There’s an awkward silence as Olivia stares at me in a bemused fashion, not getting the joke at all, and I feel an embarrassed heat washing up my neck. Thankfully Mr Needlepoint lets out a burst of laughter. At which point Olivia, presumably taking her cue from him, makes her mouth smile as if she’s terribly amused, too. Which she quite clearly isn’t.
‘But listen, Dawn, exercise is extremely important to overall fitness,’ she says, eyeballing me urgently, as if I’m in danger of keeling over from ill health at any second.
‘It’s Twilight. And I have got stamina,’ I tell her confidently.
‘Oh?’ She frowns, clearly thrown by this unexpected nugget.
‘Yes, tons of it.’ I once heard my dad telling a neighbour that while my running technique might not be the best, I did at least have great stamina. Admittedly, I was only seven at the time and the race in question was a modest egg and spoon. But for some reason, this idea stuck and has since become part of family folklore. (I imagine my descendants, years from now, being impressed to learn of their great-great-grandmother’s quite astonishing reserves of stamina.)
‘Right. Good.’ Olivia moves swiftly on. ‘And obviously clean eating is also absolutely vital to good health. Do you eat clean food?’
I’m a bit taken aback. What on earth is she suggesting? ‘Well, I always wash my strawberries.’
Theo laughs, obviously thinking I’m cracking another joke.
Olivia shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. I’m talking about a clean diet. No processed junk. Just fresh food and preferably raw, whenever possible. Actually, it’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle. I never touch sugar these days. Or gluten. Or dairy. Ugh!’ She gives a little shiver of disgust. ‘Clean eating is absolutely the way forward for a healthy mind, body and soul. Wouldn’t you agree?’ She addresses Mr Needlepoint. Obviously. Because why would a chunky, doughnut-scoffing no-hoper like me have anything interesting to say on the matter?
Theo clears his throat. ‘Well, I’m not convinced cutting out whole food groups is necessarily a good idea, but you can’t go wrong with plenty of exercise and your five-a-day.’ He glances at me for confirmation.
Obligingly, I nod and say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Five-a-day. Absolutely. Wouldn’t touch cake with a bargepole.’
There’s a flicker of approval in Olivia’s eyes – then she lights on my open notebook. ‘What’s this?’ Picking it up, she reads aloud from my list. ‘Sultana scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream (extra thick).’ She gazes at me in mild alarm then goes back to the list, reading each item in a tone of increasing disbelief. ‘Traditional butter cake, layered with white icing and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Buttery cherry and coconut cake. Gooey double chocolate fudge cake with a topping of milk chocolate ganache, decorated with chocolate buttons.’ She looks as if she’s about to faint.
Theo is trying not to grin but failing miserably. I wish this Olivia person would just bugger off. I’m feeling about three inches tall and very guilty, which is ridiculous. It’s a café menu, for goodness’ sake. Not what I’m planning to have for my dinner later.
‘Right, well, each to his own, I suppose.’ She drops the notebook as if it’s contaminated and stands up, brushing imaginary fluff from her impossibly neat rear end. ‘Personally, I always carry an emergency salad,’ she confides, reaching into her handbag with a satisfied smile. She draws out a small Tupperware box and snaps it open. ‘Celery anyone?’
It seems only polite to take some. ‘Nice.’ I nod, crunching my bite-sized stick. Actually, I’m not joking. It tastes deliciously fresh.
‘Organic,’ she says, offering the box to Theo, who declines with a polite smile.
As she leaves, she glances over her shoulder (obviously not at me) and purrs, ‘Do phone if you’ve any questions about the 10k. My number’s on the back of the leaflet.’
Theo assures her he certainly will and even gives her a cheerful little wink. I conclude he probably fancies her. And let’s face it, it would be a bit rude not to. Olivia is blonde, willowy slim and very pretty. She could be a model.
I bet Theo gets in touch with Olivia, 10k or not. I stare out of the window, wondering why I feel deflated.
The fields and houses rattle past and I think about Mum and Dad in London, facing the biggest hurdle of their lives.
‘The trouble with celery,’ murmurs Theo suddenly, ‘is that it’s ninety-five per cent water and one hundred per cent not pizza.’ I look over and he bestows a wink on me, too, which cheers me up no end.
He gets back to his adventures with crochet and I apply myself with renewed enthusiasm to expanding the list of mouth-watering carbs in my notebook.
But the gentle rocking of the train is dangerously soporific. The words in blue Biro keep blurring into one – ‘chocolate honeycomb slice’ merging with ‘buttery cherry and coconut cake’.
I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’ve been waking monotonously regularly at some ghastly pre-dawn hour, my brain leaping instantly into worry mode. If I were to close my eyes now, I’d probably end up in Lake Heath, which is the end of the line. I need to stay awake.
In less than half an hour, I’ll be alighting at Hart’s End Station and walking back into the old family home, with all its familiar nooks and crannies and memories. But with one big difference.
There’ll be no Mum to fuss over me and put the kettle on. And no Dad to greet me with one of his big, comforting bear hugs.
A pang of grief hits me.
I wanted to be with them at my aunt’s house in London. That’s where they’re staying while Dad has the pioneering medical treatment that we desperately hope will improve his quality of life. (I try not to dwell on the very best scenario – that the treatment could actually halt the cancer in its
