The frosty blonde, I notice, is casting interested looks over in our direction – well, specifically his direction. He is quite attractive, I suppose, apart from the geeky glasses. Not that I’m at all interested. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, I’ve grown quite cynical about love. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there are probably lots of men my age who are basically decent, caring human beings. It’s just I’ve never actually met one that I was attracted to. The sad fact is, the guys I’ve been out with invariably end up being more of a disappointment than anything. And it’s not because I’m too picky, either. I suppose I’ve just been unlucky.
I think of Jason, the love of my life. The man who first disappointed me by breaking up with me in order to take up with Lucy (Lucifer) Slater, the horrible bully who tormented me throughout my schooldays. We were just eighteen when we split up, but I truly loved Jason Findlay and I was completely and utterly devastated when it ended. He was the first boy I ever properly kissed. That momentous event happened when I was fifteen, round the back of Hart’s End Youth Club, and after that kiss, we were inseparable for a long time. Until I decided to go away to university and Lucy Slater got her claws into him …
The man opposite shifts in his seat – possibly getting a little over-engrossed in crotches (‘gross’ being the operative word) – and our legs accidentally collide.
‘Sorry,’ he says with a lopsided grin. ‘I’m having trouble getting my muscles to relax.’
I shake my head. ‘Sounds nasty.’
‘It is. I’ve just run a marathon and they ache like crazy.’ He shifts them around.
‘Ah!’
‘I guess I should have started my training earlier.’ He grins and goes back to his book which, looking at the cover the right way up, I suddenly realise isn’t about crotches at all. My upside-down reading clearly needs some work. The book he’s so enthralled by is actually called Adventures with Crochet. (Which, to be fair, sets my mind boggling all over again.) There’s a colourful crocheted doll on the cover and a jolly border made from one long line of crochet, like I used to make when I was a little girl and Gran taught me.
I observe him curiously beneath my eyelashes. He certainly doesn’t look like a crochet enthusiast, with his rugby player’s body and big hands that would surely be way too clumsy to wield a crochet hook. But appearances can be deceptive. For all I know, he might also be a whiz at macramé and enjoy whipping up the odd summer fruit soufflé in his spare time. It was probably very politically incorrect of me to picture a crochet enthusiast as an elderly lady with a cat curled at her feet. Yes, in fact, good for him!
His brow is tense as if he’s concentrating hard. He’s obviously a ‘metrosexual’. The sort of man who’d feel perfectly at home exhibiting his macaroons in a Women’s Institute tent. Although why I should be so curious about someone I don’t even–
‘Excuse me,’ says a slightly breathy voice.
I glance up and so does Mr Needlepoint. The voice belongs to the blonde I spotted earlier.
‘Sorry to interrupt, but did I hear you say you’d just run a marathon?’ She bats her extensive eyelashes at him.
‘Twenty-six miles of hell,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Usually I enjoy them but today’s was tough going for some reason.’
‘So you’ve run marathons before?’
He nods. ‘Dozens.’
Her hazel eyes open wide in admiration, and I find myself fascinated by her make-up. Her eyelids are like two perfectly matching mini canvases, artfully brushed with shades of gold, pink and purple, fringed with dark, curled lashes. Mr Needlepoint seems quite taken with them, too.
‘Sorry, I should explain.’ She sits down next to me in a cloud of flowery perfume, while continuing to completely ignore me. ‘I’m Olivia.’
‘Theo Steel.’ They shake hands and as an afterthought, she turns to me.
‘Twilight.’ I wait for the reaction. Most people smile in surprise at the unusual name, which is exactly what Olivia does. Her hand feels thin and icy cold. She turns back to Theo.
‘So I have a friend who’s spearheading a “Get Hart’s End Fit!” campaign. I assume you live around here?’ She includes me in this query.
I nod. ‘My parents live in Hart’s End.’
‘Lake Heath,’ says Theo, naming a neighbouring village a few miles from Hart’s End, further along the track.
‘Well, my friend wants as many people as possible to take part in a 10k run she’s organising for charity.’ She gives Theo a coy look. ‘And you’re obviously very fit.’
‘Well … I don’t know about that.’
‘Oh, but you must be. Running all those marathons.’
‘I suppose …’
‘And those lovely, hard muscles must be the result of an awful lot of weight training,’ she says, gazing admiringly at his arms.
I want to snicker, she says it so flirtatiously. But Mr Needlepoint seems to be lapping it up.
‘So will you do it?’ she asks.
He smiles. ‘Sure. When is it?’
She gets up. ‘I’ve got some leaflets in my bag.’ Returning, she hands him one, then looks doubtfully at me. ‘Would you be interested?’ Her icy gaze slides over me then lingers on my arms and their distinct lack, in my short-sleeved top, of any obvious muscle definition.
I almost laugh out loud. ‘Er, I don’t think so.’ I mean, I’m all for charity fund-raising, but running when you don’t have to? Isn’t that a bit perverse? No, the only exercise I get these days is transporting tins of cake mix from the bench to the oven, and that’s quite enough for me, thank you very much!
Her eyes are full of disapproval so I lean closer and murmur in a confidential manner: ‘Mind you, I did get on the exercise bike the other day. For a whole forty-five minutes!’ I
