Girl on the Run Page 13

  ‘Really?’ With his back to the group he hesitantly picks up my arm, scrutinising the injury I dare not reveal happened six years ago. The touch of his fingers on my wrist sends shockwaves up my arm, despite being mildly anaesthetised by the wine. ‘Sounds nasty. Are you fully recovered?’

  He suddenly looks all concerned and doctor-like and even sweeter than usual and . . . I don’t think I’ve ever found someone so attractive in my life.

  ‘I . . . I think so,’ I manage to respond. ‘Why? Do you have any recommendations about how I should look after it, long term?’

  He smiles shyly. ‘Just go easy on the tennis court.’ Slowly, he pulls away and turns to the rest of the group, putting his hand in his pocket. ‘Anyone like another drink?’

  I look at my glass. ‘I’ll have another wine, please. Would you like me to come and help you with them?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he says, heading to the bar.

  I engage in small talk with the rest of the group while he’s away, but struggle to hide my impatience for his return. Finally, as he makes his way back, I sense someone else’s presence and when I look up, realise it’s Tom.

  ‘You can’t sit there!’ I hiss.

  ‘I thought you might want to grill me about the pitch tomorrow,’ he shrugs.

  He’s right. I really ought to grill him about the pitch tomorrow. After all, he works for the firm of architects I’ll be sitting in front of, trying to persuade them to do business with me. Whether it’s a small contract or not, it’d still be a good one to win.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I tell him, my eyes darting to Oliver as he goes to chat to Jess on the other side of the table. ‘So, what can you tell me that might help?’

  ‘Do you really call him Doctor Dishy?’

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘You said so.’

  ‘Oh.’ I get a vague sense that this might come back to haunt me when I’m sober, but the sensation is no more than a fleeting one. ‘Well, I . . . yes.’

  ‘You fancy him then?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s a very attractive man, that’s all I’ll say,’ I reply stiffly. ‘And he’s intelligent. Caring too – he must be if he’s a doctor.’

  ‘So . . . yes?’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he shrugs. ‘I’m just surprised. I never thought you’d go for someone like him.’

  I frown. ‘Look, you came over here to brief me about the pitch. Who am I up against?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he replies.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’d be unprofessional,’ he says.

  Oh. ‘So should I be worried?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen some of the websites your company has produced and I don’t think there’s any doubt about your quality.’

  I grin, satisfied.

  ‘But you’ve still got to do a good pitch.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, waving my hand and wanting to return to more pressing matters. ‘What do you mean, someone like him?’ I whisper.

  ‘I don’t mean anything,’ he replies. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong. I like Oliver. I’m just not sure I’d want to be his girlfriend.’

  ‘Well, fortunately for you,’ I say acidly, ‘I don’t think he goes for brunettes.’

  Chapter 30

  When I wake the next morning it is with a nagging feeling that something’s wrong. That something’s gone wrong. Or maybe I’ve said something wrong or done something or . . .

  Oh, shit!

  The scene is replayed again and again, becoming increasingly vivid and unpleasant, like a car crash in a public information advert.

  ‘Did you know we call you Doctor Dishy?’

  I can’t have said that. I can’t have.

  By the fifteenth replay, it’s in slow motion, my words distorted in a hideous Darth Vader-esque drawl. Falling out of bed, I scramble to the hall on my hands and knees, grabbing the phone.

  ‘Jess!’ I grunt as she picks up.

  ‘Happy Birthday.’

  ‘Tell me I didn’t tell him,’ I plead. ‘Tell me, Jess. I beg of you.’

  She is silent for a second. ‘I take it you’re talking about Oliver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the fact that you told him . . .’

  ‘Oh nooo! I did tell him. I bloody well did tell him.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, he looked pleased,’ she says.

  I lie on the floor and look up at my ceiling rose. ‘No, Jess. It isn’t.’

  Eventually, she asks: ‘Where are you, by the way?’

  I frown. ‘At home, why?’

  ‘It’s not like you not to be at the office by now.’

  I look at the clock, which says 10.16 a.m., and gasp, further destabilising my already horrific physical condition. I am violently hungover – and stupidly late. I’d intended to spend the first hour and a half of the morning going through the presentation I’m delivering to Tom’s company later, but that idea’s out of the window now.

  Instead, I race to my first appointment, with a client on the edge of the city centre.

  After I’m finished, I head to work and am two minutes away when I take a phone call from Priya demanding to know my whereabouts. She has some extremely pressing business to discuss, apparently – which would worry me from anyone but Priya, who has a tendency to summon high-level conferences regarding the state of the spider plants.

  Instead, as I enter the office, I am torpedoed on the nose by something I realise only half a second later is a party popper.

  ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Oops, sorry, Abby,’ says Priya. ‘That was a misfire.’

  When I’ve got my bearings, I realise that the office has been decorated. Actually, that doesn’t do it justice. Our broom cupboard of a workspace has been adorned with about the amount of paraphernalia required to deck out a marquee for one of Elton John’s dos. There are balloons, streamers, banners, the lot. It’s quite overwhelming. I feel a lump in my throat.

  ‘Blimey, you lot.’ My voice wobbles. ‘You didn’t need to.’

  ‘It’s all Priya’s doing,’ says Hunky Matt.

  ‘You’ve gone to so much trouble.’ I am bowled over.

  ‘Not really,’ she shrugs. ‘You know my cousin Jez works at Cost-Cuts?’

  I frown. ‘Er no, I didn’t, but—’

  ‘Well, they couldn’t shift this lot, so I got it all for one pound fifty.’

  ‘One pound fifty?’ I repeat.

  ‘We all clubbed together,’ she announces gaily.

  I rather wish she hadn’t revealed that last bit. Still, it’s the thought that counts. And the thought’s lovely. I walk to my desk and take a look at the special birthday balloon tied to the mouse on my keyboard. It is a riot of colour, adorned with garlands of curly green ribbon and takes me right back to my childhood. Then I narrow my eyes and read the words on the side. It says Happy Bar Mitzvah.

  By lunchtime, my hangover is starting to subside, even though I’ve been literally snowed under with work. On another positive note, I have two responses to my fundraising emails – one from my Aunt Steph in Australia, the other from James Ashton, the boss of a construction firm I targeted ages ago. They couldn’t be more different in style.

  Hey, Abby

  Delighted to help with your cause. Totally impressed with your running – what a chip off the old block. Put me down for a hundred dollars and drop me a note when you’ve crossed the finish line. Hey, that offer to visit me Down Under is always here, you know. Our pad isn’t luxurious, but at least we’ve got sunshine!

  Aunt Steph,

  xxxx

  James Ashton’s is rather more formal.

  Dear Abby

  Fantastic to hear about what you’re doing to raise money for MS. My cousin was diagnosed with the disease six years ago so I know how desperate the need for research is. Would love to have a chat about how we can help. Mad busy at the moment, but could perhaps have a coffee in Nov
ember. Give my PA Michelle a ring.

  James

  Well, thank God. Since I decided to send out my standard fundraising email to a ton of extra contacts, I’ve had a few genuinely promising responses. Okay, the donations so far have come in a trickle, not the flood I was hoping for, but at least that’s something. The email from James Ashton, however, makes me feel particularly excited.

  Because while there’s been a fair amount of interest from individuals, what I’m still missing is a big company to sponsor me. A firm that will give a massive boost to my total so far. James Ashton’s company could do it, especially if he’s got a personal reason to support the cause. What a bugger he can’t see me for so long though.

  I pick up the phone and get through to his PA, who offers me an appointment in early December.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything sooner?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t need to be lunch – twenty minutes or so would do. I can be very quick.’

  ‘Funnily enough, his eleven-thirty today has just cancelled – he was supposed to be meeting him on site. So if you can make it then . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I say before she can finish her sentence. ‘I’ll be there.’

  As I put the phone down I briefly wonder if I’ve been hasty. Between my late start and this, I still haven’t gone through my presentation to Caro & Co. – Tom’s company. I shake the thought from my head. I’ve conducted so many pitches identical to the one I’ll be doing for them, I could do it in my sleep. It’s not something I’d usually do, of course – but I’m certain I’ll get away with it. And the opportunity with James Ashton, on the other hand, is too good to miss.

  Chapter 31

  I’ve never frequented the Garden of Eat’n café before and hell would have to experience a cataclysmic cold spell before I was dragged back.

  I perch on a sticky chair, sipping tea the shade of a urine sample, as sour-smelling grease permeates the air so thickly that even breathing is difficult. The menu consists of a limited selection of trotter-laden meat products, deep fried in what I suspect is the same fat that was installed in its pan when they first fitted the kitchen.

  My fellow diners and I are regularly assaulted by a lardy cloud of black smoke billowing ominously from a set of double doors. This is accompanied by a symphony of four-letter words whose source – a large and uncommonly grubby chef – emerges every couple of minutes with his culinary delights, most of which are swimming in so much oil they almost qualify as soup.

  If other customers are unimpressed, they don’t show it. The place is doing a roaring trade courtesy of the building site next door – although the waitress’s inexperience in silver service is apparent each time she chucks down a plate and slaps a customer round the head if they dare ask for ketchup.

  James Ashton arrives twenty minutes late wearing a suit and hard-hat and instructs Chantelle – the waitress – to bring ‘his usual’.

  Five minutes later, just as the meeting has taken a turn for the better – and he agrees to cough up a thousand pounds – it immediately takes a turn for the worse.

  I can almost see James’s large plate of deep-fried heart attack landing squarely in my lap before Chantelle’s well-practised chuck goes awry. I can see the food sliding off the dish in an elaborate waterfall of gristle – and feel the hot, putrid oil seeping into the material of my Karen Millen skirt.

  In the split second before it happens I can see it all – but there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. And when Chantelle conjures up a mouldy dishcloth which she then uses to scrub strenuously at my skirt in an attempt to make amends, I also know that – with twenty minutes before I’m due at Caro & Co. – I need to think quick.

  ‘Abby Rogers, to see David Caro,’ I tell the receptionist. She’s in her late fifties, with hair the colour of Cherryade and lipstick like wet Dulux.

  ‘For the website presentation?’ she smiles, then she scrunches up her nose. ‘Oooh, what’s that funny smell?’

  I reposition my bag over my skirt. ‘No idea,’ I reply.

  Okay, so the quick-thinking failed. I raced over here, my mind whirring with possible solutions to the fact that the entire front of my skirt is now soaked with foul-smelling sausage grease, but came up with precisely none. At least none that seemed satisfactory. Instead, I’m having to shuffle round gripping my bag firmly in front of the offending patch – and hoping that the team of people to whom I’m about to present all have blocked noses.

  ‘Must be the drains again – we’ll have to get that checked out, Di,’ says the receptionist, turning to her neighbour. ‘Have you brought any equipment?’ she asks me.

  ‘My presentation’s on a memory stick.’

  She nods uneasily. ‘Hmmm. That’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘Was I supposed to bring my own laptop? I was told you’d have one set up.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Sheila said that, did she? Born optimist, she is.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The presentation suite can be unpredictable, that’s all. Still, it’s gone okay for the two companies earlier. So, fingers crossed!’

  She leads me across an open-plan room until we arrive at a door where I’m introduced to the company’s Chief Executive. David Caro is silver-haired and sharp-suited; the sort of bloke you suspect runs five miles every morning and drinks a lot of smoothies, despite being close to retirement.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he smiles, shaking my hand with a grip that could throttle a pterodactyl.

  Then his expression changes, his nose twitching like that woman in Bewitched before she’d use a spell to do all her housework. He eyes me with a glimmer of suspicion, clearly trying to work out if the whiff of burned meat is coming from me. I smile brazenly and straighten my spine. He smiles back, temporarily convinced that it couldn’t possibly be moi.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my colleagues who’ll be on the panel today,’ continues David Caro. ‘The first is Jim Broadhurst, Head of Marketing.’

  I shake the hand of a young, austere man with thinning hair and a look of Harry Potter, minus the glasses. ‘Pleased to meet you. And this is Dusty, my guide dog,’ he says.

  I look down and focus on a pale-haired Labrador, only then realising that Jim Broadhurst is blind.

  ‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ I say, stooping to stroke the dog. As my hand is inches from Dusty’s head, however, I detect a subtle shift in his demeanour. The Labrador leaps at me excitedly, as if I’m the most thrilling thing to have happened to him all day.

  Jim Broadhurst pulls him back, alarmed. ‘Goodness. Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘He’s very young – just trained. Still, he’s not normally like this.’

  David Caro coughs, clearly wanting to get started. ‘I also thought it was a good idea to bring in one of our architects . . .’ I spin round. ‘This is—’

  ‘Tom Bronte,’ I finish for him, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. I didn’t know he was going to be here. While I’ve done hundreds of these presentations, doing it in front of someone I know socially makes me feel horribly self-conscious.

  David looks perplexed.

  ‘Abby and I know each other,’ Tom explains. He looks unbelievably glamorous – like a Ralph Lauren model. Everything else in the room looks grey in comparison. I reposition my bag so it’s pressed firmly over the oily debris on my skirt and take a step away.

  ‘Yes, I think you said,’ says David Caro. ‘It was you who recommended River, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not recommended exactly,’ Tom says quickly. ‘I’m not familiar with Abby’s work, though obviously, I’m sure she’ll be very competent.’

  Thanks a bunch. I’d have appreciated a rather more convincing endorsement.

  I’m invited to take a seat as the others follow suit, settling down for my fifteen-minute presentation. At least, the humans settle down.

  Dusty does quite the opposite. As he stands panting frantically next to his owner on the other side of the table, the agitation my presence appears to have provoked is immediately appar
ent. He whimpers and whines, twitches and tugs, as Jim Broadhurst shakes his head in bewilderment.

  ‘Before we begin,’ he says, attempting to ignore the fact that his dog looks as if he’s swallowed several tabs of Ecstasy, ‘can I clarify something on your submission that I assume is a mistake?’

  I stiffen, but attempt to smile as I take out my memory stick. I’ve used that document as the basis for God knows how many proposals, and it’s as perfect as it gets. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s the cost you specified.’

  Oh, here we go. We haven’t even started and he’s already trying to drive down my price.

  ‘You’ve stated here that you’d charge us a thousand pounds per month.’ He pulls Dusty back into a sit.

  ‘Yes.’

  He stares in my direction as Dusty whines again. ‘But this is a three-thousand-pound-a-month contract. That’s what we specified in the tender document.’

  I blink. Twice. And suddenly my throat feels as though a boa constrictor is practising abdominal exercises around it.

  ‘Three . . . thousand,’ I gurgle, desperately trying to sound as though this is not a surprise. That of course I knew this was a three-thousand-pound contract! Of course I’d read the tender document properly! Of course I knew I was pitching for a contract that wouldn’t so much boost my turnover but shove a rocket so far up its backside that by next Wednesday it’d be positively stratospheric.

  I suddenly feel rather strange. And I’m not the only one. Dusty is looking increasingly demented, as if simply being in this room is a source of physical torment to him.

  ‘Three thousand,’ repeats Jim Broadhurst, ignoring the dog’s rabid whining. ‘I take it that’s what you meant?’

  I look at Tom and he lowers his eyes.

  I pull myself together. ‘Of course. Forgive me. That’s not a very good start, is it?’ I laugh lightly.

  With my pulse charging like a herd of wildebeest, I plug my memory stick in the company’s laptop and wait for it to load. Instead, it makes a noise that starts softly and builds to a crescendo of creaks and clangs, the sort of sound you’d expect if Thomas the Tank Engine was being decapitated.