Running into Trouble

  Every time you want to quit, remember

  why you started.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Part One: Three months until race day!

  1 Hannah

  2 Malika

  3 Hannah

  4 Malika

  5 Hannah

  6 Hannah

  7 Malika

  8 Hannah

  9 Hannah

  10 Malika

  11 Hannah

  12 Hannah

  13 Malika

  14 Hannah

  Part Two: Two months until race day!

  15 Hannah

  16 Hannah

  17 Hannah

  18 Malika

  19 Hannah

  20 Hannah

  21 Malika

  22 Hannah

  23 Hannah

  24 Malika

  25 Hannah

  26 Hannah

  27 Malika

  28 Hannah

  29 Hannah

  30 Hannah

  31 Hannah

  32 Hannah

  33 Hannah

  34 Malika

  Part Three: One month until race day!

  35 Hannah

  36 Malika

  37 Hannah

  38 Hannah

  39 Hannah

  40 Malika

  41 Hannah

  42 Cassie

  43 Hannah

  44 Hannah

  45 Malika

  46 Hannah

  47 Hannah

  48 Hannah

  Epilogue: Two months later

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Part One

  Three months until race day!

  1

  Hannah

  Like many strange and questionable decisions Hannah had made in her life, it all began with wine.

  Red wine, in particular ; the perfect ingredient for casual life destruction. As Hannah pulled the bottle of own-brand Merlot from the crumpled Tesco carrier bag, she considered how it would always begin so innocently. You vow to have one, with the best of intentions, and before you know it, you’re knocking back an entire bottle of supermarket plonk, putting the world to rights while munching through a box of chocolate fingers that was meant to be your contribution to your boss’s birthday buffet.

  Hannah had a distinct feeling of how the evening would go down even before the ruby-red liquid threatened to spill over the brim of her glass. She watched it intently, totting up the days in her head : eight weeks, three days and approximately two hours since Dan’s hasty departure from the house – and quite possibly her life – during which time the occasional glass or gin in a tin had swiftly morphed from post-work treat into a well-heeled evening ritual. It was comforting ; that little taste of bliss in an otherwise solitary evening.

  Hannah kicked off her shoes in the hallway. A scuffed black pair that made her toes feel as pinched as her smile after a nine-hour day at Travel Town, putting together bespoke holiday packages for lucky jet-setters who’d swoop in, giddy with excitement, visions of infinity pools and Insta-worthy cocktails dancing in their eyes. It was difficult not to feel envious.

  She headed into the living room, bottle in one hand and glass in the other, and slumped down on the sofa, its scratchy blue material prompting yet another reminder of Dan. He’d insisted on it – she hated it – yet they were still paying off the damn thing. Hannah flicked on the TV, navigating to the crime drama she’d been watching on Netflix, grateful for the background noise that made the house feel that little less empty. She took a long-awaited sip of wine, sighing as the warmth hit her throat.

  The sun was still shining, beating down onto the terraced street. The recent summer heat had brought with it a wave of humidity that others welcomed, beckoning them outside. It was too hot to keep the windows closed, so Hannah was forced to listen to the sounds of everyone else’s happiness sneaking in, unwanted : children playing, families and friends gathered in nearby gardens, their tinkling laughter floating in past the curtains like an unwelcome ghost. All she could do was endure it, stuck in the living room that was now too big for her alone.

  On the screen a mystery was unfolding, a police officer poised and ready to burst into a suspect’s run-down apartment, but Hannah wasn’t paying attention. She tried, but the story was drifting, drifting until it was out of focus. She’d spent hours longing to come home and retreat to the comfort of her sofa, only to find herself wishing now that she was anywhere else. All it took was a slight reminder – a loved-up couple perhaps, all dreamy-eyed, swanning in to book their honeymoon – and Hannah was jolted back to only months before, when everything was seemingly fine. Now, she was surrounded by reminders. Dan’s belongings were still scattered around the house ; his books on the shelf, clothes in the wardrobe, golf clubs in the garage from that month he embarked on another new hobby, one he neglected weeks later. He’d only taken what he could pack in his solitary suitcase. Surely that wasn’t enough?

  Surely, he’d have to come back?

  The memory of the night he told her was still fresh, as if she’d been dealt the blow only yesterday. It wasn’t something she could easily forget. Hannah could wake to wailing sirens, orange skies and the beginning of the apocalypse only to see Dan’s pitiful expression on that evening. It was etched in there like a recurring bad dream, even worse than that nude-in-the-supermarket one that had haunted her for years.

  Dan had come home – a Tuesday, bolognese night – and had wolfed down the meal Hannah had lovingly cooked before blurting out the whole sorry story. Leaving. She’d dropped her fork but didn’t notice, her gaze fixed instead on her husband, who was saying things that didn’t quite compute. His mouth was moving, but the words coming out of it didn’t make sense. It was as if he’d been replaced. With what, she didn’t know – maybe some kind of reverse Stepford scenario – but he didn’t sound like the Dan she knew.

  So she’d listened, mutely. Waited for him to finish. Blinked, watched, listened some more as the words tumbled from his sauce-stained lips.

  ‘Not happy.’

  ‘Want a break.’

  Hannah had sat, numb, as her world descended into silence. Words came but made no sense. They lingered, waiting for her to collect them from the newly cold air and comprehend them.

  ‘Moving out for a while.’

  ‘Best for us.’

  And the absolute kicker, the one that made Hannah feel as though her soul were rapidly leaving her body :

  ‘I’ve been seeing someone else.’

  Frozen at the table, she’d tried in vain to formulate a coherent sentence as the life she’d known for twenty-three years – seven years of coupledom before sixteen years of marriage – collapsed around her.

  ‘Why?’ she’d muttered finally.

  Saying it was a struggle. Hannah knew that she sounded different, mouse-like. She hated it.

  Dan’s eyes couldn’t meet hers. ‘It just happened,’ he said sheepishly. ‘You can’t really help who you fall for, can you?’

  Hannah had almost laughed and would have if the reality of her situation hadn’t rendered her completely numb.

  ‘Seriously, Dan? You can’t help who you fall for? That’s the most clichéd bollocks I’ve heard in a long time. You can help it. By not cheating on your wife, for starters. Why didn’t you talk to me?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘It wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘Who is she, then?’

  Dan had the grace to look slightly ashamed. ‘She’s a personal trainer,’ he confessed. ‘From the gym.’

  Hannah’s insides turned to stone. A personal trainer. Is this some kind of midlife crisis? she wondered. Mo
st victims came home with a cringe-inducing sports car, but here was Dan, her loving, reliable, handsome Dan, running off with a personal trainer from Gym4Less. No wonder he’d been spending so much time there lately. And Hannah thought he had finally started to take exercise seriously, after a wellness day at work had scared him into a health kick. Clearly, she’d been wrong.

  Dan was looking remarkably fitter, Hannah mused, then regretted it.

  He’s dumped me for a fit woman, she thought. Everything I’m not.

  The tears had come then, blurring the scenery, the kitchen they’d decorated together. Their home. Their dreams.

  Of course, there were some dreams that hadn’t come true. But after everything, Hannah didn’t expect this.

  ‘I’ll pack my stuff, then,’ said Dan, dropping his dish into the sink before heading up the stairs.

  It’s just a blip, Hannah told herself, retreating to the bathroom. She turned on the shower so that Dan couldn’t hear her sobbing as he hastily threw as many belongings as he could into their favourite holiday suitcase. These things happen. It won’t last long.

  Sadly, it had lasted for more than two months.

  Hannah took another sip. The TV cop had made her arrest, but Hannah felt restless. Tipsy now, her eyes travelled to her phone. One quick look, she thought, unable to resist the temptation. She pulled up Facebook.

  She typed in his name. Dan had unfriended her – easier that way, he’d said – but he didn’t realise just how many photos he’d left public.

  There he was. Dan Saunders. Sitting in a sunny pub garden in his profile photo, in a T-shirt she didn’t recognise. Hannah clicked on the photo, enlarging it.

  Dan’s smile made Hannah’s heart soar with longing before she caught sight of the rogue arm and tendrils of long chestnut hair that fell over a tanned shoulder. She may have been cropped out, but Hannah knew instantly that the glowing, toned arm belonged to Sophia.

  Dan hadn’t revealed too much about his elusive new fling, but it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to find out what she needed to know. Social media provided all the answers. Sophia Sandford was the polar opposite of Hannah. Effortlessly beautiful ; tall and slim with perfect hair and a look so polished that it screamed ‘success’. Sophia looked as though she’d stepped out of a glossy magazine. Photos showed her small, super-fit body adorned with fitness gear. A body to show off. Not that Hannah could blame her. If I looked like that I would walk around Tesco in the buff, she thought.

  Hannah could never look like Sophia. She’d tried over the years before she realised that it was completely impossible. Hannah was naturally curvy, having taken after her mum’s side of the family. She was shorter, too, and Hannah had much preferred long jumpers and dresses that concealed her body rather than putting it on display. Unlike Sophia, with her long, cascading hair and tight-fitting dresses that clung to every toned curve. Hannah’s own hair, dyed blonde to cover the greys that had been creeping in since her thirties, sat just above her shoulders.

  She stared at the profile photo again. Had it really ‘just happened’, or had Dan been looking for someone else the whole time?

  Hannah took another sip of Merlot and clicked the image away. On Facebook, one of her former colleagues reclined on a tropical beach, sipping a vivid orange concoction. #Blessed. For a brief moment, Hannah pictured herself escaping. Leaving Bristol for a few days, stuffing her old blue bikini and trusty bum-concealing sarong into a bag and jetting away somewhere sunny. She’d buy the giant, pineapple-shaped lilo she saw in town and float along in the pool, clutching a drink of her own. It was a perfect sun-kissed fantasy – until she realised that her bikini was likely three sizes too small by now and her bank balance could barely get her to Skegness, let alone Portugal.

  Facebook was a portal of despair when your life was shit, Hannah knew. Yet, she couldn’t help looking. Before she could stop herself, her fingers hovered over the search bar.

  Sophia Sandford.

  As expected, Hannah felt sick. The wine swirled in her stomach. Hannah had visited the profile almost nightly, somehow unable to stop torturing herself. There was nothing new about Dan on the page, but Hannah’s shaking hand ventured to the photos once again, perusing the gym selfies and beach photos and night-out snaps that she’d seen a million times. Not only was Sophia beautiful, but she was also thirty-three. Dan had left Hannah to sample pastures greener. And fitter. And over a decade younger.

  In one photo Sophia was mid-run, grinning among a crowd. Hannah swiped. Now, Sophia was holding a medal, glowing with pride.

  ‘If that’s who I’m up against, I’m stuffed,’ Hannah slurred, defeated.

  Glass in hand, she let the tears come. She went to get up, but her head felt light. Hannah looked at the bottle on the coffee table, noticing the mere drip left at the bottom. She’d worked her way through almost the entire thing. She shuffled off the sofa to get to her feet, thinking it might be best to go to bed, but as she stumbled unsteadily to the door with all the grace of a baby learning to walk, she stubbed her toe on the coffee table.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she yelled.

  Her phone bounced onto the floor.

  Hannah bent down to retrieve it, noticing, thankfully, that Sophia’s page was gone. Her newsfeed appeared instead. As the room began to spin, something caught Hannah’s eye.

  FANCY A CHALLENGE?

  There are still places available for the Great South-West Marathon!

  The bright advert beamed out enticingly. The words danced in front of Hannah’s eyes. A marathon?

  REGISTER NOW!

  Hannah let out a laugh. She stared down at the ad, at the smiling runners who beamed back up at her as if to say join us. Then an image of Dan appeared in the forefront of her mind. Dan obviously liked fit women. Maybe that’s where I went wrong, Hannah thought. Maybe I should have shown more interest. She pictured herself as a runner with a medal of her own, smiling as she ran through the crowd, Dan’s arms outstretched as he waited for her at the finish line.

  It’s only a run! It can’t be that difficult, surely? If thousands of people can do it, so can I. I’ll start tomorrow! I’ll run across fields and mountains and be like those women in the sportswear ads …

  It came to her like a message from the heavens. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

  Her hands wavered as she hit ‘Register’. She laughed, filling in her card details, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this before.

  The words were fuzzy on the screen.

  Congratulations, you’re all set!

  ‘Yes!’ Hannah yelled to the air. ‘I’m going to run a marathon. I’ll be fit and fast and bloody amazing.’ She posted a quick update on her own Facebook page before flopping back onto the sofa.

  Where, promptly, she fell asleep.

  The following morning, Hannah awoke to a pounding headache and thirty-eight new Facebook notifications.

  Thirty-eight? Hannah thought. That’s unusual.

  Bringing the phone closer to her face, she squinted in a desperate attempt to quell the pain behind her eyes and the sickness in her stomach, not to mention the disgusting furry taste in her mouth. Hannah glimpsed the near-empty bottle of Merlot on the coffee table and felt a momentary hint of shame.

  Nervously, Hannah looked at the notifications. Usually she’d have two, six at the most. Maybe as many as thirty on her birthday, but certainly not on a normal day. She waited for the screen to fall into focus and when she finally saw the words, her throat felt tight and the bile in her stomach began to rise.

  So GUESS WAHT??? Gonna be running the GREAT SOUHT WEST MARATHOOOOON! Go meee! Just singed up, time to get fit & fast!!!

  Oh no.

  Please, no.

  A vague memory of the previous night began to surface. Hannah looked again, willing the words to disappear and prove she was still asleep, mid nightmare. But she wasn’t. She’d definitely typed those words.

  Her best friend Bronwen had been first to comment :

  E
r, Han? Those typos tell me you’re sozzled. Are you?? You need to tell me more when we meet! Anyway … GO, HANNAH!!

  XX

  Beneath Bronwen, other friends and acquaintances had posted their own good-luck wishes :

  Well done, Han! Wish I was as brave as you!

  A marathon! Wow! that’s fantastic, Hannah. Good luck!

  GO HAN! GO HAN! Xxx

  Wow, 26.2 miles! I’d keel over before I got to two. Good luck, Han, we’ll be cheering you on!

  Twenty-six point two miles.

  Hannah had signed up to run twenty-six (and a bit!) miles.

  Sure enough, sitting in her inbox was the congratulatory email from the Great South-West Marathon team. She hadn’t imagined it. There was her name, her registration number, happily reminding her that she’d be running a marathon.

  And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the race was in three months’ time.

  Hannah felt the colour drain from her face. Run. She could barely run to the bottom of the street for the bus without becoming a breathless, sweaty mess. Hannah hadn’t done any proper exercise in years. And yet she’d willingly, drunkenly, idiotically volunteered to run an entire marathon, in front of everyone. The room began to swirl and sway in front of her eyes as the jarring light of the morning crept through the curtains, along with the nasty smack of reality.

  Twenty. Six. Miles.

  Suddenly, the unkind lurch of last night’s wine rose to her throat at the sheer thought of it. She made it to the bathroom just in time.

  That’s it, she resolved. I’m never drinking again.

  2

  Malika

  Malika missed the smell of flowers.

  It was odd, really ; just recently, she’d hated it. Hated the acrid stench of the initial sweetness beginning to ripen and rot. She couldn’t stand the way it wafted past her nose every morning, a strange attack on her senses. A harsh reminder. Of course, it had once been pleasant. For a time, the aroma had permeated the office of Rocket Recruitment, provoking fond memories of childhood visits to her grandmother’s house. Her beloved gran would buy artful bouquets from the local florist and each week a new arrangement would sit on the hallway table, next to the old telephone. But, as with her grandmother, the charming scent had become cloying, entwined with another feeling – loss.