Girl on the Run (24 page)

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 wallowing. 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.

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 when 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.

‘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.

He squirms. ‘I’d have been stuck with it if nobody else had bid.’

Judging by her expression, this is not the right thing to say.

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he whispers, squeezing her hand.

‘Oh, going to ask me to marry you finally, are you?’ she asks with a touch too much sarcasm.

‘Will you settle for a dance?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I suppose so.’

As they disappear in the direction of the dance floor I hover by the bar, wondering where Doctor Dishy is. I don’t have to wonder for long.

‘Abby.’ A hand touches the small of my back and when I spin round Oliver is gazing at me, smiling shyly. ‘You’ve done tremendously well this evening. And I wondered . . .’

Oh my God, is he going to ask me out?

‘Would you like to dance?’

I feel as if my knees might give way, but before I can whimper in gratitude, he grabs me by the hand and leads me to the dance floor.

The band, with stand-in trumpet player devoid of oral infections, is in full flow, playing Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’. I feel both self-conscious and elated as we approach the dance floor, and the touch of his skin on my fingers feels so lovely I almost don’t want to get there.

When we reach the packed dance floor, Oliver smiles and looks in my eyes, before he then begins dancing – like a true professional. It’d be intimidating if I didn’t enjoy myself so much. As he swings me round, ignoring the fact that my high heels keep perforating his toes, I couldn’t be closer to heaven if I was surrounded by chubby little chaps with wings and a harp.

‘You’re a great dancer,’ he lies, as Mau shimmies past with one of the younger guys from the club. ‘Looks like you’re having a nice time,’ she whispers, nudging me in the side.