Husband For Real

‘When I said “run” I meant it,’ said Con ruthlessly. ‘At the stadium the town council lets us use. Get yourself there early in the morning. Very early. Joe Kidd says Sinclair runs at the track there most mornings about seven before anyone else does.’

‘I have to run?’ gasped Rose.

‘At seven?’ said Fabia, equally horrified.

‘Rose must be there well before that,’ said Con cruelly. ‘He must come upon her by chance, not the other way round.’

‘Not much before,’ wailed Rose. ‘Or I’ll be dead before he even gets there.’

Tossing and turning in her bed, Rose decided that the whole scheme was madness. In the morning she’d tell the others she’d changed her mind. She fell asleep at last for what felt like a split second before Con was shaking her awake again, deaf to all protests as she thrust her victim into a track-suit, found socks and trainers and, while Rose pulled them on, twisted the tumbled black hair into a hasty plait. Con crammed a scarlet sweat-band low over Rose’s eyes, then pushed her out of the door.

‘Coffee when you come back,’ she promised in a whisper.

‘If I come back,’ said Rose bitterly.

The stadium was deserted when she got there. She brightened. Perhaps he’d gone already. It was a grey, damp day, but thankfully no actual rain. Praying that Sinclair wouldn’t turn up for once, Rose jogged up and down on the spot for a bit, then with zero enthusiasm began to run round the track. Three times max, she promised herself, then back to bed, no matter what. For the first circuit Rose, unaccustomed to serious running, thought she might possibly expire before she completed it. But during the second lap she gradually mastered the art of breathing and running at the same time and felt a little better. Then she heard footsteps behind her, and her heart lodged in her throat and she could hardly breathe at all. She stared straight ahead, the breath whistling through her lungs as a tall figure in a dark track suit ran past, eyes turned towards her for an instant. Sinclair acknowledged her existence with the slightest of nods, then raced on down the track.

Now her quarry was in sight, flowing round the track with coordinated grace, Rose summoned up her last shreds of stamina to keep going. Instead of leaving at the next exit she ran on to make another circuit of the track to allow the legendary Sinclair to lap her. This time he gave her a fleeting smile as he passed, and Rose, feeling she’d done all, and more, that could be expected of her, left Sinclair to it and dragged herself back to the flat, hoping her heart would slow down to a normal beat some time in the foreseeable future.

‘Mission…accomplished.’ She panted, chest heaving.

Con and Fabia pounced on her with cries of delight, demanded every detail, then hustled her off to shower.

‘Can’t have you too stiff to run next time,’ said Con firmly.

‘Next time?’ gasped Rose. ‘I’ve got to do this again?’

‘Yes. But not tomorrow. Give him a day to miss you.’

‘Oh come on! He barely noticed me.’

‘Trust us older women, Rosie,’ said Fabia, grinning. ‘Sinclair will look for you tomorrow.’

The night before her next run Rose stayed in. ‘If I’m running in the morning I need an early night,’ she told the others. ‘And I’ve got a tutorial tomorrow, so I must finish this essay, anyway. Try not to wake me when you come in tonight.’

Con woke her at six-thirty the following morning instead. ‘Come on, Rose,’ she whispered, shaking her. ‘Up you get.’

Once again Rose was bundled, yawning, into running gear, but this time she’d braided her hair the night before, and only had to brush her teeth and throw cold water on her face before Con thrust her out into the chilly morning like a mother sending a reluctant child off to school.

Rose arrived at the stadium a little earlier than before, but this time Sinclair was there before her. She cursed him in fulminating silence. Now she’d have to run extra laps just to save face. The familiar, lean figure soon flowed past with its usual grace, and a slight smile came her way before Sinclair raced off into the distance, gathering speed. Rose gritted her teeth and pounded doggedly on until sweat soaked from her hair into the towelling band and each breath was like a spear through the ribs. Her running companion lapped her with increasing ease, but Rose forced herself to look straight ahead, counting the circuits until the magic number four released her from torture and she could escape.

This time the others were worried when Rose collapsed, crimson-faced and sweating, on Con’s bed.

‘No need to kill yourself, love,’ said Fabia, pulling her shoes off.

‘Was he there?’ demanded Con.

‘Of—course he—was there!’ Rose heaved in a deep breath, eyeing the others malevolently. ‘Before me. I had to do four circuits.’

‘Brilliant,’ crowed Fabia. ‘Think how fit you’ll be—and I bet he noticed you this time.’

‘He could hardly fail to; he lapped me often enough.’ Rose dragged herself up, groaning. ‘Right. For pity’s sake make me some coffee while I shower, please.’

Rose was allowed a run-free morning next day, purely, Con decreed, because it was a Saturday, and she could watch Sinclair play rugby in the afternoon instead. ‘And just to fog the issue a bit we’ll come with you, and cheer on Will Hargreaves. Someone’s injured, so Will’s got a place on the team today. So useful.’

Fabia was all for Rose turning up in her running clothes, complete with red sweat-band, so Sinclair would remember her, but Con wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Much too obvious. Rose can wear whatever she usually wears to stand ankle-deep in mud in a howling wind. Oh, how I wish it was summer, and Sinclair played cricket!’ She sighed regretfully. ‘Actually the whole scheme would be better in hot weather. You could strip off a bit, Rose. When the male of the species registers bare female flesh he gives off more pheromones—’

‘Stop it,’ howled Rose. ‘I don’t want to know!’

Normally she bemoaned her lack of inches, but at the match she was only too pleased to tuck herself between her tall friends, with lanky Joe Kidd and a few more yelling males for cover as they cheered the home team on to victory over a neighbouring college. Sinclair, at outside half, played with a brilliance which roused a frenzy of appreciation in his fans on the touchline, but Rose’s gloom deepened with every penalty he kicked between the posts. If only she’d set out to capture some ordinary mortal’s interest she might have at least had some chance of success. But with Sinclair she hadn’t a hope. She could just give up, of course. But her Dryden backbone stiffened at the mere idea. When the referee blew the whistle after Sinclair threw himself over the line to score a final try, Rose watched the mud-covered hero leave the field surrounded by shoulder-slapping team mates, and made herself a solemn vow. She would succeed. Somehow.

While the trio were thawing out over mugs of coffee back in the flat later, Will Hargreaves rang with the news that the rugby crowd would be in the Sceptre in the town that night.

‘Thanks, Will,’ said Con triumphantly. ‘Keep us a seat.’

Fabia turned to Rose with a militant gleam in her eye. ‘Right. Let’s get to work. By the time we finish with you, Rosebud, the great Sinclair can’t fail to notice you.’

Deaf to her protests, Con and Fabia curled up Rose’s newly-washed hair, bullied her into a skinny-ribbed sweater of Con’s and a pair of Rose’s own denims discarded as too tight. Then they sat her down in front of a mirror and went to work on her face with the intentness of Renaissance painters creating a masterpiece.

‘My word,’ exclaimed Fabia when they’d brushed Rose’s hair into a rippling waterfall down her back. ‘Didn’t we do well?’

Rose eyed her reflection with a touch of awe. Outlined in black, violet shadow in the hollows, her eyes looked larger in her small, triangular face, balancing the wide, full-lipped mouth Con had outlined with a pencil then painted with natural lip-gloss to leave the eyes to dominate. ‘I look so different—’

‘You look gorgeous, Rose,’ said Con, so obviously sincere that Rose relaxed.

‘Not too much over the top?’

‘No,’ said Fabia, patting her shoulder. ‘We just added a few touches. The basic material was there to start with.’

The Sceptre was crowded by the time they arrived, but Will and Joe had kept places for them at a corner table near the bar. Rose spotted her quarry the moment she arrived. The thick dark hair and honed bone structure of his face were unmistakable. Even laughing among a group of his friends he stood out from the rest; something so mature and self-contained about him Rose felt a sudden stab of panic, glad to slide into a seat with her back to the room.

‘Don’t look at him,’ whispered Con. ‘We’ll tell you what to do next.’

‘Dance on the table?’ snapped Rose.

‘If you like! But first I’ll tell you when it’s your round so you can go up to the bar.’

Rose suddenly regretted the cheeseburger she’d wolfed on the way back from the match. She smiled her thanks when Miles, one of her most faithful admirers, put a glass of lager in front of her, but the very thought of it made her gag. She turned to Joe Kidd determinedly and began to discuss the match, but for once Joe, normally a devotee of Con’s, was more interested in chatting Rose up than talking rugby.

There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down. ‘What have you done to yourself, Rosie? You look—’

‘Back off, Joe,’ whispered Con urgently, glaring at him. Then, in an undertone reminded Rose of her priorities. ‘Sinclair’s just gone up to the bar to get a round in. On your bike.’

‘But we’ve all got drinks,’ muttered Rose wildly.

‘Buy some peanuts, or something.’ Con tugged her to her feet. ‘Go.’