‘I’m planning to go for a run in the morning,’ Rachel heard herself say.
‘Ah! Trying to lose a few pounds, are you?’
‘No,’ Rachel replied, grudgingly impressed by her mother’s ability to take any topic and turn it into a stick to beat her with. ‘It’s not about losing weight, just about improving my fitness a bit.’
That, and winning the bet she’d made with Will on New Year’s Eve. He’d scoffed at the idea that Rachel would ever exercise voluntarily, then promised her a bottle of gin if she made it to the end of the Couch to 5K programme she’d sworn to complete.
‘Fair enough. But you have a decent sports bra, don’t you, love? You don’t want your boobs batting you in the face every other stride.’
‘Oh my God, Mum – yes, I have one,’ Rachel said, resisting the urge to point out that it wasn’t her fault she’d inherited her curvy build, as well as her hair colour, from her father’s side of the family. Modest-breasted Mum had never been above a size eight in her life, apart from during her pregnancies. She was dark-haired, delicately pretty and petite, standing only a tiny bit taller than Anna. ‘Can you put Dad on?’ Rachel felt bad for dismissing her mother, but she’d had as much veiled criticism as she could bear for one night.
‘Course I can.’ She sounded crestfallen. ‘Love you. Speak to me again soon, won’t you?’
‘Love you too, Mum,’ Rachel said. She meant it, and told herself she wasn’t to blame if her mum felt snubbed.
There was a light scuffling as the phone passed from one hand to another.
‘Hi there, pet,’ said Rachel’s dad. As ever, his voice was like balm on a bruise – his soft Dublin accent still strong after almost forty years in the UK. ‘How’re you doin’? Not fixing to jump off the nearest bridge after that chat with your mother, I hope.’
Rachel laughed. ‘No. She gave it her best shot, though.’
‘Ah, she means well, you know that. She just worries about you.’
‘Honestly, Dad, sometimes I think she worries more about what other people think. You know, when they ask how I am and she has to tell them I’m still not settled down. I know it galls her that Mrs O’Shea from church has three daughters whoallhave husbands.’
‘She does hate that Mrs O’Shea,’ he concurs. ‘But I promise it’s you she’s thinking about. She wants a happy future for you, and she worries you stand in your own way.’
‘I promise you, Dad, Laurence and I were not a good fit. We wouldn’t havehada happy future. But the right person will come along one day, and I’m sure I’ll know him when I see him.’
‘All right then, let’s leave off that. Anything else exciting happening? Apart from the running?’
‘Yes, actually. I’m helping Tom out with some copywriting for a photography exhibition. I’m not being paid much but it should be fun, and I might even get to meet some minor celebs.’
‘Grand. That sounds great. And you never know, one of these famous types might fall in love with you. That’d shut your mum up for sure.’
Rachel laughed again, then fought off a yawn. ‘I don’t know about that, based on what I’ve seen of the participants … One of them plays computer games for a living.’
‘What a world,’ Dad chuckled. ‘I had no idea that was even possible. But you do sound tired, darlin’. Get yourself an early night, why don’t you? We’ll call you again next week.’
It dawned on Rachel that he was right. Somehow her own exhaustion had escaped her notice – yet her dad had spotted it from 160 miles away. She immediately felt an intense longing for her bed.
‘Okay, Dad. I’ll see you soon, yes?’
Her vision blurred slightly as she was hit by a powerful wave of missing him. She wished that he were closer, or at least that she could tell him what was really going on. As a little girl, Rachel had believed there was no problem in the world her father couldn’t solve – though she’d long since learned there were some broken things even he couldn’t fix.
‘You will,’ he said. ‘We’ve plans to come down with Granny and see a show, so we’ll get together then. Sometime in March, I think. Mum will message you about it, I’m sure.’
‘Great,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll let you go, then. Love you, Dad.’
‘And you, pet. Always. You look after yourself, and sleep well.’
Against all the odds, Rachel did sleep well. She woke up to see a pale, watery sort of sunlight seeping through her curtains, then pulled them back to reveal a cloudless, ice-blue sky.
A thin layer of frost glittered on the pavement outside her window. There was no sign of rain, which hobbled her standard excuse for staying inside in her pyjamas.
Last night she’d told her parents she was going to start running. Several weeks ago she’d promisedherselfthat she would – for the sake of her cardiovascular fitness and a massive bottle of The Botanist.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Rachel pulled on a pair of elderly leggings, a greying sports bra and a bobbled workout top that hadn’t been worn in at least four years. Her shiny new trainers would shame this sad ensemble, she thought – but perhaps she’d treat herself to some nicer running gear in a couple of weeks. The promise of a mini-spree in Sweaty Betty might motivate her to stick to her plan.