shrugs.
I only do the cool-down stretches to avoid drawing attention to myself, but it is agony. Just thinking about the state of my thigh muscles tomorrow makes me want to weep.
Worse than that though, is the creeping biliousness I’ve been getting since I stopped running. It’s as if my body, having endured the hell I’ve just put it through, is now wreaking its revenge by sending waves of acid through my chest cavity.
‘That’s it, everyone!’ shouts Oliver, as the group disbands and my stomach contracts violently. I’ve got to get out of here.
‘Let’s go,’ I hiss, seriously concerned about the turbulence in my insides. I grab Jess by the arm, but Oliver’s already on his way over.
‘Abby, how did you get on? Do you—’ he pauses mid-sentence and looks at me as if examining a recently run-over cat.
‘Fine!’ I reply, as nausea rages in my stomach and scales my oesophagus. ‘Uhmmm . . . great!’
‘Good,’ he nods, looking concerned. Or appalled. Or both. ‘So you’ll be coming again this week?’
Jess raises an eyebrow. Fortunately, her phone rings and she answers before she has a chance to hear my reply.
‘Oh . . . I’m not sure.’ My stomach is churning like a hyperactive cement mixer, relentlessly and repeatedly turning over. ‘I need to . . . uhmmm . . . I have a lot on this week.’
‘Right,’ says Oliver, raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe another time.’
I hold my breath and for a second it feels as if depriving my body of oxygen has quelled my sickness. The only problem with that theory is that I can’t of course deprive my body of oxygen. Not for long. As I suck air through my nose, my minor surge of relief proves temporary. Instead, I have a surge of something else – and it’s not minor.
In fact, it is SO not minor that I can taste the combination of regurgitated doughnut, Quavers and the three Cadbury’s Roses I nicked from Priya earlier, even before they make their second appearance of the day.
‘I . . .’ I put my hand over my mouth as Oliver looks at me in alarm. In the absence of any good ideas, I do the only thing I can: turn and run. It’s the fastest I’ve moved in the entire session.
With Jess on the phone and apparently oblivious, I dart round the back of the sports centre and, before I can think straight, am pyrotechnically ill in the drain.
Afterwards, I straighten my back, feeling a sour emptiness, as tears prick in my gritty eyes and I sense Jess behind me. I spin round and wipe the corrosive taste from my mouth, thanking God only my best friend got to see this.
Only it’s not Jess. It’s Tom Bloody Bronte.
Chapter 10
Can it get any worse than this?
I’m in the gutter of a car park, looking barely alive with a post-spew glaze in my eyes, while face to face with one of the most perfect physical specimens of manhood I’ve ever encountered. That he’s also proven himself a total tosser in his emails is little comfort.
I’ve always had this weird problem with attractive men. Whether I fancy them or not, I go to pieces in their presence, intimidated by their sheer beauty. With Tom Bronte, this phenomenon takes hold of me with a vice-like grip. His dark looks are so prepossessing, so dazzling, that I can barely look at him without feeling embarrassed. That’s before we even get onto the horrendous facts of this situation.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks. I don’t look at him long enough to scrutinise his expression, but he sounds concerned as I inch away from the cavity into which I vomited.
‘Hmmm,’ I mumble. ‘Must have been something I . . . ate.’
My eyes flick up to catch him studying my face, and it’s then I realise he hadn’t recognised me. Until now. My cheeks ignite with shame.
‘God, it’s you.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You look different.’
‘So glamorous you didn’t recognise me?’ I ask.
Despite the circumstances, as I stand before Tom Bronte, I can’t help marvelling at how firmly he falls into the
I only do the cool-down stretches to avoid drawing attention to myself, but it is agony. Just thinking about the state of my thigh muscles tomorrow makes me want to weep.
Worse than that though, is the creeping biliousness I’ve been getting since I stopped running. It’s as if my body, having endured the hell I’ve just put it through, is now wreaking its revenge by sending waves of acid through my chest cavity.
‘That’s it, everyone!’ shouts Oliver, as the group disbands and my stomach contracts violently. I’ve got to get out of here.
‘Let’s go,’ I hiss, seriously concerned about the turbulence in my insides. I grab Jess by the arm, but Oliver’s already on his way over.
‘Abby, how did you get on? Do you—’ he pauses mid-sentence and looks at me as if examining a recently run-over cat.
‘Fine!’ I reply, as nausea rages in my stomach and scales my oesophagus. ‘Uhmmm . . . great!’
‘Good,’ he nods, looking concerned. Or appalled. Or both. ‘So you’ll be coming again this week?’
Jess raises an eyebrow. Fortunately, her phone rings and she answers before she has a chance to hear my reply.
‘Oh . . . I’m not sure.’ My stomach is churning like a hyperactive cement mixer, relentlessly and repeatedly turning over. ‘I need to . . . uhmmm . . . I have a lot on this week.’
‘Right,’ says Oliver, raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe another time.’
I hold my breath and for a second it feels as if depriving my body of oxygen has quelled my sickness. The only problem with that theory is that I can’t of course deprive my body of oxygen. Not for long. As I suck air through my nose, my minor surge of relief proves temporary. Instead, I have a surge of something else – and it’s not minor.
In fact, it is SO not minor that I can taste the combination of regurgitated doughnut, Quavers and the three Cadbury’s Roses I nicked from Priya earlier, even before they make their second appearance of the day.
‘I . . .’ I put my hand over my mouth as Oliver looks at me in alarm. In the absence of any good ideas, I do the only thing I can: turn and run. It’s the fastest I’ve moved in the entire session.
With Jess on the phone and apparently oblivious, I dart round the back of the sports centre and, before I can think straight, am pyrotechnically ill in the drain.
Afterwards, I straighten my back, feeling a sour emptiness, as tears prick in my gritty eyes and I sense Jess behind me. I spin round and wipe the corrosive taste from my mouth, thanking God only my best friend got to see this.
Only it’s not Jess. It’s Tom Bloody Bronte.
Chapter 10
Can it get any worse than this?
I’m in the gutter of a car park, looking barely alive with a post-spew glaze in my eyes, while face to face with one of the most perfect physical specimens of manhood I’ve ever encountered. That he’s also proven himself a total tosser in his emails is little comfort.
I’ve always had this weird problem with attractive men. Whether I fancy them or not, I go to pieces in their presence, intimidated by their sheer beauty. With Tom Bronte, this phenomenon takes hold of me with a vice-like grip. His dark looks are so prepossessing, so dazzling, that I can barely look at him without feeling embarrassed. That’s before we even get onto the horrendous facts of this situation.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks. I don’t look at him long enough to scrutinise his expression, but he sounds concerned as I inch away from the cavity into which I vomited.
‘Hmmm,’ I mumble. ‘Must have been something I . . . ate.’
My eyes flick up to catch him studying my face, and it’s then I realise he hadn’t recognised me. Until now. My cheeks ignite with shame.
‘God, it’s you.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You look different.’
‘So glamorous you didn’t recognise me?’ I ask.
Despite the circumstances, as I stand before Tom Bronte, I can’t help marvelling at how firmly he falls into the
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