‘No problem, boss.’
I stand and wave her off from the open front door before letting my face fall. Iamfine, in all the essential ways. I can move around, although my ankle throbs occasionally. But I feel exhausted from the accident, from the small procedure they had to put me under anaesthetic for. And more than anything… bloody annoyed.
Because this thing goes deeper than the boot and how it looks. This is the worst-timed fracture in the history of… well, inmyhistory, at least.
When I was a kid, I longed to break a bone. In those days they put all breaks in white plaster and for some reason, coming to school with a cast made you into a kind of celebrity. Even Marcus Brumby, the geekiest kid you ever saw, got surrounded by new friends wanting to sign his cast, carry his bag. Instant kudos.
And believe me, I needed something to offset the braces and bad haircut in those days. I imagined it sometimes. I mean, I kind of glossed over the fact that breaking a bone isn’t exactly fun. I never really imagined the accident or the pain. But I imagined the cast. The pure white slab of plaster that would encase my leg and give me a social clean slate to pepper with new friends.
If I’d tripped down a set of steps when walking to the shops back then, I’d probably have been quite pleased. Would have welcomed the drama of having to get in an ambulance, of people fussing over me. Would have hardly been able to hide my excitement at having to hobble into school on crutches.
Breaking a leg doesn’t have quite the same kudos when you’re in your late thirties though. It gives more of a ‘fragile old lady’ vibe than a ‘cool kid’ vibe. And besides, I didn’t even get a cast. Just this ugly boot.
‘Why not a cast, out of interest?’ I’d asked the junior doctor who’d fitted it for me.
‘Most people prefer the boots. And they’re better for weight-bearing, so you have a faster recovery.’
I’d nodded, trying to ignore the tiny child inside me who was still a little disappointed.
‘You’ll be given crutches too, to use at first,’ she’d added kindly.
It’s a white-skied, humid day, the kind that makes you hot without the sunshine to back it up. Typical of England. Mum’s been boasting about the weather in the south of France for days, promising me that I’ll get the chance to dip in her new pool. Now, the nearest I’ll get is probably hobbling to a sunlounger and getting a tan that leaves me with a white, hairy sock of skin when I finally get the thing off.
The fact I might not even get there now without some serious compromises is one I’m refusing to accept.
In all honesty, there are a bunch of things I’m currently refusing to accept. I’m refusing to accept that the doctor says I can’t fly, which means I’ll either have to get across France by train (bad) or travel with Hal (worse). I’m refusing to accept that my twenty-two-year-old son is getting married when nobody’s so much as popped the question to me my entire life. (I was actually refusing to accept that Ihavea twenty-two-year-old son at thirty-nine years old. But it’s kind of hard to pretend he’s still just a kid when he calls you and tells you he’s tying the knot.)
All grown up. How did that happen?
While I’m in the business of denial, I decide to eat half a tub of chocolate ice cream and pretend to myself that it’s perfectly healthy and low-calorie. I call work and update them – I was taking a fortnight off soon anyway, so it’s not ideal, but I can work from home the next few days and keep up with things a little from France, so it should be OK. My business partner, Peter, sounds concerned and assures me it’s all in hand, but I suspect he’s probably secretly pissed that I won’t be there for the contract meeting with Mrs Davis. I tell him I’ll get Steph to sit in too and he gives a sigh of relief which he tries to disguise as a cough.
I call Mum and tell her that I’m fine, but that I may be turning up with a couple of kilos of plastic wrapped around my foot. She makes the right noises, but I’m pretty sure she feelsthat on some level I’ve done this on purpose to ruin Louis and Summer’s day. She doesn’t think to ask how I’m feeling, or whether my leg hurts.
And then, finally accepting that there’s no way I’d make the ten-hour train journey with the four changes it would take to travel from Cambridge to Nice, I call Hal.
2
HAL
I’m lying under the camper when the group of kids passes by.
‘Hey, nice wheels, mate!’ one of them calls sarcastically.
‘Thanks!’ I say in a cheerful tone. I’m used to comments about Betty, my 1970s orange and white VW camper. She attracts attention for better or for worse. I know she wouldn’t be everyone’s choice of vehicle. But those who get the whole VW camper thingreallyget it. Those are my people. This kid’s one of the other lot, who think that anyone who owns a rust pile like this must be a loser.
The kid snorts and moves along with an incredulous, ‘Yeah, right, mate.’
Honestly, I know a lot of guys who wouldn’t act laid back when someone insults their most precious belonging to their face. And, yeah, maybe I should be the kind of guy who pulls him up for being rude. But I get it, I do. I said some pretty stupid things as a kid myself; also, kids now don’t appreciate the beauty of something that’s not brand new, shiny and connected to the web. And Betty is none of those things.
Chances are, though, one of them will acquire a camper at some point around middle age. And the whole cycle will repeat.
Plus, as much as I hate to admit it to myself, I’m pretty unfit at the moment. Last time I saw Louis – just before he and Summer disappeared to Nice – he made a joke about dad bods that hit a bit close to home. I tried to brush it off, but when I slid under Betty this morning, I had to admit my stomach was a little too close to the exhaust for comfort. If I slid out and gave chase, I’d probably end up having a massive heart attack or, worse, shitting myself.
Just for fun, I imagine a humiliating scenario where I get stuck fixing a leak on Betty’s undercarriage and have to be rescued by firefighters, and resolve that I will get fit, starting tomorrow.
I have regular fantasies about what might happen if I finally get fit. This year, Couch to 5k; next, the London Marathon. Maybe I’ll become one of those ultra marathon guys who does back-to-back endurance races for a worthy cause. It’s just so hard to get started, though.
That’s what I want to know whenever I watch a reality show about someone who’s done one of those extreme challenges. Not ‘How did you prepare for the hundred-mile run?’ but ‘How did you start running in the first place and keep at it? How did you resist chocolate for months, and get up at the crack of dawn to run before work? And most of all, how did you get through the bit where you think you might actually die and reach the bit where you (apparently) actually start enjoying it?’