Girl on the Run (31 page)

And if so, what harm has it done? Unlike Tom, Oliver’s single. I’m single. We are at the very least more-than-mod-erately attracted to each other. The equation should be simple.

‘Now Abby,’ he smiles. ‘I’m glad I’ve got you alone again. We haven’t had a chance to catch up properly since the other night. It’s a situation I’d like to rectify immediately.’

So for the second time this week I’m alone with Doctor Dishy. Only this time, I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.

The answer becomes clear even before Oliver looks over my shoulder and flashes his cutesy smile. He does it without thinking and I don’t know whether he thinks I can’t see, or doesn’t care.

I spin round to see what has caught his attention, as if I even needed to: the waitress. He at least has the decency to look sheepish when I turn back.

‘So the other night,’ he says, pretending it hasn’t happened. ‘The other night was wonderful, Abby. I’d like to do it again sometime.’

‘Would you?’ I say flatly.

‘Absolutely. It was fun, wasn’t it?’

I shrug. ‘I suppose so.’

‘I mean, you know I’m not in the market for a steady relationship or anything, right?’

I smile bitterly, feeling numb.

‘So, maybe we can have some more fun when we get home.’

‘Why not?’ I say blankly.

But my mind races with thoughts, of Tom, of Geraldine and of how I ever really thought Oliver was the answer. It is this exact thought running through my mind as I see his eyes flicker to the waitress again.

‘I think it’s time for bed,’ I say decisively.

He gently pats me on the hand, clearly not at all bothered about letting me go while the option of the waitress is still there. ‘Goodnight.’

I’m about to leave when he gives me a fond look, as if a thought has struck him.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘You know,’ he says thoughtfully, ‘I really
did
enjoy the other night.’

‘Good,’ I shrug.

‘And it’s weird because . . . well, I don’t usually go for girls like you.’

‘
Girls like me?
’

He pauses as if he’s trying to think of how to say something. ‘You know – curvy.’ He sits back, apparently pleased with this euphemism.

‘What?’

‘Seriously,’ he continues blithely. ‘It was a new experience.’

I’ve lost over a stone and he still thinks I’m bloody curvy?

‘Hey, don’t look so distraught,’ he laughs gently. ‘I’m paying you a compliment. Not everybody can be naturally athletic and slim. Besides, I found it kind of . . . kinky.’ His eyes twinkle as if I should be pleased.

‘Kinky?’ My tone is so glacial I can almost feel stalactites on my tonsils.

He registers my expression and shifts in his seat, as if it has dawned on him that I might not appreciate the turn the conversation has taken.

‘Kinky’s good,’ he offers weakly, then leans over to kiss me on the cheek, caressing my knee as he does so. At one time, this would have sent me mad with desire. Now I just feel like shit.

I have no proof that Oliver went off with the waitress. But you don’t need to be Jane Tennison to work out that the ‘excursion’ he signed up for this morning was to her upper thighs. I try to convince myself that I don’t care, but of course I do.

Whether my feelings have cooled for him or not, it’s still humiliating to sleep with someone, only for them to shag someone else less than forty-eight hours later.

More than anything, I am swollen with thoughts of Tom. The more I try to suppress my feelings for him, the more they engulf me. I turn up for our final run of the holiday feeling dizzy with it all.

‘Everything okay?’ asks Tom as I’m warming up. I haven’t removed my sunglasses all morning and am particularly glad of this fact now. Tom’s so close to me that I’m afraid that if he looks into my eyes they’ll immediately reveal things I’d rather keep to myself.

‘Yeah. Course,’ I smile half-heartedly.

We say nothing more than that all day, and by early evening, I’ve spent so much time trying to avoid thinking about Tom, it’s making my head hurt. When Oliver sits next to me at dinner and starts full-on flirting – stroking my hair, winking, smiling – I’m almost grateful.

The group is more riotous than on previous nights. There’s no running tomorrow, which everyone takes as carte blanche to get tanked-up on local wine. Everyone, that is, except Oliver, who disappears at ten o’clock to God knows where. I can hardly bring myself to care.

As Geraldine snuggles up next to Tom, nuzzling her head into his neck, I proceed to drink myself into near oblivion. It dulls the ache of watching them and helps make the memory of the last couple of nights satisfyingly hazy.

It takes longer than usual for the rest of the group to retire to bed – but as with every other night since we’ve been here, they do so until only Tom and I are left. Which I know isn’t good for my spiritual or emotional well-being, but I can’t bring myself to be anything other than happy about it.

‘You two really are the hardcore, aren’t you?’ says Mau, flinging her handbag over her shoulder.

‘I’ve got to kick back sometimes, Mau,’ I say, holding up my wine glass. ‘Besides, I’ll be straight back in training as soon as I get home.’

‘Oh, you enjoy yourself, love,’ she grins. ‘Besides, have a good chat with Tom. It’ll remind you that there are some nice blokes out there, after all.’

‘What do you mean?’ I mumble, realising she knows about Oliver and me. That they probably all know about Oliver and me.

‘Don’t worry, Abby,’ she winks. ‘At least he came on to you. I was about the only one he never did.’

*

Tom and I chat politely as the bar empties and a single waiter is left polishing glasses. I’m tired as hell, but getting out of my chair, into the lift and up to bed feels like far too much effort. As if that was the only reason. Still, between our discussions about running and work, somewhere along the way, the small talk turns into big talk.

‘How come you’re so close to your grandad?’ I ask, noticing a slight slur in my voice.

‘Aside from him being great?’ Tom smiles and I feel a waterfall of longing.

‘Yeah, aside from that.’

He looks at his hands. ‘Well, my parents both died in a car crash two years ago.’ The words tumble from his mouth so quickly that it takes me a second to absorb what he’s said. ‘Grandad’s the only one I have left.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I reply in disbelief.

‘Yep,’ he breathes, lowering his eyes to his beer bottle.

He looks up when I don’t say anything, and it strikes me that perhaps this is why Tom, at times incredibly outgoing, sometimes seems to have a darker side. He’s a blaze of contradictions – funny and warm, but with the saddest of stories behind those eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ I whisper. ‘And I’m sorry I brought it up.’

‘You didn’t bring it up. I did,’ he says, his voice breaking up. He pauses and swallows a mouthful of beer. ‘I was twenty-nine. I don’t count as an orphan or anything.’

‘I’m sure that doesn’t make it any less painful.’

His jaw tightens. ‘I miss them like mad, that’s for sure. Even their arguments,’ he laughs. ‘God, they had some crackers.’

The sound of his laughter, however bittersweet, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

‘What about
your
mum and dad?’ he asks, clearly wanting to change the subject.

‘Divorced. My mum left my dad. I’ve never worked out why, exactly. And he’s still in love with her.’

‘Oh God.’ Tom’s eyes widen.

‘It’s hard to forgive her. But, as she constantly tells me, the only people who really know what’s going on inside a relationship are the two people in it.’

‘She’s right,’ he agrees solemnly.

‘Do you think so? I’m not so sure.’

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘Well, take my friend . . . Jane.’ If he realises that this is a weak pseudonym for Jess, he’s polite enough not to pull me up. ‘Recently, she had a premature midlife crisis.’

‘Oh?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Resulting in a fling with a guy she works with.’

‘O-kay,’ he says, working out what he thinks about this.

‘She wasn’t sure whether she loved her husband still. But then, she and I talked it through and I reminded her what a lovely man he was. And how much he loves her. And how great they are as a family, and . . . well, she’s starting to appreciate what she’s got.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘You look sceptical,’ I tell him.

‘No, I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’re right – about your friend, at least. It’s just . . . well, everyone’s different, aren’t they?’

He starts peeling off the label on his beer bottle. ‘Take Geraldine and me.’ The mention of her name makes my stomach lurch, as if the reminder that Tom is taken is too much for my body to bear.

‘Yes?’ I say hesitantly.

‘Well, she’s lovely,’ he tells me, then looks into my eyes again. ‘She really is, Abby. I mean, when I lost my parents, I honestly don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for her.’

‘She helped you through it?’

‘Absolutely.’ He frowns, thinking hard about his next sentence. ‘And she has loads going for her. She’s beautiful. Intelligent. Slightly crazy about the getting-married-and-having-babies thing, but we won’t hold that against her.’ His fond smile sends a slash of envy through me and I hate myself for it.

‘We’ve been together for three years.’ His words are slow and precise, as if he’s thinking each one through before forming it. ‘So, I must love her. I mean, I do. The thought of anything hurting her – well, I couldn’t stand it.’

I wonder whether he’s telling me this or himself.

‘So what’s the problem?’ I ask shakily.

‘There isn’t one,’ he says flatly.

I wait for a clarification.

His expression is a mess of confusion as he tries to work out what he’s thinking before he speaks. He clearly fails. ‘So why haven’t I asked her to marry me, Abby? Why won’t I give her what she wants – the babies, the happy ever after? Why?’

I hesitate, his words whirling round my mind. Geraldine might be letting her obsession with marriage and babies get out of hand, but that doesn’t alter what Tom himself has just said. I still believe she’s fundamentally a good person, a belief only reinforced by the knowledge that she’s helped Tom through his grief. Besides, she wouldn’t really go ahead with her plan – surely.

‘Perhaps . . .’ But my voice trails off.

‘What?’ he implores, his eyes darting to my face, waiting for a revelation, the answer to his big question.

Despite everything telling me not to, I know I can only respond honestly. ‘I don’t know why you won’t, Tom,’ I say as sorrow melts through me. ‘But perhaps you should.’

The Geraldine conversation is only the start. We go through Oliver, Jess, Mau (Tom wonders if he should set her up with his grandad), my business, his motorbike, our childhoods. We talk and talk until we’ve barely got a breath left between us.

‘Tom. This is insane – have you seen the time?’

‘Four-thirty,’ he replies, looking at his watch. ‘So what? I thought your life was “highly exciting”.’

‘It is,’ I insist, realising how hot it is as I stand. ‘Which is why I’m going to get some fresh air, then retire.’

‘You’re going for a walk at four-thirty in the morning?’ he grins. ‘God, you really know how to live.’

‘Shut up,’ I laugh. ‘Now are you coming with me or what?’

The resort is silent as we begin our wobbly descent of the terrace steps. The lights are on, but nobody’s home – at least, everyone went to bed hours ago. The air is wonderfully muggy, as thick as molasses.

‘What is it about swimming pools at night that is so inviting?’ says Tom as we weave, hopelessly drunk, around the manicured paths of the hotel grounds. The glassy surface of the enormous pool is perfectly still, only floodlights shimmering beneath.

‘It’s like virgin snow,’ I tell him. ‘There’s something in human nature that makes you want to dive in and muck it all up.’

‘Maybe it’s simply the thought that you’re not allowed to swim in hotel pools at night,’ he proffers.

‘Aren’t you?’ I scrunch up my nose.

‘Of course not.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ he grins.

‘What spoilsports. I thought they were always just empty because people were too wimpy to jump in when the sun wasn’t out.’

‘Like you?’ he teases.

‘I’m no wimp,’ I declare. ‘I told you—’

‘Yeah, yeah – your life is highly exciting, I know. Go on then.’

I pause and look at him. ‘Go on what?’

‘Dive in,’ he says coolly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

He laughs. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’

‘If that’s supposed to be some sort of challenge, you can forget it. You can call me as boring as you like, but there is not a chance in the world that I will be diving in there at four-thirty in the morning. No way. Never.’

‘Fine,’ he says, pulling his T-shirt over his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

If you’d told me twenty-four hours ago that I’d be in a swimming pool with Tom Bronte at nearly five in the morning, failing to suppress my laughter and in nothing but my underwear, I’d have said you needed help.

Yet, despite the trauma of the last four days, the roller-coaster of emotions and the humiliation, I’m having the time of my life. While I have a blurred sense that this might be something I’ll regret in the morning, I also keep telling myself this is what holidays are for. And that we’re not doing any harm. And that if we are, I’ll worry about it tomorrow. The result is, I feel like one of those women in the tampon adverts – as if I could take on the world.

‘I couldn’t swim till I was fourteen,’ announces Tom, as we tread water at opposite sides of the pool. It’s surprisingly warm in here, at least if I keep moving.

‘Really?’ I say, spitting out a chlorinated mouthful.

He swims towards me, a fast, graceful front crawl that looks nothing like the stroke of a late-starter. He stops a few feet away, his muscular shoulders wet and sparkling. ‘I had a terror of water. No idea why. My poor mum used to take me to Water Babies and all that nonsense, and I’d be petrified.’