ripples through me. Or maybe it’s excitement?
I strike a confident, Dragons’ Den pose in Nathan’s mirror. Chin up. Eyes steely and determined. Yes, think positive. This could be the start of a whole new me.
Rubbing my face vigorously to gee up the circulation, I peer out of the window. It’s still dark outside, and overnight the first silver-white frost of autumn has carpeted the grassy area way below Nathan’s apartment.
Another rap on the door.
‘Lola? Food. You can’t do this without fuel inside you.’
My nauseous stomach perks up at the thought of its favourite hangover cure: the crispiest of bacon nestled between two slices of buttered crusty white bread with perhaps a dab or two of tomato sauce. And a big mug of builder’s strength tea…
The door opens and Nathan hands me breakfast.
I can tell instantly from the green sludge in the glass I’m holding that it’s the seaweed, avocado and linseed special.
‘Thank you.’ I raise the glass as if to say ‘cheers!’ and my stomach emits a gurgle of protest. ‘I’ll just – er – drink it when I’m finished in here.’
My eye wanders to the plughole.
‘I’m setting the dishwasher off,’ he says, beaming encouragement. ‘Knock it back and I’ll take the glass.’
My fake smile freezes.
Right.
Here goes.
I eye the sludge and glug it down the hatch.
My sneaky after-burp has a sort of fishy/foresty tang to it.
‘Lovely.’ Handing Nathan the glass, I think how lucky I am to have a boyfriend who cares so much about my health that he’s forever whipping me up all manner of exotic, super̶̶food smoothies.
It’s just a shame they taste like shite.
But Nathan is a fabulous advert for healthy living. And he wears Lycra very well indeed. (Even my flatmate, Barb, was forced to admit that and she can be extremely spiky and judgemental.)
Nathan leans over and plants a kiss on my nose. ‘Only the best for my little athlete in the making!’
‘What is a climbing ball challenge anyway?’ I ask again, when we’re in the car heading for the venue. (I’m having slightly distressing thoughts about being required to juggle all the way up a mountain.)
‘Um – not quite sure, to be honest,’ says Nathan, two rather attractive grooves appearing above his nose. ‘Just caught the end of the announcement on the radio. But it’s probably one of those things where you push a big ball up a hill. Endurance, you know?’
‘Right.’ I nod, none the wiser. ‘Because I’m hopeless at juggling.’
He grins, shaking his head at me. ‘Whatever it is, it’ll be something different, which is great because you don’t want your body getting complacent, doing the same old work-outs. After all, variety—’
‘Is the spice of fitness!’
‘Exactly.’ He turns to me in pleased surprise.
I glow happily in an ‘Aw shucks, it was nothing’ kind of way.
I really love that Nathan always wants to involve me in his sporting pursuits; it bodes well for the future, I think, this togetherness.
Sometimes I think about how we’ll be in later life. I know I probably shouldn’t, bearing in mind that in the grand scheme of things we only met five minutes ago, but I can’t help it.
Best case scenario: entering ‘veteran’ half-marathons in our eighties, bones creaking as we lurch arthritically across the finish line together.
And a marginally less fun scenario: racing each other along the high street on our mobility scooters.
Nathan will never lose his zest for life and if he wants me there with him, I’d be a fool to resist.
But relationships are a two-way process. So perhaps I should be demonstrating the same willingness to involve him in my life?
Hm, tricky one, that.
I suppose I could invite him along to one of mine and Barb’s box-set binge marathons.
Only one snag. Nathan can’t even sit still long enough to watch the late evening news, never mind lounging on the sofa for hours on end in the ‘Just one more episode? Oh, go on, then’ slump.
As we motor along the deserted high street of a nearby town, I spot something sparkly in a shop window and whiz round to look.
It’s a Christmas tree.
My nausea zips up to critical level.
It’s that time of year again.
A vision flits into my head of last Christmas, when we all gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Scotland to ‘make merry’ (ha-ha).
Justine’s control freak tendencies become rampant in December. Christmas absolutely has to be perfect. No lolling around in pyjamas, eating chocolate Brazil nuts for breakfast and admiring Bing Crosby in a Santa hat on TV. It’s all smart cocktail parties with the affluent neighbours and hand-crafted mince pies from an extortionately expensive London caterer that are so tiny you need to gobble down at least five to make one normal-sized pie.
And candles. Justine insists on candlelight everywhere at Christmas, even in the downstairs loo. (Last year, Dad was in there, catching up with the football scores, and the poor man managed to set his newspaper on fire.)
Thank God we’ll be going to Mum and Dad’s in Manchester this year.
At least there, I can escape to my own bedroom if need be.
And Mum seems to be doing better these days.
I suspect my lovely dad spares me the whole truth, but he’s definitely been sounding more optimistic lately. Apparently Mum’s having more ‘good’ days than ‘bad’. For years, her anxiety and agoraphobia have meant she can’t leave the house without Dad for support. But apparently, a few weeks ago, she went out on a shopping trip with their next-door neighbour, Ellen.
After Dad told me that, I went to my bedroom and had a little cry.
I pull down the visor mirror and check my reflection.
With no time for smoothing the kinks, my wayward blonde hair is going commando this morning, which can be quite scary, frankly. I spend an absolute fortune on potions to keep it smooth and groomed-looking.
Luckily, Nathan seems to like me just the way I am.
Settling back in my seat, I glance tenderly at his handsome profile. Dark hair cropped short, manly jawline and slightly Roman nose. (He’d like a nose job but I’m trying to talk him out of it.)
