Girl on the Run (32 page)

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Lessons,’ he shrugs.

‘Yeah, but what made you finally go to the lessons?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He puts his arms behind him, propping himself up against the side of the pool. He looks unfeasibly athletic as water laps against the glistening contours of his chest. ‘I suppose I believe in confronting your demons. Maybe that’s why I admire you.’

I feel myself redden. ‘Me?’

‘You weren’t exactly dying to start running. But you’ve persevered. Nobody can take that away from you – you really have persevered.’

I smile. Then a question pops into my head and I spurt it out before I have a chance to control myself. ‘Do you think I’m curvy?’

‘Oh no,’ he grins. ‘You’re not going to get me with one of those
woman questions
. The ones where it’s impossible to know what the right answer is.’

‘What do you mean?’ I giggle innocently. ‘I just want you to be honest.’

I swim to the corner of the pool adjacent to Tom and put my arms on the side. As soon as I get there I realise I’m way too close, close enough to feel my legs being swept nearer to him when he moves. ‘Seriously,’ I urge.

‘Well,’ he begins ponderously. ‘Do you
want
to be curvy?’

‘I’m obviously not going to tell you that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’d be cheating. I want your honest opinion.’

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he laughs, splashing me in the face. ‘You’re just lulling me into a false sense of security.’

I splash him back. ‘Fine. I’ll take that to mean you think I’m fat.’

‘I do
not
think you’re fat,’ he objects. ‘I think you’re just right, actually.’

‘Really?’ I say, sounding far more grateful than I’d hoped.

‘Yeah,’ he shrugs. ‘Near enough perfect. Is that the right answer?’

I narrow my eyes. ‘It depends if you only said it because you thought it was the right answer . . . or if you really meant it.’

Suddenly, our lazy conversation is interrupted by a crash of footsteps from the restaurant doors, followed by angry Spanish voices. My heart is thumping but I’m paralysed with panic, unable to think straight, never mind move.

As the footsteps get louder, the voices more animated, I’m convinced we’re about to be caught. Then I feel an arm wrapping itself round my waist and my entire body being pulled through the water. When I come to a stop, my head is tight against Tom’s shoulder, his muscular arms round my body – and we’re out of sight of whoever is on the hotel terrace.

The incomprehensible voices seem to argue for ever. But after a while, they fade into the background, drowned out by the thundering of my heart, the sound of blood rushing through my body.

I have half an ear on the voices, praying for them to leave soon. But most of my attention is suddenly focused on something else entirely – my position. Tom’s position. Our togetherness – of which I’m suddenly hyper-aware.

We are both close to naked, the entire length of our bodies pressed against the other. Our arms and legs are entwined. We are frozen, clasped together as tightly as it’s possible for two people to be.

I glance up, and the second our eyes meet, it is apparent we’ve had the same thought. My body is pumped with adrenalin and the fact that I can’t distinguish whether it’s from fear of being caught or simply the circumstances of this clinch, makes it all the more powerful.

It is quiet for a second and I think that whoever’s on the terrace has gone. I open my mouth to say something, but Tom holds his finger to my lips. I can taste the soft pad of his fingertip and it takes all my strength not to kiss it. Then the voices return and – when I thought we couldn’t get any closer – he swoops his other arm round the small of my back and squeezes me tighter.

The movement causes a ripple effect across the pool, and I freeze, convinced we’ll be caught. I bury my head into him, my cheek pressed against the slippery skin on his neck, and close my eyes. The warmth from his body sinks into me like osmosis and I suddenly feel intoxicated with a desire that’s a thousand times stronger than anything I felt with Oliver.

We’re in a clumsy, inelegant embrace, yet the sensations racing round my body scorch my veins. The footsteps fade away and the sound of the terrace door shutting and locking echoes across the patio. The coast is clear.

Yet neither of us moves. Neither of us says anything. He doesn’t release his grip and he doesn’t swim away. He has the same look that I can feel burning on my own face. A look of uncontrollable, irrepressible desire.

‘I really meant it,’ he whispers.

His face moves towards mine, slowly – millimetre by millimetre. His breath caresses my face as the gap between us closes.

Our bodies melt underwater until we barely count as two people. As it becomes apparent that he’s about to kiss me, I can’t think about the consequences. I can’t think about the rights and wrongs, copious as they are. All I can think about is that nothing has ever felt so exquisite.

But as quickly as that thought enters my head, another pushes it aside. An attack of commonsense, which prises my face away from his so sharply that it shocks both of us.

‘Geraldine’s upstairs,’ I whisper, wanting to cry. ‘And I’m . . . I’m not your girlfriend.’

‘I know.’ He swallows, thinking hard as our eyes remain locked. ‘I know.’

I am desperate to kiss him. Desperate to carry on as if none of what I said matters. Desperate to let him take me in his arms and to feel his lips on my neck all night. But I can’t.

‘Tom,’ I whisper, looking away. It nearly kills me. ‘We can’t do this.’

He holds his hand over his mouth, his face crumpled in distress. ‘I know,’ he nods. ‘I know.’

And as we wander, dripping and semi-naked, round the circumference of the hotel, I wonder what the hell we’re going to say to each other over breakfast.

In the event, I never find out – choosing instead to lie in bed and skip the Sunny Runners farewell breakfast.

This is not just because I’m hung-over, look like crap and am struggling to move. This is an exercise in avoidance. Sooo . . . who’s on the lengthy list of those I’d rather slit my wrists than bump into this morning?

Instead, I am going to lie here for as long as possible before dragging my sorry backside out of bed to begin packing for this afternoon’s flight.

I’m pulling the covers over my head, when there’s a knock at the door.

Oh God . . . I don’t want to face anyone this morning. I can’t even face myself. When I went to the bathroom an hour ago, looking in the mirror caused me physical pain – and not just because my hair’s so matted from chlorine and hairspray it could thatch a small mud hut.

There’s no other way to put this: I’ve done the dirty on Geraldine. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t actually kiss Tom. The fact is I wanted to. Desperately. And that’s before we even get onto the lengthy embrace beforehand.

What makes this so much worse is that, when I’m not busy loathing myself, I slip into a sweet, sexy replay of last night. If I breathe in and close my eyes, I can still smell him, taste him – and it’s the most glorious sensation in the world.

I open my eyes wide and shake my head – a move I regret instantly as the hangover makes me feel as if my brain has come loose.
Abby: you simply cannot indulge in this fantasy. He’s 100 per cent taken. With a woman he’s been seeing for three years. A woman whom he said himself he loves
. That particular replay makes my insides ache.

The knocking starts again and I drag myself out of bed and pull on my dressing-gown, ready to face Janice with her brochures. Only when I open the door, it’s not Janice standing in front of me. It’s Tom.

He’s wearing combat shorts and a dark grey T-shirt. I recognise it as the one he wore when I first bumped into him with his grandad. It’s so simple, but he manages to look spectacular in it. I wonder for a second how aware he is of his superhuman attractiveness. He gives the impression that he’s entirely oblivious, but how could that be possible? And wasn’t that what Oliver did?

Yet somehow I know Tom’s different from Oliver. I absolutely know it. That isn’t the problem with him – the problem is that he’s someone else’s boyfriend.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Hi,’ I reply. I feel an overwhelming urge to pull him to me and continue where we left off last night. I hate myself for it.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks gravely.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ I manage.

‘We can’t talk out here.’

‘We shouldn’t be talking at all,’ I whisper.

He frowns. ‘Why not? We’ve done nothing but talk since we met. If anything looks suspicious it’s—’

‘Oh, okay,’ I sigh, suspecting he’s capable of more logic than me this morning.

I sit on the edge of the bed as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him. I am horribly aware of my appearance – surely the confirmation Tom’s looking for that he was motivated last night by beer goggles.

If that is the conclusion he comes to – that he doesn’t find me remotely attractive in the cold light of day – it will, of course, make things easier. Yet there’s a knot in my stomach that doesn’t want that to be the case. I want him to want me as much as I want him.

He sits next to me and I shift away nervously. His eyebrows flicker into a frown. ‘Um . . . last night,’ he begins, before trailing off.

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ I say.

‘About what?’ He looks bewildered.

‘About the whole thing. I feel terrible. I feel terrible for Geraldine.’

He closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. ‘You’ve got nothing to feel terrible about. We didn’t even kiss.’

‘We nearly did.’

‘I’m the one who should feel terrible. I’m the one who shouldn’t have been – you know.’ He pauses and looks into my eyes. ‘I’m not that sort of bloke.’

‘What sort of bloke?’

‘The sort of bloke who does . . . you know. In swimming pools. In the middle of the night.’

I bite my lip. ‘I know. And your secret’s safe with me.’

He looks up. ‘That’s not why I came.’

‘Why
did
you come?’ I ask.

His eyes flicker across my face. ‘I don’t know.’

A shot of euphoria fires through my heart, followed by desperate hope. I force myself to get a grip on the situation.

‘Tom, can I make a suggestion?’ I say. ‘Go back to your room, find Geraldine and pretend last night never happened.’

‘But—’

‘Seriously.’

His expression tightens, tension rising in his face. ‘So you don’t . . . have any feelings for me? Not really?’

I have a vision of Geraldine downstairs, oblivious to this conversation. How would I feel in her shoes? Having my loyalty, support and love rewarded with this?

Doing the decent thing is never easy. In this case, the decent thing is so unpalatable that I feel sick just thinking about it. But as I look into Tom’s pained eyes, I also know I couldn’t live with myself if I did anything else.

‘We’re friends, Tom,’ I say, my words strangled and faint. ‘I was drunk last night but there’s nothing more to it. No, I don’t have feelings for you, other than as my friend. And as my friend, I value you very much. So let’s keep it that way. For everyone’s sake.’

There’s only one thing to do when I get home. Confide in my best friend.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Jess says on the phone while I drive to Dad’s for dinner. My cupboard was bare when I returned and, rather than spend the evening over a ready meal, I decided to escape. ‘You slept with Oliver
and
snogged Tom. On the same holiday?’

‘Noooo!’ I protest. ‘No, no, no! I didn’t
snog
Tom. I didn’t even
kiss
him. I just . . . almost kissed him.’

‘But you ended up semi-naked in a swimming pool with your arms round him?’

‘It sounds awful when you put it like that,’ I sigh.

‘How else should I put it?’

She sounds very weird about this – almost disapproving. Though, on balance, I should have expected it; she’s known Geraldine for ages.

‘But you slept with Oliver, right?’

‘Yes,’ I mumble, as if she’s about to put me in detention.

‘So, which one of them are you in love with now?’

I’m silent for a second, ashamed to say Tom’s name.

‘It’s Oliver, isn’t it?’

‘No, actually,’ I reply. ‘You were right about him.’

‘Oh.’ She sounds surprised. ‘What made you finally see the light?’

‘Call me old-fashioned but I’d have liked it to be the start of something more than a series of casual shags.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘And . . .’ I think about telling her how strongly I feel about Tom, but I’m too ashamed to utter the words. ‘Oliver was clearly after that waitress – the one with the dark hair – the following night.’

‘Adriana? Great boobs and lovely eyes but a big bum?’

‘That’s the one,’ I say, but she doesn’t respond. ‘Are you there, Jess?’

I hear Jamie in the background and realise what’s distracted her. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go,’ she announces. ‘Are you at the running club tomorrow? We’ll chat properly afterwards.’

I put down the phone as I pull into the car park beneath Dad’s apartment block as a reminder flashes up on my phone that my new staff member Hazel starts tomorrow.

I’m actually looking forward to going back to work, which I know isn’t a common sensation after a holiday. But I want some normality back in my life. Besides, my big push on late payments before I went away has started to pay dividends – and now that we’ve got Hazel on board, the work can begin on the Diggles rebranding, which I can’t wait to get stuck into.

I jump out of the car and am heading up the stairwell when I see a gaudy macramé skirt and painfully bohemian sheepskin boots stomping down. Karen, Dad’s girlfriend, has a mouth on her that looks as if she’s been sucking a petrol-soaked rag.