‘them’ camp. The impressive curves of his arms are glistening, his cropped hair is shiny with sweat. Yet he looks no more than mildly invigorated; like a marine who’s run 10 kilometres to warm up for a double marathon. I resent him even more now.
‘Do you need a drink?’ His expression softens as he offers me some water. I’m dying for a drink, but the thought of the wretched taste in my mouth transferring to his bottle makes it out of the question.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Towel?’
‘No, thanks,’ I repeat, realising we’re way too close to the gutter. I hastily start walking towards the sports hall. He’s a second behind me, but after two strides, has caught up.
‘Why are you being nice to me?’ I ask. ‘Do you feel guilty about attempting to land me with an insurance premium Bill Gates would struggle to pay?’
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘Do you feel guilty about causing a ton of damage to a motorbike I’ve had for less than four months?’
‘It’s still up for discussion that I was at fault,’ I reply.
‘If you say so,’ he replies, clearly finding that amusing.
‘I do,’ I sniff, pausing for a second. ‘Motorbikes are notoriously dangerous.’
‘So are crap drivers.’ Cue a killer glance. Which he ignores. Instead, he says, ‘What have you got against motorbikes anyway?’
‘I don’t like them, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, not wanting this philosophical debate. ‘They’re so unnecessarily hazardous.’ The indignant look on his face makes me want to continue. ‘I question what sort of person would choose to ride something like that when they could drive a car instead.’
‘Have you ever been on one?’ he asks.
‘No. And I don’t want to, thanks.’
‘Then you’re not qualified to judge.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘How can you possibly make sweeping statements when you’ve never been on one? If you had, you’d understand their appeal.’
‘I don’t need to murder someone to confirm that I’d never want to be a serial killer,’ I tell him.
‘Hardly comparable.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you denying that, statistically, motorbikes are more dangerous than virtually anything else on the road?’
‘Let me ask you something,’ he replies. ‘How many times have you crashed your car in the last five years?’
I stiffen. ‘An . . . average number of times.’
‘Well then,’ he says, with a self-satisfied shrug. ‘I have never – and I mean never – been in any form of collision with a motorbike since I first rode one aged nineteen. Until you nearly killed me, that is.’
‘I did not nearly kill you.’
I look up and see Jess marching towards me with a worried look on her face. I turn back to Tom, who’s still got that smug smile on his face.
‘Right, well, I’m off. Goodbye,’ I say sharply and start walking away.
‘See you at the next session,’ he calls after me, with feigned chirpiness.
‘There won’t be a next session,’ I growl, glancing over my shoulder. ‘Not for me anyway.’
‘Really? That’s a shame,’ he calls back. ‘We’ve never had anyone throw up before. It hasn’t been this exciting for ages.’
Chapter 11
My accountant has the scruffiest shoes I’ve ever come across. They’re brown suede, with scuffed toes and laces that look like they’ve been chewed by a hamster.
I have nothing against anyone exercising their right to wear scruffy shoes, by the way. Hell, I’ve got some battered flip-flops that I can’t let go of, despite years of abuse in everywhere from Goa to my grandad’s vegetable patch. But the footwear currently sported by Egor Brown ACA does ring an alarm bell in my mind. Shouldn’t successful accountants be rolling in money, and therefore wearing the best shoes money can buy? To be fair to Egor, he did only graduate last year. Maybe he’ll be in Guccis in five years.
I reach for a biscuit and wince in pain. The running club was three days ago and I appear to be
‘Do you need a drink?’ His expression softens as he offers me some water. I’m dying for a drink, but the thought of the wretched taste in my mouth transferring to his bottle makes it out of the question.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Towel?’
‘No, thanks,’ I repeat, realising we’re way too close to the gutter. I hastily start walking towards the sports hall. He’s a second behind me, but after two strides, has caught up.
‘Why are you being nice to me?’ I ask. ‘Do you feel guilty about attempting to land me with an insurance premium Bill Gates would struggle to pay?’
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘Do you feel guilty about causing a ton of damage to a motorbike I’ve had for less than four months?’
‘It’s still up for discussion that I was at fault,’ I reply.
‘If you say so,’ he replies, clearly finding that amusing.
‘I do,’ I sniff, pausing for a second. ‘Motorbikes are notoriously dangerous.’
‘So are crap drivers.’ Cue a killer glance. Which he ignores. Instead, he says, ‘What have you got against motorbikes anyway?’
‘I don’t like them, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, not wanting this philosophical debate. ‘They’re so unnecessarily hazardous.’ The indignant look on his face makes me want to continue. ‘I question what sort of person would choose to ride something like that when they could drive a car instead.’
‘Have you ever been on one?’ he asks.
‘No. And I don’t want to, thanks.’
‘Then you’re not qualified to judge.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘How can you possibly make sweeping statements when you’ve never been on one? If you had, you’d understand their appeal.’
‘I don’t need to murder someone to confirm that I’d never want to be a serial killer,’ I tell him.
‘Hardly comparable.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you denying that, statistically, motorbikes are more dangerous than virtually anything else on the road?’
‘Let me ask you something,’ he replies. ‘How many times have you crashed your car in the last five years?’
I stiffen. ‘An . . . average number of times.’
‘Well then,’ he says, with a self-satisfied shrug. ‘I have never – and I mean never – been in any form of collision with a motorbike since I first rode one aged nineteen. Until you nearly killed me, that is.’
‘I did not nearly kill you.’
I look up and see Jess marching towards me with a worried look on her face. I turn back to Tom, who’s still got that smug smile on his face.
‘Right, well, I’m off. Goodbye,’ I say sharply and start walking away.
‘See you at the next session,’ he calls after me, with feigned chirpiness.
‘There won’t be a next session,’ I growl, glancing over my shoulder. ‘Not for me anyway.’
‘Really? That’s a shame,’ he calls back. ‘We’ve never had anyone throw up before. It hasn’t been this exciting for ages.’
Chapter 11
My accountant has the scruffiest shoes I’ve ever come across. They’re brown suede, with scuffed toes and laces that look like they’ve been chewed by a hamster.
I have nothing against anyone exercising their right to wear scruffy shoes, by the way. Hell, I’ve got some battered flip-flops that I can’t let go of, despite years of abuse in everywhere from Goa to my grandad’s vegetable patch. But the footwear currently sported by Egor Brown ACA does ring an alarm bell in my mind. Shouldn’t successful accountants be rolling in money, and therefore wearing the best shoes money can buy? To be fair to Egor, he did only graduate last year. Maybe he’ll be in Guccis in five years.
I reach for a biscuit and wince in pain. The running club was three days ago and I appear to be
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