Georgia’s arm and elbow begin to throb, and she reaches for the painkillers on her bedside table. She removes the dressing and looks at the wound – while it’s sore it is obviously superficial, which is a relief. The fell-running championship is tomorrow, and this is not just another race. Georgia has a point to prove.
While she has been sleeping, at least a dozen new messages from friends have arrived via text or Facebook, asking if she’s okay. She hadn’t realised what strange hours everyone keeps until now. Plus, right at the bottom as she scrolls, her phone tells her she has missed a call. She clicks on the little box and is taken to her call register, where a number she doesn’t recognise is highlighted in red, the word ‘unknown’ written underneath. It is the call from last night, the one she hadn’t had time to take before that car had stolen up behind them and turned life on its head. She dials her message bank, but whoever it was hasn’t left a voicemail. She considers phoning the number, but she doesn’t like not knowing who she’s ringing, and besides, it’s still so early. If they really want her, they will call her back, won’t they?
Of course, it could be him, but unless he’s changed his number she already has it in her phone. She realises that for the first time since term started, she had nearly got out of bed without completing her morning ritual. She reaches down the side of her bed for her diary, pulls out the photograph and stares at it, frowning. Why does she still do this? Perhaps because there is little else to remind her that it had been real. She quickly pushes the photo back between the pages and hides the diary again. Then she falls back on her bed, remembering.
? ? ?
It had rained all summer. It drove Georgia mad, not just the rain itself but the fact that it was all anyone seemed to talk about. Apparently it was stopping people from having a life, though it made little difference to Georgia. Each morning she ran her usual route, which took her through the woods, past the top edge of the school grounds and around in a large loop back towards home. By the time she’d finished the five kilometres, her shoes, socks and legs were invariably splattered with mud. She could count on her mother to make mention of how dirty she was as soon as she walked in, which always riled Georgia. What was the problem? Everything washed. Okay, her trainers would never be the same, but nothing stayed new forever.
For the first half of the holidays, Georgia’s afternoon ritual was just as consistent as her morning runs: hanging out with Sophia at the shops or in one another’s bedrooms. Then in August, Sophia’s family went off to France for three weeks to visit Helene’s relatives, and time seemed to slacken while Georgia waited for them to come back. The long, empty afternoons became loose and aimless, and the rain finally began to bother her too.
It was during this time that she first saw him. He had raced past her on the final uphill section in the woods before she turned onto the gravel path near her house. He was so close, almost sprinting, it seemed to her, and she could time her footsteps to his heavy breaths. He didn’t look back and she watched him disappear between the trees, neon trainers flashing. By the end of the day she had forgotten about him.
On the second occasion they passed one another while she was on the outward leg of her run, and he caught her eye and smiled. He looked a bit older than Georgia – early twenties, maybe – and because his black T-shirt clung to him in the persistent drizzle she couldn’t fail to notice the sculpted curves of his torso. He was absent the next day, but there he was again the following morning, and as she carried on past him she heard him shout, ‘Hey!’ When she stopped and looked around he was walking back to her, the rain dripping down his face. His skin was tanned, his short hair a deep, rich brown, and his eyes had a friendly slant to them. When he fixed his gaze on her, Georgia was glad she was already red from running.
‘You do this every day?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I didn’t think there was anyone else out there as nuts as me,’ he laughed, holding his hands out to catch the downpour. ‘Running in the rain.’
‘I did the Derwent Water swim back in May,’ she told him. ‘And I thought I might have a go at the Keswick triathlon next year.’
He nodded. ‘I haven’t heard of them, but I’m new to the area. I’ve done a couple of Ironmans in my time, though.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m Leo.’
‘Georgia,’ she replied, taking his hand, finding it hot and slippery.
‘Well, good luck, Georgia,’ he said, beginning to jog backwards as he spoke. Then he turned around. ‘See you tomorrow!’ he shouted with his arm raised in a wave.