The traffic light changes to red with such perfect precision that it might as well follow it up with a flashing middle finger. I could gun the engine and pile on through the junction – but I’m not a taxi driver, so I ease onto the brakes and sit.
There must be some sort of in-built sensors in traffic lights that can pick up on when a person is in a hurry. Got hours to spare? Hey, here’s a green light. Running late? Too bad: it’s red for you.
It’s probably no longer than a minute, but it feels like an age until the light switches back. I hit the accelerator on the ‘g’ of green and fly across the junction, taking the series of familiar turns until I pull up outside Nick’s house. The garage door is open and he’s already there in his running gear, waiting for me.
‘I am so sorry,’ I say as I head along his drive. ‘I was having problems with the car and then I got caught behind a tractor.’
He waves me away and doesn’t question the story, even though it’s only cover for that fact that David and I spent twenty minutes arguing over how he never does anything around the apartment. He’s not swept up since he moved in and the fridge was empty again today. He never shops for more, as if nipping into Asda is beneath him.
‘It’s fine,’ Nick says. ‘I’ve not been home that long either. It gave me a chance to warm up.’
As my first personal training client, I’m slightly protective over continuing to work with Nick, even though I’m not convinced his heart’s in it. He says he wants to train for a marathon, but I don’t believe he’s sticking to the plan I’ve drawn up for him. His garage is a makeshift, converted gym – but he’s the type with all the gear and little idea. He’s packed a weights bench and an exercise bike into the space; plus there’s a top-of-the-range road bike hanging from a hook off to the side. It looks like it’s never been ridden.
I take him through a short series of warm-ups and then we head off along the pavement for a run. He’s out of breath by the time we hit the corner, like a lifelong smoker doing CrossFit. I ease off, slowing until I am, essentially, doing a fast walk. Nick stays at my shoulder as we continue along the pavement. I check the heartbeat on my sports watch and it’s steady.
‘How are your kids?’ I ask.
He gasps slightly for breath, but we’re going slowly enough that we should be able to have a conversation.
‘Alexa’s enjoying school,’ he replies. ‘She must get it from her mother because I was never a fan.’
‘It’s basically just painting at her age, though, isn’t it?’
‘True.’
We take the corner and I tell him that we’re going to sprint to the next turn. It is with obvious reluctance that he agrees – and then we bolt to the corner. I have to jog on the spot for a few seconds, waiting for Nick to catch me and, when he does, we drop our pace once more.
In all, we do a little over two miles in a lap until we arrive back at his house. I jog on the spot again, but the lack of breath and stooped stance makes it clear he doesn’t have another lap in him.
It’s only as I’m watching him that I spot a flicker of movement from across the road. I figure it’s the wind at first – but then I see the shape of a person ducking out from behind a bush and then quickly slipping backwards again. I continue to watch as Nick hunches onto his knees.
‘Do you want to go inside for some water?’ I say. ‘I’ll wait here.’
‘Right.’
He disappears through the back door of the garage into the house – and I dread to think of telling him that he’s going to have to do this plus another twenty-four miles if he wants to run a marathon. We’ve been training for five weeks and there’s no improvement.
There’s another flicker from over the road – but, this time, I dash across to the hedge. I round the corner just as David pokes his head around to check on me. I wish it was a surprise, though I’m not convinced this is the first time he’s followed me to Nick’s house. He’s wearing a green top I’ve not seen before, as if he planned this all along and is deliberately trying to blend in with the foliage.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask harshly.
David backs away until he’s deeper into the bush.
‘Did you follow me?’ I add.
He stumbles over a reply, though there’s not really a satisfactory one he can offer. If he didn’t follow me, then he went through my diary and used Nick’s address to get here.
‘Go home,’ I say.
David finally pushes himself out of the bush and straightens his clothes. ‘I, um…’
‘Go home,’ I repeat. ‘We’ll talk then. I’m working.’
‘It’s just, um—’
I turn back to the garage, where Nick is re-emerging from the house with a water bottle. He looks both ways along the pavement, unsure where I’ve gone.
‘We’ll talk later,’ I hiss, before turning and hurrying back across the road.
The rest of my session with Nick is spent with half an eye on the corner, wondering if David will either return or didn’t leave in the first place. Nick doesn’t seem to notice, although I realise I’m probably harder on him that I might normally be.
We take breaks in between the exercises, talking about what he’s been eating and drinking since I last saw him. Wine definitely seems to be the bigger of the problems, seeing as he puts away ‘four or five’ bottles a week, which probably means six or seven. It’s not like I can stop him, so I simply explain how many calories are in a glass and then leave it up to him.
He’s aching by the end, so I tell him about ice baths, which is something he doesn’t like the sound of. He pays in cash and then I say that I’ll see him next week.
It’s only as I’m driving home that the anger starts to build. The sky is darkening, which matches my mood. Leaves drift across the road as a slow drizzle starts and I have to turn on the windscreen wipers. I’m driving too quickly and taking the corners recklessly as I boil.
When I pull onto the patch of land at the side of the building, I spot David sitting on the doorstep to my flat. To our flat, I suppose. He’s still in the green top, although it makes him stand out against the cream door.
I cross the tarmac and stand in front of him, towering tall.
‘I’ll leave if you want,’ he says, unprompted.
‘What?’
‘I’ll move out and find somewhere else.’
‘Why would you jump to that conclusion?’
David shrugs and scuffs one of his boots against the ground. He is refusing to look anywhere other than the ground. It’s still raining, although it’s more of a mist. The air is damp and clings to my skin as if I’ve just got out of the shower.
‘Did you follow me?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Did you look in my diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
David sniffs and, as his shoulders start to rock, I realise that he’s crying. I have half an urge to sit on the step next to him for consolation, although the anger is still bubbling away. I’m caught between the two moods, unsure how I feel about it all. Unsure how I feel about him. The argument from earlier about his lack of contribution has been coming. Every time we get close, he does something like give me money, or cook me food. It always placates me – but not today.
‘I had a panic attack,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t breathe. I thought you were going to kick me out.’
‘It was only an argument. Couples fall out all the time.’
‘I know, it’s just… I’m not very good at this.’
‘At what?’
‘Relationships. You and me. I’m not used to living with someone.’
I can feel myself starting to soften. I want to be hard and uncaring, but the betrayal is passing and I’m going to let him off again. It’s like all the other times where he takes, takes, takes and never gives. Every time I’m close to ending it, I can hear Mum telling me that men like David don’t come along very often. He’s so good at making first impressions, which is all she’s ever really had of him.
‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ he says. ‘I’m not used to being… in love.’
He looks up and shows me his big, brown eyes. There are spots of rain running around his nose, reflecting the street lights and making it look like he’s glowing. He’s not said that to me before and I’m unsure how to react. Do I love him back? Is he saying it to stop being angry?
David stands abruptly and is suddenly directly in front of me. We’re almost nose to nose and I know it’ll be me who blinks first, metaphorically, if not literally.
‘You can’t follow me around,’ I say. ‘I’m working. It doesn’t matter if I’m at someone else’s house.’
‘I know…’
‘An argument doesn’t mean it’s all over. It just means there are issues we need to work on.’
‘I know that, too.’
He squeezes my hand and pulls me closer until we’re pressed into one another, the rain washing over both our heads.
‘I love you,’ he whispers.
I gulp as I feel the water running across my eyelids and seeping into my mouth.
‘I love you, too,’ I reply.