Girl on the Run (37 page)

‘I’m not. I’ve got two massive tax bills and was intending to use the money from my biggest client to pay them. Only they’ve just gone into administration.’ I look into her eyes. ‘I’m about to go bust, Mum.’

She stares at me for a moment. When she speaks, it’s entirely matter-of-fact – as if the alternative simply isn’t a possibility. ‘No, you’re not. You’re not going to go bust.’

I sigh. ‘I knew you were going to want to write me a cheque and say that the whole thing will go away and—’

‘I’m not going to write you a cheque,’ she responds, to my surprise.

‘What?’

‘I said, I’m not going to write you a cheque. Or give you any money at all, in fact.’

‘Oh.’ This is not the turn of events I had imagined. I can’t say I’m entirely relaxed about it. ‘Right. Well, I’m very glad. Obviously. Because I really do want to stand on my own two feet and . . .’ A flicker of panic registers in my brain. ‘Really? You’re really not going to give me any money? Or even let me
borrow
some money?’

‘Really,’ she says firmly.

‘But there are people’s jobs at stake and the company and my clients and—’ I realise my voice has risen several octaves since the start of this conversation.

‘What I’m going to do is sit down with you and your accountant – what’s he called?’

‘Egor.’

‘Egor. And we’re going to work out a solution. A solution that involves
you
sorting this out. All by yourself.’

Egor and my mum get on well. I don’t know why, but this surprises me. Perhaps he’s simply less flashy than her staff members, as demonstrated by today’s shoes, the toes of which look as though they’ve had a run-in with a paper shredder.

They agree on virtually everything – including, bizarrely, their view about my role in this. I’d expected to be told off, but they’ve been very sympathetic.

‘Listen to me, Abby.’ Mum is facing me, her hands gripping both my shoulders in the sort of move that preludes police brutality. ‘It’s a well-known statistic that fifty per cent of businesses fail in their first year and ninety per cent by their fifth. This is
not
because the majority of people who start businesses are imbeciles.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘It is because it is bloody hard.’

She lets go of me and paces the room as we’re treated to the full force of her oratorical skills. ‘You have to learn as you go along. The odds are
completely
stacked against you – particularly in a recession when companies such as your poor, dear garden centres are going under all over the place . . . and taking other companies with them.’

‘You can’t seriously be saying there was nothing I could have done?’ I ask.

‘Well, no, I’m not saying that,’ Mum concedes. ‘And when we’re out of this mess, we’re going to work out some future-proofing techniques to stop it happening again. But you’re not the first person to run what is a fundamentally sound – no, fundamentally
great
business, only to become a victim of a situation like this.’

‘Your mum’s right,’ adds Egor. ‘It happens all the time. Simon Cowell went bust and he’s hardly on the breadline now. And the guy from
Dragons’ Den
– Peter Jones.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ says Mum firmly. ‘But this business
isn’t
going to go bust, is it, Egor?’

He smiles uneasily. ‘Hmmm, no,’ he replies, as if responding to a question from one of Stalin’s generals.

I’m not sure who came up with the idea first – him or her – but they’re both agreed it’s the best way forward. It’s very simple: I need to revisit every iron I’ve had in the fire for the last twelve months – and reignite them.

Whether it’s a potential client who never came back to me about a proposal, or one I’ve failed to follow up, I need to win some business – some lucrative business – quickly. We’ll then use the promise of future earnings to go to the bank and beg. Specifically, for them to temporarily extend my overdraft long enough for me to go on trading responsibly while I get this business back on its feet.

I explain that I’ve already spoken to the bank and asked them to do this, but was refused. However, Mum and Egor are determined that it will be a different situation
if
I have some guaranteed future income.

‘It all sounds wonderful,’ I say. ‘Except for one problem.’

‘What’s that?’ Mum smiles.

‘I haven’t
got
any irons in the fire!’ I explode. ‘None that are going to pay those sorts of dividends. Even if I did manage to turn something around that quickly, the chances of it being big enough are virtually nil.’

Mum tuts. You’d think I was a four-year-old refusing to try to swim without armbands. ‘Come on, Abby,’ she says blithely. ‘It’s time to think creatively. Just
think
.’

I slump in my seat and close my eyes. Just think, she says.

So I decide to do something that, at some point in the last nine months, became conducive to thinking. I don’t know how, but it did.

I go for a run.

I don’t wear my iPod when I run today; I want to clear my mind of anything other than ideas, answers, solutions.

I’ve seen this in films: the main protagonist, in a time of crisis, pulling on her running shoes, doing a few circuits of an appropriately scenic street and, free from the shackles of anxiety, conjuring up a way to save the day.

Personally, I never bought it. Yet as my feet pound the pavements, the sky like lead and clouds racing, I get an unlikely rush of positivity. I head up the mountain that is Rose Lane, the backs of my legs burning as they carry me to its peak. When I start my descent to Sefton Park, passing people in sodden raincoats, I’m breathless and drenched with rain. Yet I’m strangely exhilarated too, my mind whirring with possibilities about companies that could provide the answer.

I think about the NHS anti-smoking contract for which I tendered in September, only to hear afterwards that they were postponing a decision until early this year. I think about the lingerie company who loved my pitch but wanted to hold off until they heard about a contract with China. I think about the home furnishings firm who gave positive feedback but who wanted to wait until a new Marketing Manager was installed before going ahead. They’re all worth chasing up.

I pass the boat lake as the rain gets harder, crashing against the surface of the water as I speed past.

It’s only as I start heading home that doubts creep in. Despite the number of possibilities, despite knowing that they are all worth contacting, it’s highly unlikely they’ll make a decision as quickly as I need them to.

Besides, none of them are big enough by themselves. I’d need at least three to sign a contract by the end of the week.

After I’ve run for nearly an hour, the rain slows and a radiant winter sun pushes through the clouds, but conversely my optimism begins to evaporate.

I turn down Allerton Road, my legs weak and tired as they slow to a walk before I collapse, ragdoll-like, against a restaurant wall.

This is one of south Liverpool’s most vibrant streets and I look thoroughly out of place – soggy, red-faced, so bedraggled I’d be mistaken for the contents of a washing-machine boil wash if I was any less filthy. My chest rises and falls as I gaze into a thunderous sky, catching my breath as hot tears streak down my cheeks.

As a café door opens I turn away and begin walking, embarrassed at even a stranger seeing me like this.

‘Abby.’

My stomach churns. The wind is whistling through my hair, drowning out noise, but I’d still recognise Tom Bronte’s voice anywhere.

This is the first time we’ve spoken alone since Tenerife, away from the distractions of the running club, the noise and gossip. It could be this that concentrates my thoughts, or simply the milky light cast onto his face. But he’s never looked more maddeningly beautiful. His eyes are iridescent, his lips plump and perfect. Yet his expression is apprehensive.

I’m left with no choice but to walk back to him, as he approaches me. It seems to take an age before we’re finally a few feet apart, reading each other’s thoughts.

‘I saw you passing. How are you?’ he says.

‘Fine.’ I smile thinly.

His expression dissolves into one of concern. ‘Is everything okay?’

I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him. Wanting to tell him – but afraid of what he’ll think of me. Every feeling of shame I have about my company coming so close to the brink is exacerbated tenfold at the thought of Tom knowing.

‘Yep,’ I mumble.

He touches my arm and it sends waves of heat through my chest. ‘Do you want to join us for a coffee?’

As I open my mouth I have no idea whether I’m going to say yes or no, but in the event I don’t get to say anything.

‘Oh, go on,’ croaks a voice. ‘Cheer the boy up.’

‘Hello,’ I say to his grandad, composing myself. ‘How are you?’

‘Me? I’m fine. Tweeted you the other day but you haven’t replied.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a lady’s prerogative not to respond.’

‘I really have had loads on,’ I protest. ‘Which is why I can’t stop for a coffee, though I’d love to.’

‘You had time for a run,’ Grandad points out.

‘I was looking for inspiration, that’s all.’

‘Did you find it?’ asks Tom.

‘Not exactly,’ I confess. ‘Which is why I need to get back to the office.’

‘Foo-ee! That’s the last place you’ll find inspiration,’ says Grandad and as he beckons me into the café, I suspect I’ll have little say in the matter.

Tom’s grandad takes off his cap and puts it on the table. We’ve been here for half an hour and it’s taken until now for him to remove it, revealing an elaborate bald patch that resembles a sandblasted billiard ball.

We’re sitting next to the window talking about Grandad’s laptop, Glee and the stormy weather. The latter is tame compared with the tornado in my stomach every time I catch Tom’s eye.

‘They do a smashing skinny latte here,’ Grandad declares, taking a sip of his second one. ‘Better than Starbucks and half the price. Not that I go to Starbucks much these days.’

‘Are you worried about globalisation?’ I ask mischievously, checking to see if my rain jacket has dried off yet. My leggings – which, unlike my jacket, I’m still wearing – are only just there.

‘No, the sugar,’ he replies, stuffing a handful of sachets in his top pocket. ‘They have those daft canisters so I can’t take any home.’

‘Why do pensioners have a compulsion to collect sugar?’ Tom muses.

‘I collect them because they’re
handy
,’ his grandfather reprimands him. ‘It’s nothing to do with being a pensioner.’

‘I don’t remember you doing it ten years ago. I’m not criticising. It just seems to be a universal affliction for everyone over the age of sixty-five.’ He looks at me and smirks.

Grandad frowns. ‘Don’t think I can’t see you two with the conspiratorial looks.’

He nudges Tom, who excuses himself to go to the Gents. Grandad stirs his coffee. ‘Do you know Geraldine well?’ he asks, out of the blue.

Heat fires up my neck and I take a sip of water, hoping it extinguishes my cheeks. ‘Yes, through the running club. She’s . . . lovely.’

‘Aye, she’s nice enough,’ the old man says, then pauses thoughtfully. ‘You know, you might find this difficult to believe, but my dad was a romantic sort. There weren’t many blokes you could say that about in his day.’

I am bemused at how the conversation has veered to such a bizarre tangent.

‘He used to say: “Son, you can tell when a man’s in love with a woman by the way he
glows
when she’s around.”’

‘Glows?’ I repeat.

He nods, smiling as if he knows something I don’t.

‘Now Abby,’ he continues breezily, ‘can we tempt you with another bottle of water? Or shall we push the boat out and get you a cup of tea?’

‘No, honestly,’ I say, looking at my watch.

‘Something stronger? They do tequila slammers next door.’

‘No, really,’ I smile as Tom approaches the table. ‘I need to go. It was lovely to see you.’

‘The pleasure’s all ours,’ replies Grandad.

Tom walks me to the door and holds it open as a sharp blast of wind whips against my cheeks. He follows me out and we huddle in the doorway. It feels gloriously close and desperately uncomfortable at the same time.

‘Let me drive you home,’ he says.

‘No, honestly. I want to continue my run,’ I reply.

He pauses. ‘You didn’t respond to my emails,’ he says.

‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘Technical issues again.’

His expression makes it clear he didn’t buy that excuse the first time.

I sigh. ‘I also thought, under the circumstances . . . you know.’ But I can’t bring myself to spell it out that I know about his engagement to Geraldine.

‘I do,’ he concedes, sparing me. ‘Of course. Can we be friends again, though?’

I gaze at the street, as cars whiz past, sending tidal waves of rainwater onto the pavement. My neck flushes again.

‘Come on, Abby.’ Before I realise what’s happening, he grabs my hand and squeezes my fingers, the touch of his skin firing electric currents up my arm. ‘I know things got weird in Tenerife. But it’d be a shame to throw away a perfectly good friendship.’

The repeated word
friendship
makes me flinch.

The reality is that I want him to be so much more than a friend – a desire I can’t even think about indulging. As ever, there are a million things I want to say, but none of them are appropriate. Instead, I take the path of least resistance.

‘Of course,’ I mutter. ‘Right – I really need to get back.’

He lets go of my hand. ‘Oh yes – your work stuff. Anything I can help with?’

‘I don’t think so.’

I turn to run down the street, when he touches my shoulder again.

‘I meant to say: a couple of those emails that fell victim to your “technical difficulties” . . . well, they really were about something important.’

‘Oh?’

‘I tried to contact you about stuff that’s been going on at work. Something that might provide an opportunity for you.’