She had never felt so zippy. So much so she was considering doing the same again before Sunday lunches with her family. That way when Raven moved on, which she inevitably would, and Flo went back to her life, which she inevitably would, Sue might have the fortitude to stand up to her mother and Katie who, no doubt, would make it very clear for years to come how ridiculous she’d been to choose the cycle ride over a ‘holiday’ in the Canaries.
Although … some of that vroom vroom was fading away now that they were approaching Gilsland which, true to Flo’s elevation watch, was quite the uphill journey.
I think I can, I think … I can, I … think … I … can, IIIII think IIIIII caaaaaaan.
Hmmm.
Those gel packs weren’t quite the cure alls she’d originally thought.
‘Heading back to see your friends? That’s the spirit. Remember …’ Dean-O tapped his Gore-Tex covered heart. ‘Now that you know you’ve got it in here, to get up there …’ He pointed to the top of the hill, ‘… you know you can do anything.’ He gave her a wave and then, though she felt she was pedalling as hard as she could, first one, then another, then another cyclist passed her until a grim-faced Raven, and a strapped-up Flo were flanking her as if she had been the one needing their support all along. One step forward, a thousand back. But perhaps not quite as alone as she’d thought.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
‘And you’re getting on alright? With food and waterproofs and everything? How’s that watch working out for you?’
For the first time in their lives, Stuart was the one propping up the conversation. Florence simply didn’t know what to say to him. No idea whatsoever as to how to confront the fact she’d bulldozed into his lovely, contented life and then commandeered the rest of it for her own pleasure.
‘I’ve been enjoying all of those ready meals you put in the freezer for me,’ Stu said. Flo could hear him pat-pat-pat his belly, the sound so familiar and dear to her she almost burst into tears. There was so much she had to say to him, so many things to apologise for but each time she tried the words lodged in her throat like undercooked porridge.
‘How about you? Are they feeding you well? With all of that weather you’re having, I’m surprised they haven’t called the thing off. Good job it wasn’t camping as you’d originally thought, eh?’
‘Oh, you know … it’s the British way isn’t it? Stiff upper lip and all that,’ she said, hoping Stu couldn’t hear her stomach grumble. Everyone had gone to supper now. She simply hadn’t been able to face the large, increasingly motley crew at the pub crowing about mileage and near misses with tractors as they zipped up and down the extraordinarily steep hills on the way to Gilsland. That Hadrian must’ve been made of adrenaline. A latter day Iron Man. On her watch, the elevation had read like a heart rate monitor – the graph lurching upwards and downwards like someone suffering tachycardia. Peak and trough and peak and trough. Sue and Raven had very, very kindly pushed their bikes up alongside Flo as Becky shouted out encouragement and sang along to her ‘happy mix’ which she had played at full volume, windows down, despite the ever-present rain. Becky and the crew were off at the pub feasting upon hamburgers which were, apparently, a gift brought to Britain from the Romans if Trevor’s latest recitation was anything to go by. He’d told her this when he’d tapped on her door to present her with a spare banana and a slightly worse-for-wear packet of crisps when he’d heard she wouldn’t be joining everyone for supper. She’d humiliated herself by weeping when he’d handed them over. Whether it was from the pain of sitting up, or the idea that she’d have to walk the five steps back to her bed, or from the sheer generosity of his gesture, she didn’t know. All three most likely. Today had taken all of the energy she’d possessed. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she would complete tomorrow’s ride which, whilst mercifully shorter, featured the steepest hills of the entire coast-to-coast journey. It would make or break her. If this was the Grand National and she saw herself behind the starting gates, she would place her bets elsewhere. It would serve her right, she supposed. Being wheelchair bound from here on out. A victim of her own foolhardiness.
‘Stu, darling?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘You wouldn’t mind, awfully, putting Captain George on, would you?’
‘Of course not, love. He’s just here, right by my side.’
Wise old pooch.
She waited until she could hear Stu’s chair shifting across the tiles and the rustle of fur against phone before whispering, ‘Hello, my darling George. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I hurt you and abandoned you, but you know you’re in good hands,
