reply, sucking my teeth, ‘I think it’s up to the insurance companies to decide that.’

  This doesn’t go down well.

  ‘Let me get this straight: I’m minding my own business, wheeling my bike through a car park, and the next thing I know, the back end of a Citroen C4 is hurtling towards me—’

  ‘If I could explain . . .’