Mum On The Run

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

15 Brilliant Things About Running (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_8605083c-605f-5448-8362-40347c9e3941)

‘Thank you, everyone, for coming along to our Spring into Fitness sports day. Now, to round off our afternoon, it’s the race we’ve all been waiting for . . .’

No it’s not. It’s the race that makes me consider feigning illness or death.

‘. . . It’s the mums’ race!’ exclaims Miss Marshall, my children’s head teacher. She scans the gaggle of parents loitering on the fringes of the football pitch.

‘Go on, Mum!’ Grace hisses, giving me a shove.

I smile vaguely while trying to formulate a speedy excuse. ‘Not today, hon. I, um . . . don’t feel too well actually.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I . . . I think I’ve done something to my . . . ligament.’

Grace scowls, flicking back a spiral of toffee-coloured hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. ‘What’s a ligament?’

‘It’s, er . . .’ My mind empties of all logical thought. This happens when I’m under stress, like when a client blanches after I’ve cut in layers – even though she’s asked for layers – and insists that what she really had in mind for her ginger puffball was ‘something, y’know, long and flowing, kinda Cheryl Cole-ish . . .’

‘It’s in your leg,’ I tell Grace firmly.

‘What happened to it?’ Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion.

‘I . . . I don’t know, hon, but it’s felt weird all day. I must have pulled it or stretched it or something.’

She sighs deeply. At seven years old, rangy and tall for her age, Grace is sporting a mud-splattered polo shirt festooned with rosettes from winning the relay, the three-legged race and the egg-and-spoon. I’m wearing ancient jeans and a loose, previously black top which has faded to a chalky grey. Comfy clothing to conceal the horrors beneath.

‘Come on, all you brave ladies!’ cries Miss Marshall, clapping her hands together. Here they go: Sally Miggins, casting a rueful grin as she canters lightly towards the starting line. Pippa Fletch, who happens to be wearing – like most of the mums, I now realise – clothes which would certainly pass as everyday attire (T-shirts, trackie bottoms) but are suspiciously easy to run in. No one would show up at Spring into Fitness in serious running gear. That would be far too obvious. The aim is to look like you hadn’t even realised there’d be a mums’ race when you’ve been secretly training for months.

‘Come on, Laura,’ Beth cajoles, tugging my arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘No it won’t,’ I reply with a dry laugh. Beth, the first friend I made on the mum circuit around here, is athletic and startlingly pretty, even with hair casually pulled back and without a scrap of make-up. I was presentable too, back in the Iron Age, before I acquired a husband, three children and a worrying habit of hoovering up my children’s leftovers. Waste not, want not, I always say.

‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,’ Beth teases. ‘It’s only to the end of the field. It’ll all be over in about twenty seconds.’

‘Yeah, you promised, Mum,’ Grace declares.

‘I can’t, Grace. Even if I was feeling okay, which I’m not with this ligament thing, I’m wearing the wrong shoes for running.’