The Ice Marathon by Rosen Trevithick

and recognised that ‘Aw’ didn’t really cut it, but what else could
I say?
    “He died running the Antarctic Ice Marathon.”
    “Ah. Now I’m starting to understand. How did he die?”
    “Undiagnosed heart condition.”
    “Shit.” Subconsciously I placed my hand on my tummy.
    “So I’m going to finish his marathon for him.”
    “Wow,” I said. I hadn’t expected that. I found myself
enormously impressed – I certainly hadn’t expected that ! Then, for some
reason, I just couldn’t help myself adding, “A bit rude, though, wasn’t it?
Couldn’t he have died during a warmer race?”
    Why did I do that? Why did I have to say something stupid?
Why didn’t I just do the sensitive thing and then shut my mouth? Damn my
inappropriate sense of humour.
    I was surprised to see that he was laughing. “I know! That’s
what I thought. Or perhaps an egg and spoon race.”
    We both chuckled. Apparently, we had a similar sense of
humour. I was enjoying this, getting on with my son’s father. It was going to
make the rest of my life so much easier. It was a shame it had started so
badly.
    “Simon …” “Emma …” we spoke simultaneously.
    “You go.”
    “No, you go.”
    “I was just going to say …” I paused. “I just wanted to
say that I’m sorry, for being so rude to you at that dinner party.”
    “I didn’t think you were rude. Feisty, maybe. Argumentative,
definitely.”
    I buried my head in my hands.
    “Don’t sweat. It was obvious that you’d had a bad day.”
    I looked up. “Thank you,” I mouthed.
    “If you do change your mind about me finding you a
house …”
    “Don’t push it!” I snapped, then laughed.
    “Let me get you another cup of tea,” he said, giving me a
friendly pat on the shoulder. I was going to go after him and protest against a
guest having to make tea, but then I remembered the memories that the kitchen
held, and decided it was safer to stay put.

Chapter 6
    September brought thunderstorms and gale force winds. No
rooftop was left unscathed, no dustbin left upright. The trees became more torn
and tattered with every hour. Rubbish blended with leaves, littering the
streets. It wasn’t the ideal time to be house hunting.
    By now, my bump was getting rather sizeable. I felt like an
elephant and the extra weight was definitely taking its toll on my energy
levels. Nevertheless, elephantine proportions or not, I was determined to find
a place to live.
    Nicky and Dave had been absolutely lovely about the baby and
assured me that I could stay as long as I liked. However, knowing how much they
longed for a child of their own, raising my son under their noses would be too
cruel.
    My dislike of letting agents grew with every day. ‘A
charming starter home in the suburbs’ would turn out to be a squat on the
moors. ‘A spacious, central apartment’ would be a studio flat on the outskirts.
    However, today was different. Today I’d found somewhere that
sounded perfect even after I’d translated agent speak. It was a small terraced
house on a road only half a mile from where I lived now. It boasted central
heating, double-glazing and a newly fitted kitchen – specific things that
couldn’t possibly be subjective. What’s more, the website said ‘Perfect for a
small child’.
    I decided to walk, forgetting about my hippo tummy and in
denial about the rain. It was only half a mile, right?
    By the time that I arrived at Farmview Drive, I resembled a
load dragged out of a washing machine, through a hedge and then flung into a
swamp. My clothes were drenched, my hair hung in sodden rats’ tails and the
housing details that I printed off the web were now in tatters. Fortunately,
the house looked lovely.
    “Good afternoon!” said a particularly chipper young man, who
appeared to be bone dry. “Is it just for yourself?” he asked.
    I looked down at my bulging tummy.
    “And the little one,” he added. “What I meant was: you are single, right?”
    I nodded, taken