just never bothered to ask.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How much younger?”
“What to the exact day?”
“Exact minute.”
He pretends to think for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope, my shit math’s brain cannot do a sum of that size.”
I giggle, the sound feels strange coming out of my mouth.
“Fancy a drink?” Richard asks.
I should say, ‘no.’ So of course I say, ‘yes,’ and ask, “Vodka?”
“Vodka sounds perfect,” he tells me as he helps gather up my books/impromptu pillows.
“I find vodka fixes most things,” I say.
“Well, then. I am all for that.”
I have no idea what he needs to fix, but hey I am up for drinking vodka with anyone right now. The more problems they have the better. At least I won’t be the only sad bugger.
Later
Shrichard isss meyes news joggin’s shpartner.
November
1st November
Yes, that is right. Richard is my new jogging partner. It’s a bit weird. But after drinking our way through a litre of vodka the other night it seemed like a really good idea. I can’t really back out now, that would look strange.
Tristan is not very impressed. This morning he answered the door to Richard and then came banging along the hallway to my room. “Lilah, there is a dick at the front door dressed in Lycra asking for you.”
When I got to the front door to meet Richard for our arranged (and, yes, I did remember this time) run, Richard was quite adamant that he was not wearing Lycra at all. I was inclined to agree although I tried not to look too hard but from what I could work out he was just wearing football shorts and a T-shirt. Maybe it was the fluorescent headband that ticked Tristan off … only joking.
We went for another killer run from which it will probably take me bloody days to recover. As we went our separate ways and he jogged into his road and I limped toward mine he called over his shoulder. “Fancy coming to a match tomorrow?”
What I wanted to ask was whether he would actually be able to run again after our morning’s exercise. I will be lucky if I can walk. Instead I kept my integrity intact and just told him that I would be working.
“Maybe after, hey?” He winked.
“Yeah,” I replied but what I really meant was, “Yeah, maybe not. Because I will be nursing my poor, sore, bruised muscles at home and in peace.”
I have not spoken to Ben all week, we have had the odd sporadic text conversation but he has not been able to find five minutes to call. I can’t call him because I do not have a number to ring that does not cost a million pounds to dial, and I daren’t use my mobile again because our conversation in the pub garden the other week cost me the best part of thirty quid. I called O2 to make sure my bill was right. Apparently it was, it just costs a lot of money to apologise to your boyfriend long distance.
Right then, I am going to crawl to the bathroom and run a hot bath to ease my legs. I think I am going to have to tell Richard that if he wants me to be a regular jogging partner he is going to have to take it a bit easier.
It hurts now, which makes me think tomorrow is going to be a real bitch.
2nd November
7.30 a.m.
Oh it’s a bitch all right. But that may have more to do with the four bottles of wine Meredith and I consumed.
Oh God, don’t think about the wine.
It all started off so well, a civilised glass of wine along with our pizza and salad. I had a hot water bottle on my thighs to try and ease the intense muscle rupture I was experiencing. At about nine o’clock the doorbell started to ring like there was a person possessed standing on the other side.
Not possessed. Just drunk. It was Beth and Jayne; both two sheets to the wind.
“Shuure, soes shboring now,” declared Jayne with a theatrical wave of her hands, which sent her off balance and into the bookcase.
“Great,” Tristan muttered under his breath before grabbing his new best friend—his iPad—and stalking off to their bedroom.
Meredith
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How much younger?”
“What to the exact day?”
“Exact minute.”
He pretends to think for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope, my shit math’s brain cannot do a sum of that size.”
I giggle, the sound feels strange coming out of my mouth.
“Fancy a drink?” Richard asks.
I should say, ‘no.’ So of course I say, ‘yes,’ and ask, “Vodka?”
“Vodka sounds perfect,” he tells me as he helps gather up my books/impromptu pillows.
“I find vodka fixes most things,” I say.
“Well, then. I am all for that.”
I have no idea what he needs to fix, but hey I am up for drinking vodka with anyone right now. The more problems they have the better. At least I won’t be the only sad bugger.
Later
Shrichard isss meyes news joggin’s shpartner.
November
1st November
Yes, that is right. Richard is my new jogging partner. It’s a bit weird. But after drinking our way through a litre of vodka the other night it seemed like a really good idea. I can’t really back out now, that would look strange.
Tristan is not very impressed. This morning he answered the door to Richard and then came banging along the hallway to my room. “Lilah, there is a dick at the front door dressed in Lycra asking for you.”
When I got to the front door to meet Richard for our arranged (and, yes, I did remember this time) run, Richard was quite adamant that he was not wearing Lycra at all. I was inclined to agree although I tried not to look too hard but from what I could work out he was just wearing football shorts and a T-shirt. Maybe it was the fluorescent headband that ticked Tristan off … only joking.
We went for another killer run from which it will probably take me bloody days to recover. As we went our separate ways and he jogged into his road and I limped toward mine he called over his shoulder. “Fancy coming to a match tomorrow?”
What I wanted to ask was whether he would actually be able to run again after our morning’s exercise. I will be lucky if I can walk. Instead I kept my integrity intact and just told him that I would be working.
“Maybe after, hey?” He winked.
“Yeah,” I replied but what I really meant was, “Yeah, maybe not. Because I will be nursing my poor, sore, bruised muscles at home and in peace.”
I have not spoken to Ben all week, we have had the odd sporadic text conversation but he has not been able to find five minutes to call. I can’t call him because I do not have a number to ring that does not cost a million pounds to dial, and I daren’t use my mobile again because our conversation in the pub garden the other week cost me the best part of thirty quid. I called O2 to make sure my bill was right. Apparently it was, it just costs a lot of money to apologise to your boyfriend long distance.
Right then, I am going to crawl to the bathroom and run a hot bath to ease my legs. I think I am going to have to tell Richard that if he wants me to be a regular jogging partner he is going to have to take it a bit easier.
It hurts now, which makes me think tomorrow is going to be a real bitch.
2nd November
7.30 a.m.
Oh it’s a bitch all right. But that may have more to do with the four bottles of wine Meredith and I consumed.
Oh God, don’t think about the wine.
It all started off so well, a civilised glass of wine along with our pizza and salad. I had a hot water bottle on my thighs to try and ease the intense muscle rupture I was experiencing. At about nine o’clock the doorbell started to ring like there was a person possessed standing on the other side.
Not possessed. Just drunk. It was Beth and Jayne; both two sheets to the wind.
“Shuure, soes shboring now,” declared Jayne with a theatrical wave of her hands, which sent her off balance and into the bookcase.
“Great,” Tristan muttered under his breath before grabbing his new best friend—his iPad—and stalking off to their bedroom.
Meredith
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