The Ice Marathon (2 page)

Simon’s interest was pricked. “Are you an estate agent too?”

“Oh God no! I work for Shelter.”

“Oh, the homelessness charity?”

“Nah! The horror movie,” I said. It was supposed to be a
joke but came out more sarcastically then I meant it to.

Nicky leapt up. “Emma, a word.”

“What?”

“In the kitchen.”

“I’m fine here.”

“In. The. Kitchen.” Then she hummed a little tune to try to
sound casual.

I weighed things up. Nicky was a good friend and the flat
was a lovely place to live – certainly nicer than anywhere I could afford on my
own. It would be wise to attend the summit. Besides, I was used to Nicky’s pep
talks in the kitchen and well-practised at pretending to take life lessons from
her.

The kitchen was cream with wooden units and beige worktops.
Occasional tiles had safari animals on them, which matched Nicky’s crockery.
The telling off took place in front of a giraffe eating a tree.

Nicky looked at me through her stern, enormous brown eyes. I
felt well and truly ticked off.
Can I go now?

“What was that?” she asked, significantly lowering the pitch
of her voice.

“What was what?”

“You’re doing what you always do when you like somebody.”

“What?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “I do not like that
man.”

“Then why are you being defensive every time he opens his
mouth?”

“Nicky,” I said sternly, “Darko the Duck is not in love with
that frigging lion.”

“It’s hardly worth falling out over.”

“We’re not falling out!” I laughed. Then, I quickly added,
“The duck isn’t gay though.”

“So you don’t like him?”

“I’ve had a horrendous day; I wouldn’t like Joseph Fiennes
if Dave brought him to dinner.”

“Well, that’s a shame, because he thinks you’re ‘hot
stuff’.”

“Hot
what
?” I sneered. I was slightly surprised. I
assumed that somebody with such clichéd hunkiness would have clichéd taste. I
grabbed a handful of my hair and inspected it – yep, definitely still ginger. I
looked down at my body – definitely still a size 14. “When did he say that?”

“He texted Dave under the table.”

“You are kidding me?” I sneered.

“What? That’s sweet.”

“No, it’s pathetic.”

“Please make an effort, Emma, he seems like a really nice
chap to me.” Then she nudged me in the ribs, “I’d do him.”

I rolled my eyes.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt me to be nice to our guest. I do
pride myself on being a polite person and that means being nice even to
irksome, square-headed morons, and even on days when I felt like crap. I
remembered
why
I felt like crap. I felt foolish for being wound up about
an unsuitable blind date when Tina was out on the streets somewhere, pregnant
and with nowhere to spend the freezing night.

Darko the Duck was just a puppet, and no matter how wrong
Simon might be, it wasn’t worth taking offence over and it certainly wasn’t a
just reason to be rude. “Fine, I’ll put the highly improbable duck-lion crush
behind me.”

Nicky marched me back to the dinner table, where Dave and
Simon appeared to be stuck into a riveting conversation about the housing
market.

“Nothing is selling at the moment,” complained Simon. “It’s
terrible really, some people need to move for work or family reasons and they
just can’t sell.”

“That sounds like a horrible situation to be in,” I said,
sympathetically.

Nicky nodded at me, as if to say ‘Much better’.

Then I added, “Still, at least they have
somewhere
to
live.”

Nicky moved my wine glass slightly further away from me.

I grabbed it back.

“True,” agreed Simon. “It’s just sad to see so many places
empty when so many others are desperate to move.”

“Well, if there are so many empty places, couldn’t estate
agents do more to help the homeless?” I asked, feeling a little excited at the
prospect of bringing about some form of great social change.
Emma and Si –
they started off on the wrong foot but ending up fixing an entire city’s
homelessness problem …

“Well …” then he trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“I mean, I can think of dozens of people who are rough
sleeping tonight. If you opened up just one or two empty homes, we could
shelter every one of them.”

He looked at me with a little smile. For a moment, I thought
he was impressed, but then he quickly added, “I wish it were that simple.”

“It could be.”

“But it isn’t, though, is it?”

“Why not?”

“Well, those homes belong to clients.”

“Have you tried asking your clients if they would mind
helping to save lives?”

Nicky interjected with a cautionary, “Emma …”

“Admittedly, I haven’t, but …”

A low, slow voice chipped in. “Did you see the game on
Sunday, mate?”

Simon kept looking at me. “You make a compelling point, but
I’m not sure that clients would be as amenable as you think. For a start, there
is a great deal of mistrust when it comes to homeless people …”

“What most middle class people don’t realise is that
homeless people aren’t any more or less untrustworthy than they are. They’ve
just had worse luck.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but …”

“Oh, don’t do that trick on me!”

“What trick?”

“The double negatives trick. ‘I don’t disagree with you
there,’” I drawled, mimicking him. “I
can
tell the difference between
‘agreeing’ and ‘not disagreeing’.”

“I’m not sure that …”

“Don’t you feel that the most fortunate should help the most
vulnerable?”

“Yes, of course I
feel
that, but objectively I can
see that the solutions are more complex …”

“Why don’t you get these clients of yours to recognise their
moral duty to look after those worse off than themselves?”

“Well, where are they then?” he demanded, looking around.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“These homeless people that you feel so morally obliged to
look after. Is there one under the table? Have you got one in your wardrobe
perhaps? Are you keeping one warm in the oven?”

“You’re taking my argument to absurdity,” I snapped.

“I’m not, am I?” asked Simon, turning to Dave.

“I’m lost mate. I thought you were doing that run for Joe.”

“Who’s Joe?” I asked.

“Well, he
was
my best friend,” he explained.

“What happened?” I snarled. “Did you alienate him by being a
middle class jerk?”

The room went quiet. Cutlery froze in the air. Nicky and
Dave stared at me. Simon looked down at the tablecloth. I could hear the sound
of a car engine starting up outside, and the hum of the refrigerator.

Nicky broke the silence. “Who wants pudding?”

“Who’s Joe?” I repeated.

“I’d love some pudding, thanks Nicky,” Dave replied.

“Seriously?” I interjected.

Nicky mouthed, “Drop it,” and started a conversation about
whether candyfloss could be frozen (it can).

For at least seven minutes, we had conflict-free pudding
time. The baked Alaska was delicious and it is always difficult to be annoyed
when meringue is melting on the tongue. Nicky had done a wonderful job of
baking the outside and keeping the ice cream inside cool. All we could talk
about was the wonder of the pudding. I washed it down with another glass of
wine.

“I suppose there are many situations where you can feel one
thing but think something quite different,” mused Simon.

“Are we back on housing again?” asked Dave, looking concerned.

“Well, I was thinking about housing, but it’s not just
housing. For example, the other day they were talking about abortion on the
news …”

Knowing how badly Nicky and Dave wanted a baby, I felt the
need to steer away from the conversation as quickly as possible. They were
currently saving money for their second round of fertility treatment.
“Um …” I mumbled.

“… And I came to realise that, even though I consider
myself pro-choice, abortion makes me
feel
uncomfortable, especially
after twelve weeks. It just feels … wrong …”

“What?” I gasped.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not anti-abortion …” he
continued.

“Well it sounds like it to me!” I sneered.

“It’s a tricky grey area and I think the law is right to
give women the choice …”

“You think?” I exclaimed, with sarcasm mode in turbo drive.

Simon studied me for a few moments. “Don’t misunderstand me,
please. I’m not saying that abortion
is
wrong, I’m just trying to
explain that it makes me
feel
uncomfortable.”

“Surely you can see that women should be allowed to choose
what happens to our bodies!” I cried. “Surely you can think this through with
your
brain
!”

“Yes, that’s my point. You can change the way you think,
but, even with the best will in the world, you can’t change the way you
feel
.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” I shouted, springing up from my
chair and knocking my bowl across the table. It wobbled and fell onto Simon’s
lap. He stood up, with melted ice cream dripping down the front of his
expensive jeans, and gently put the bowl back on the table.

“Emma!” cried Nicky.

“Don’t shout at me, shout at him! And I do not want another
pep talk in the kitchen. I don’t like him. How could you think I would have
anything in common with that jerk?” Then, I turned back to Simon. “And by the
way, I am not ‘hot stuff’, I am ‘hot’, end of sentence.” Then, I stormed off
into my bedroom fighting back tears.

I remember lying on my bed for ages, not getting changed,
not taking off my makeup, but thinking. Was this idiot
right
? I mean
sure, the way he felt was unacceptable to me, but was it true that you can
choose how you think but not how you feel? Are feelings something you have
regardless of your conscious appreciation of an issue? I’d never pulled the two
things apart before. Thinking about it, I realised often I felt particular moods
that didn’t correspond with my thoughts.

Supposing that he might be right made me more annoyed than
ever. If so, then my outburst could be considered over the top or perhaps
even …
rude
. There was a distinct chance that I had been in the
wrong – how could I ever forgive him for that?

Chapter 2

I awoke at two in the morning, parched. Then I remembered
the bottle of wine I’d drunk over dinner. In the interest of hangover
prevention, I dragged myself out of bed and kicked on my fluffy mauve slipper boots,
ready to brave the cruel and draughty journey to the kitchen.

My eyes stung with the combination of too much booze, not
enough sleep and far too much mascara. Hadn’t I washed my face before going to
bed? It all seemed like a blur now.

I stumbled into the living room – a zombie in slippers. My
pillow had backcombed my hair into a ginger fuzz, my night-time drool had left
salty tracks on my chin, and my breath was ripe to kill vampires. Fortunately,
I didn’t imagine I’d meet many vampires on the way to the kitchen.

Something struck me as odd. The kitchen light was on. Both
Nicky and Dave were heavy sleepers. Perhaps the wine had gotten to Nicky
too …

However, when I opened the kitchen door it all came flooding
back – well, most of it, anyway. There was Simon, my exceptionally handsome but
equally infuriating sparring partner, helping himself to a biscuit. The
unlikely duck crush, the empty homes and the argument about abortion came
flooding back. He was insufferable. There was more to it, though, wasn’t there?
What was it? Oh, I was too tired to care.

He was wearing only boxers. In this state of undress, his
looks were even more arrogantly striking – broad shoulders, a fine covering of
hair on his chest with an enticing treasure trail, a stomach you could iron
shirts on. Fancy, swanky idiot.

I suddenly felt self-conscious in my nightie and slippers.
How thick
was
this white fabric?

“What are you doing here?” I groaned.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you came
back
?”

“What? No, I never left. Dave said I could kip on the sofa.
It’s not a problem is it?”

I was beginning to wake up. The fluorescent light peeled
back my reluctant eyelids. I remembered not just the arguments, but also my
subsequent reflection on the matters. I remembered realising that I’d been a
little harsh and vowing to apologise. Thinking about it now, it was silly to
get wound up about a cartoon duck, his hands almost certainly
were
tied
when it came to letting out empty property, and perhaps you
could
separate thoughts from feelings. I should apologise. Now would be the perfect
time to apologise.

Then, the full horror of the situation struck – those were
my
biscuits. There’s something about seeing a man that you hate eat your last
jammy dodger that can really nark the core of a woman. The cheek of it! I was
reminded of my former fury.

“Where did you get that from?” I demanded.

“The cupboard,” he said, casually.

“You can’t just go into somebody else’s kitchen and open
a
cupboard
!”

“Oh, put a sock in it.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You’ve been picking fights with me all night.”

“Oh, you think
those
were fights?” I cried. Then I
stepped towards him and yelled, “I’ll show you a fight.”

He hopped down off the worktop and faced me. I was surprised
to note that he was only two inches taller than I was. He certainly had a
taller presence. His eyes glowered back at me with such wrath that, for a
moment, I feared he might hit me.

I wondered where I was going with this. I wasn’t actually
going to physically fight him – that would be ludicrous even if I weren’t a
pacifist. Instead, I just stared at him, eyebrows poised for combat. We were in
gridlock, standing scowling at each other, both suffering from
early-morning-induced dumbness.