Girl on the Run Page 19

  I bite my lip in frustration, nearly drawing blood.

  ‘And green beans. Hmmm. And julienne of carrots. Delicious.’

  Right. Okay. Let’s be positive about this. I can use the opportunity to try out the third element of ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’.

  ‘Have you read any good books lately?’ I ask. Okay, so this isn’t exactly the intelligent and witty banter I might’ve hoped for, but as Gretchen F. Cassidy argues, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. My eye-contact couldn’t be any more strenuous if I had a magnifying glass.

  As he turns back, I make a concerted effort to glance from one shoulder to the other, ever-conscious that the wider the triangle, the more impact it’ll have.

  ‘I don’t really get time for books,’ he replies.

  ‘Really?’ I mumble, shifting my look again.

  ‘Too busy saving lives.’

  Sod ‘The Triangle of Flirtation’: I’m gazing into his mouth now without bloody well being able to help it. The corners of his mouth turn up in a blatantly provocative smile.

  This is working! Gretchen F. Whateverhernameis is a genius!

  It strikes me that I still need to step this up though. If I don’t get moving, the starters will arrive and these movements are challenging enough without simultaneously eating soup.

  I look into his right eye, then left, then his right shoulderblade, then left, then . . .

  ‘Abby, may I ask you something?’ Oliver says, lowering his voice. Oh, God, I may just melt!

  He leans in and looks into my eyes, sending my pulse into overdrive.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s quite a personal question.’

  I take a sip of champagne. ‘My favourite kind,’ I reply huskily.

  ‘I’ve never noticed it before, but I think you need to perhaps see a doctor.’

  I smile at the come-on. ‘You perhaps?’ I say breathily, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

  He frowns and sits back in his chair. ‘No, not a cardiologist,’ he says, looking bewildered. I take a slug of champagne and try to concentrate on what he’s saying as the bubbles burst on my tongue. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Nystagmus can be entirely harmless.’

  ‘Nystagmus?’

  ‘Involuntary, darting eye movements.’

  Liquid catches the back of my throat and I start spluttering.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he says hastily. ‘It’s very common for affected people not to know it’s happening – and I’m sure it’ll be benign, it usually is. Tell me, are you on any medication?’

  Chapter 44

  The food is a triumph. The wine is a triumph. The swing band is a triumph. The only thing that isn’t a triumph is my seduction of Doctor Dishy, and the blame for that lies firmly at the door of Gretchen F. Cassidy – whose F in my vocabulary now stands for something with several stars.

  ‘Abby, would you like to introduce the auction now?’ asks Missy, tapping me on the shoulder. I excuse myself from our table – which has become one of the rowdiest in the place courtesy of Mau’s repertoire of dirty jokes – and head to the podium.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces Ronny, ‘would you please give a warm welcome to the organiser of tonight’s event, Ms Abigail Rogers.’

  My throat dries as I approach the lectern and wait for the applause to die down.

  ‘Good evening, everyone.’ I’m painfully aware, not just of everyone in the room looking at me – but of Oliver looking at me. Probably to see if he can diagnose any more unusual medical conditions, but looking at me all the same.

  ‘I’ll be brief, but I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s helped us tonight: to Pink Sky florists, the Joel Jones Swing band, Knowsley Hall, Punch stationers, Corinne Scott wine distributors and, most of all, my small but perfectly formed team – Heidi, Priya and Matt – who’ve worked so hard on putting tonight together.’

  I glance up and take a gulp of air.

  ‘We’re raising money for multiple sclerosis tonight, and for those who don’t know much about the disease, I’d urge you to Google it and read up about it. MS is the foremost disabling neurological disease in the United Kingdom, affecting eighty-five thousand young people in this country alone. These are usually people who previously seemed perfectly healthy, but who are now dealing with symptoms that can be as devastating as they are unpredictable, ranging from simple tingling, to paralysis and loss of cognitive function.’

  I pause and look at Heidi, feeling my stomach clench. I’m uncomfortable saying this in front of her, even though she’s read my speech and has assured me she thinks it’s fine. But there’s no other way to make people aware of why we’re doing what we’re doing.

  ‘The really awful thing is that there’s no cure. The disease has been described as the polio of the twenty-first century: an illness against which we still have no vaccine and no unequivocal idea of the cause.

  ‘Research is desperately needed. And that’s where you come in tonight: to help raise money for exactly that. I’m doing my bit – as most of you probably know – by running a half-marathon at the start of next year. And for those of you who also know about my phobia towards any form of exercise, then you’ll be aware how much I’m relishing that.’

  I look up and my eyes land involuntarily on Tom. His expression instantly tells me that my speech is going okay. The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile designed to reassure me. But it has the opposite effect – making my legs go to jelly and my throat stick.

  ‘Um . . . that’s it,’ I say hastily. ‘Except . . . well, this is a tremendously important cause – and I really hope you’ll help. Thank you very much.’

  The audience starts clapping and I’m about to step down from the podium, when I notice Heidi stand. She walks towards me, a vision of confidence and glamour as her magnificent gown swishes through the tables.

  ‘Wait,’ she mouths, before joining me at the lectern. I move aside and let her step forward, her fingers trembling as she clears her throat.

  ‘I couldn’t allow tonight to pass without getting up to say a few words.’ Her voice is quietly captivating and the audience is immediately mesmerised. ‘I know the last thing you all want is to listen to a load of speeches, so I’ll keep mine even shorter than Abby’s.’

  She swallows as she works out what to say next.

  ‘Abby – my amazing boss – decided to embark on this fundraising mission a few months ago after I came into the office one day and announced . . .’ her voice breaks, ‘announced that I . . . have been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.’

  When she pauses, the room is so silent you can’t even hear the clink of glass. There are just 400 faces, enthralled.

  ‘You’d never guess, would you?’ she smiles softly. ‘Most of the time, I look and feel, for the moment at least, like I always did. Like everyone else. But what doctors have discovered is that I have a lesion on my brain which is consistent with demyelination. I won’t bore you with the medical details, but what it means is that my life suddenly got very unpredictable.

  ‘I could be one of the lucky ones who only have the odd episode of tingling or numbness. I could be one of the not-so-fortunate ones who end up in a wheelchair, requiring round-the-clock care. And that – the not knowing – is one of the things that is most difficult to handle.’

  She pauses and looks up, checking that everyone’s listening. It wasn’t a check she needed to make.

  ‘It’s required a shift in mindset – a focus solely on the here and now – which I haven’t always been very good at. I’m ambitious by nature and I’ve spent much of my life planning. Don’t we all? We plan careers, we plan families, we plan our lives. Only now I can’t do that. Because I simply don’t know what’s round the corner.’

  Her voice falters and I think for a second that she’s going to break down. I step forward and hold her hand. She squeezes it back and smiles.

  ‘But someone made me realise that I can’t – and won’t – spend my life wallo
wing. Not when I’ve got people prepared to go to such lengths to help.’

  She turns to me again and suppresses a smile. ‘Abigail Rogers was one of the most unfit, exercise-averse people I knew. Her idea of a healthy breakfast was only having one blueberry muffin instead of two.’

  The audience laughs. ‘Well, now she’s changing the habit of a lifetime and running a half-marathon – and she’s doing it to help me and the thousands of people like me. Or far worse off than me. So . . . I’d like to say publicly how very grateful I am for that.’

  As she turns to look at me, I notice tears in the reddened rims of her eyes. Her lip quivers and emotion gathers in my chest. Despite my determination to keep it together, I well up instantly.

  ‘Abby, I thank you,’ she whispers boldly into the microphone. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

  She turns to hug me as the audience erupts. As applause rings in my ears, I hold her tight and the tiny pools in my eyes spill down my cheeks.

  ‘Any time, Heidi,’ I say through the strands of her hair.

  Chapter 45

  I’d hoped the auction would be a success, but after Heidi’s speech, it’s beyond our wildest dreams. The auctioneer – a local radio presenter called Mickey Price – is an utter professional. I’d previously considered him to be as entertaining as a bout of herpes, but after twenty minutes of enthusiastic bidding, decide I adore the man.

  Every auction item goes for more than its market value – the flights to Barcelona; the crystal vase; the dinner for two; the signed football shirts; the spa weekend. That’s before we get to the pièce de résistance: the diamond necklace. There’s a reserve price of £1,800, but it’s so exquisite, I’m certain it’ll be exceeded in seconds.

  ‘We’ve raised a lot of money so far,’ Mickey says into the microphone. People are still idly tucking into the cheese board but he has their attention. ‘Now this is a fab one: a necklace from Smith and Moon.’

  Fab? For God’s sake, he needs to tell them more than that! This is worth two and a half grand. It’s almost like the one Penelope Cruz wore to the Oscars. It’s made of gorgeous marcasite diamonds and has been featured in tons of glossy magazines. Every woman in the room should be desperate to get her hands on it.

  ‘So, the bidding price is . . . let’s see . . . a hundred and eighty pounds.’

  My jaw nearly hits the floor. I glance anxiously at Smith & Moon’s table, where their Managing Director Gemma Crosthorpe looks as if she’s swallowed her cheese-knife.

  ‘Eighteen hundred pounds,’ I hiss to Mickey. ‘Eighteen hundred!’ But I’m too far away – and, anyway, the room is now fizzing with excitement that this item is so far within people’s budget.

  ‘Right: a hundred and eighty quid. Bargain!’ grins Mickey as I fantasise about smacking him in the mouth. ‘Who’s going to kick off the bidding?’

  A sea of hands shoots up and I’m forced to leap from my seat and stumble across the floor, gesticulating as if I’m trying to start off a Mexican wave.

  ‘STOP!’

  He glares at me. ‘Sorry about this,’ I mumble to the bewildered audience as I fight my mortification. I hobble up the stage steps and grab him by the arm. ‘The reserve,’ I whisper through gritted teeth, ‘is eighteen hundred pounds.’

  He blinks. ‘What?’

  ‘Eighteen hundred. Not a hundred and eighty. Eighteen hundred.’

  He stares at me. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh buggery bollocks.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh blimey-o’reilly-and-his-best-friend’s-mother’s-sister.’

  I don’t even respond to that one.

  ‘There’s no way we could just go with a hundred and eighty?’ he asks.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Had a feeling you might say that. Right – leave it to me. I’m a professional.’

  With that, Mickey marches across the stage with an overblown grin.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ he beams. ‘Pretend the last five minutes never happened.’

  The audience glare at him, awaiting the punchline.

  ‘The reserve price,’ he continues, ‘is actually eighteen hundred pounds. That’s one thousand eight hundred pounds. Tsk! You didn’t really think we’d be flogging off a diamond necklace for a hundred and eighty quid, did you? Where do you think we got it? Matalan?’

  There’s a deafening silence.

  ‘It might be more than you were expecting, but, hey, it’s worth it if you ask me. I’d love one of these! It’d look fab on my poodle . . .’

  The soundtrack from The Omen rings in my head as I glower at him.

  ‘So, who’s going to kick off the bidding for this exquisite piece of jewellery? Oh, hark at me – I could get a job on QVC!’

  God help me.

  ‘One thousand eight hundred pounds, anyone? Anyone . . .?’

  Every guest in the room seems to look anywhere except at him. At their napkins, their wine glasses, their neighbours. Mickey Price’s attempt to restimulate the bidding hasn’t so much fallen flat as fallen into a coma.

  There’s no doubt that the reserve price is reasonable: it’s far less than you’d pay if you walked into the shop off the street – and the necklace is stunning. But the psychological effect of being told it was only worth one £180 – then hiking up the price to £1,800 – killed its desirability in an instant.

  The result is a stony silence that makes me want to crawl under the table to an emergency exit. But I can’t. I’ve got to sit here, watching the nightmare unfold.

  Mickey Price, a man who makes a living from spouting inane crap all day, is finally stuck for something to say. Even something inane. Or crap.

  Worse, Gemma Crosthorpe’s generosity is rewarded by attracting awkward, pity-filled looks from half of the room. Everyone clearly wishes that someone – anyone – would bid. Anyone apart from themselves.

  ‘Um . . . well. What do we do in a situation like this, I wonder?’ Mickey laughs, loosening his shirt collar.

  I glance desperately at Adam’s table, hoping that Debi might have persuaded her husband to cough up. But she’s studiously looking at the menu, determined to stay out of it.

  ‘Come on, chaps: do none of you fancy treating that special lady in your life to something like this? Or your wife, for that matter.’ He’s the only one who laughs.

  I close my eyes and pray for this to end. Now.

  I pick up my wine glass and, having stayed relatively sober for the evening, knock back a generous mouthful as an arm shoots up from the other side of the table.

  ‘Tom!’ gasps Geraldine. ‘My God, I can’t believe it!’

  Mickey pounces on him. ‘Gentleman on table fifteen: one thousand eight hundred pounds,’ he says triumphantly. ‘Well done, sir! You won’t regret it.’

  Tom looks at me. ‘I think I might,’ he mouths. He clearly loves Geraldine even more than I thought. And definitely more than she thought.

  ‘Tom, I can’t believe this,’ she giggles hysterically. ‘Oh my God, thank you!’ Then she stops and narrows her eyes, fixing a piercing gaze on him. ‘It is for me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well . . . yes,’ he replies. ‘I mean, my thinking hadn’t got that far. I just wanted to kick-start the bidding.’

  I hold my hand over my mouth.

  ‘Whooo-ooo-hoo!’ says Mickey Price. ‘What have we here – another bid!’

  A man on the other side of the room has his hand up. I think he’s on the CS Bergman table – yes, it’s their Chief Executive.

  ‘One thousand nine hundred. Thank you, sir,’ says Mickey. ‘Now, who’s going to give me two thousand?’

  Geraldine gazes hopefully at Tom, but sadly for her, he clearly feels his work is done.

  ‘Table nineteen!’ Geraldine slumps in her chair, giving up all hope. ‘Well done, madam!’

  Tomy disbelief – and joy – the bidding continues, until it gets to two thousand two hundred. It finally looks as though it’s petering out wh
en someone on a table way over on the other side of the marquee makes it two thousand three hundred.

  ‘Two thousand three hundred . . . going, going, gone! Congratulations, sir!’ says Mickey as the room erupts in applause and Geraldine tries not to look too devastated.

  ‘Let me shake the hand of our winning bidder,’ says Mickey, crossing the room.

  Quite right: whoever it is has just saved your charity-auction career.

  ‘Now, sir,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Er, Adam Darricot.’

  I scramble to my feet. Sure enough, my ears aren’t full of cotton wool. It’s Adam – Jess’s Adam. I can’t believe it.

  ‘So, is this for a special lady in your life – or your wife?’ grins Mickey, not appreciating how profoundly naff his joke was, first time around.

  ‘My wife,’ replies Adam with a reserved smile, ‘who, for the record, is special by anyone’s standards.’

  As I sink in my seat, my mind swirls with a range of emotions before settling on two main ones: guilt and frustration. Guilt because I’m starting to wonder if I’ve wildly underestimated Adam. And frustration because so, apparently, has Jess.

  Chapter 46

  ‘I owe you a beer – or ten,’ I tell him.

  Tom laughs and it strikes me how nice it is to see his face illuminated by a smile again. It also strikes me how ridiculous our recent behaviour has been. ‘Seriously, let me get these drinks, Tom.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He thrusts a note at the barman. ‘Unlike Jess’s husband, I’m not two thousand three hundred quid poorer. I just nearly was.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ says Geraldine, appearing from nowhere with a scowl on her lips. Not that I blame her.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey.’ Tom puts a sympathetic arm around her waist and kisses her on the head. ‘I just couldn’t bear to see everyone sitting there. Someone had to get the auction going.’

  ‘So you were never really going to buy me that necklace?’ she pouts.