Alice Ross - Forty Things To Do Before You're Forty

ALICE ROSS

lives in north-east England.

CHAPTER ONE

Jake O’Donnell didn’t swear. Normally. Today, however, he made an exception. Stopping his jeep at the gate of the third field of cows the grating voice on the sat nav directed him to, he uttered a couple of expletives before stabbing at the button and switching it off. He could do a better job without it, despite not having a clue where he was, or being able to rely on that old-fashioned time-served method of following a map: his misjudged faith in modern technology meant he hadn’t brought one. Oh well, he couldn’t be any more lost so he might as well carry on driving until he stumbled upon his destination of Buttersley, or met someone who could point him in the right direction. Still, there was one consolation he concluded, as a waft of warm June air scented with manure drifted through the open window: he was - however inadvertently – discovering the delights of the Yorkshire countryside and, with the sun beating down from the dazzling cloudless sky, he couldn’t have chosen a better day for it.

Annie Richards’s calves ached. And she had a stitch. And she could feel a blister bubbling on her left foot. But she was determined not to stop running. If she could just make it back to Buttersley, she would have completed five miles - the longest distance she had ever run in her entire life. Visualisation! That was what the running magazines recommended. She needed to visualise herself completing the Buttersley 10k race in a few weeks’ time. Oh yes. She could imagine it now: the deafening roar of the huge, flag-waving crowd spurring her on – although, given how small Buttersley was, it would more likely be a low-key rumble from a handful of pensioners flapping their bus passes. Still, that rumble would, hopefully, make all the hours of training, the blisters and the aching muscles worthwhile. If it didn’t, Annie knew exactly who to blame: her best friend Portia Pinkington-Smythe.

Were it not for Portia, Annie would never have contemplated running anything other than the bath. She often wondered why she couldn’t have a normal female best friend instead of a gorgeous war correspondent, who also happened to be a member of the super-rich aristocratic Pinkington-Smythe family. But, for all their differences, the two of them had forged a bond which had lasted three decades – ever since their first day at boarding school. Had it not been for the nominal fees Annie’s mother’s head teacher post entitled her to, it was likely the two girls’ worlds would never have coincided. But Annie was immensely grateful they had. Particularly over the last few years. Indeed, without Portia she had no idea how she would have coped. The girl had proved a lifesaver, although, given that this running business had been her suggestion, she might well be a life-ender if Annie dropped down dead with a heart attack.

‘Oh, look – a list of forty things to do before you’re forty,’ Portia announced a couple of months ago, sitting in Annie’s kitchen cradling a mug of coffee and flicking through a magazine. ‘I’m going to pick ten for you and you have to make sure you do them in the next five years.’ She rummaged around in her handbag and pulled out a red pen.

Across the table, Annie spluttered on her herbal tea. ‘Er, don’t forget that it’s not just me turning forty in five years’ time. We’re in this together remember. And you’re a month ahead of me.’

‘I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,’ replied Portia, shaking back her mane of glossy dark hair. ‘But I’m not the one who is in a rut.’

‘Neither am I.’ Annie set down her cup with great purpose.

Portia began circling things on the list. ‘Oh no?’ she asked, without looking up. ‘When was the last time you had a proper night out? Met someone new? Did something … exciting?’

Pushing back her chair from the table, Annie stood up and took the four steps necessary to reach the kitchen sink. ‘I don’t want to do anything exciting,’ she said, turning on the tap and squirting washing-up liquid over the dishes in the bowl. ‘I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is.’

‘So you keep saying. But it’s not normal for a gorgeous woman in her prime to sit in every evening watching TV and playing with Lego®.’

‘Um, in case you had forgotten,’ pointed out Annie, frothing the bubbles in the bowl with her hand, ‘I am a single mother with a five year old child. And I think you’re overegging it with the “gorgeous”.’

‘No I’m not. You are gorgeous. Or at least you would be if you made more of an effort; wore some make-up every now and again. There are lots of yummy mummies around these days. The celeb mags are full of them. .’

‘Those mummies have wall-to-wall hairdressers, wardrobes full of designer clothes and a squadron of personal trainers. This one owns a tiny cake shop which just about funds a bi-monthly cut-and-blow and her daughter’s shoes.’

‘Well, it’s not right,’ huffed Portia, putting down her pen and taking another slug of coffee. ‘You’re always putting yourself last. It’s time you did something for you.’

Annie rolled her eyes. Honestly, as much as she loved her best friend, it was glaringly obvious sometimes that they inhabited completely different worlds. ‘And when do you suggest I find time to do that?’ she asked archly.

‘You could leave Sophie with your parents for a couple of weeks and fly over to Majorca. Stay at the villa. You’d have a great time. And … you might even find a sexy rich man.’

Annie turned off the tap and spun around to face her friend. ‘You know I can’t leave Sophie with my parents. They’re far too old to cope with an energetic five year old, who, incidentally, now has to go to school. Besides, I don’t want a sexy rich man. Or a man of any description. Do I need to remind you how my last relationship ended?’

Portia sniffed derisively. ‘That’s because Lance is a louse. They’re not all like that. I know you find it hard to believe but there actually are some decent men out there. You’ve just got to give them a chance. Look here – number thirty-eight on this list: fall madly in love.’

‘Written by a deluded romantic,’ tutted Annie. ‘I’d rather trust a funnel-web spider than another man. Life is much more straightforward without them. Now, what else is on that list?’

‘Run a marathon.’

‘Now that –’ Annie chuckled, ‘– is a much more tempting proposition.’

And so Annie had seized that last challenge and ran with it – literally. Given that anything remotely resembling aerobic activity until that day had been a trot around her bijou lounge with the vacuum cleaner, she was building up gradually, starting with the 10k. Needless to say, the first sightings of her in her running shorts, puce-faced and dripping with sweat, caused much consternation amongst the village residents, several of whom questioned her sanity. But Annie was relishing the challenge. It was a long time since she’d set a goal and thrown herself into achieving it. All goal setting belonged to a former life, one which now seemed a million light years away. Things had changed dramatically since then. She had changed dramatically since then. Yet, despite these dramatic changes, she was determined to complete this race – even if they had to carry her over the finish line – which, given her stitch, blister and aching limbs, was more than a remote possibility.

The glorious sunshine, dazzling blue sky and stunning Yorkshire countryside still abounded but Jake’s appreciation was waning. Rapidly. It felt as though he’d been driving for days – weeks even – instead of the six hours it actually was. He drove so rarely these days, he wasn’t used to it. Nor was it an activity he enjoyed, which was hardly surprising given what had happened five years ago. And on roads just like these - apparently innocuous, idyllic country roads where fatal disaster seemed unimaginable. Yet Jake could imagine it all too well – even now, years on. Still, now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. He shook his head in an attempt to temporarily dislodge the memory of that fateful day. He would never erase it permanently. It was etched on his mind like the words on Nina’s marble headstone – something else he did not want to think about just now. He took a deep breath in and concentrated on his driving. Tension gripped his shoulders and his back ached. All the roads were beginning to look the same and he hadn’t seen a signpost for miles. He desperately needed a pint and something to eat. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Almost two o’clock. No wonder he was starving. At this rate he may have to resort to boy scout tactics and go and catch a fish or something. But no – there was hope. He pushed his sunglasses a shade higher up the bridge of his nose. He could see a runner in the distance. There was life out there after all. His spirits lifted as he applied a little more pressure to the accelerator.