My Single Friend (15 page)

I was overwhelmed with images of beautiful, fit-looking men and women in trendy high-performance outdoor clothing and looking as if all they required to achieve a state of inner bliss was a two-man tent and a portable gas stove.

I have turned up bright and early this morning wearing my new ‘durable, quick-drying interactive fleece’ (though I’ve yet to work out what the interactive element is), a pair of ‘super-lite chameleon’ walking boots – the most expensive in the shop – a chic ‘Patagonia half-zip sweatshirt’ and a pair of socks so thick you could insulate your loft with them.

I worried last night that everything looked suspiciously new, so I smeared soil from one of Henry’s spider plants onto the boots. They now look like I’ve done a tour of duty in Iraq in them.

‘Where’s your jacket?’ asks Paul, as he slams shut the door of his Land Rover, looking delicious in a capable, rugged sort of way.

‘Here,’ I grin, pointing proudly to my new fleece.

‘No,
your jacket
. I presume you’re wearing a jacket as well as your fleece?’

‘Um . . . I wasn’t going to,’ I begin, fearing I’ve made a faux pas already. ‘This fleece is
interactive
.’

‘Interactive,’ he repeats flatly, as if even he, a veritable outdoor sports expert, doesn’t know what interactivity has to do with anything.

‘Oh yes,’ I say, sticking to my guns.

‘It’s February, Lucy. It still doesn’t look like it’ll keep you warm enough at the top.’ He looks genuinely concerned.

‘Oh, in my experience, jackets weigh you down. Honestly, I prefer just my fleece. Anyway, I’ve got plenty of layers underneath.’

‘How many?’

The answer is one. One and a half, if you include my Wonderbra.

‘Oh . . .
several
. I’ve lost count.’

‘Well, it’s forecast to be cold today and you know as well as I do how much colder it gets at the top of that mountain. You’ve got a hat and gloves though, right?’

I glance round and register with alarm that not only are the other climbers in the car park wearing the sort of jackets sported by Eskimos during a chilly spell, but half of them also have walking sticks. All – without fail – are wearing hats and gloves.

I briefly considered such accessories during my shopping trip, but all the hats made me look ridiculous. I came to the conclusion that I’d prefer to be cold than look like a wally.

‘It looks like I forgot my hat – and gloves – and, um, coat. I’m sure we’ll be okay if we get up some speed though,’ I smile.

He frowns. ‘Lucy, I know you’re an experienced walker, so don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d worry about going up there with you without a jacket and gloves – and a hat. I’ve got spares in the boot. You’re welcome to use those.’

Relief floods through me. Dying of exposure at the top of a mountain wouldn’t be a successful conclusion to a second date by anyone’s standards.

Paul pulls out the spare clothes from his boot and hands them to me one by one. I look at them and my heart sinks. The jacket is a man’s and three times too big for me. As I put it on, all my efforts to look sexy in figure-hugging trendy gear are destroyed in one swoop. I look about as svelte as the Yeti.

While the bright red gloves are passable, the hat – a ‘beanie’ with green vertical stripes on the sides – seems to shrink my head to the size of a dehydrated
petit pois
.

‘You ready?’ grins Paul, as I am forced to stop scrutinizing my appearance in his wing-mirror.

‘Absolutely!’ I clap my gloves together enthusiastically.

We set off towards the mountain with patches of fluffy snow on the ground and the sun shining on our backs.

‘Don’t you love days like this?’ says Paul. I swell with pride that I’ve managed to bag a second date with someone so sporty and dreamy.

‘Fabulous,’ I agree, breathing in the clear air and striding alongside.

‘It’s so nice to meet someone who’s into this. You’d be amazed at the number of women who do nothing but the odd yoga class to get their exercise. They don’t know what they’re missing, do they?’

‘Tsk, no. Can’t think of anything worse.’

I gaze across the valley and take in the view. Stunning scenery, a beautiful day and a gorgeous man at my side.

Perhaps I’ll enjoy this after all.

‘Er . . . Paul, when do you think we might get to the top?’ I say, barely able to breathe.

He pauses and turns to speak to me. ‘Normally it’s four hours up and two and a half down.’

I stop and put my foot on a rock, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. I push my glove back to look at my watch.

‘I’m sure we’ve been longer than four hours,’ I wheeze.

‘Yes. We have,’ he replies, and it strikes me that unless I think of something soon, my game’s up.

I am going as fast as I can to keep up with him, but the muscles in my thighs feel as if they’re on fire, my lungs are ready to collapse and – despite wearing more outdoor clothing than the average Everest climber – I am
absolutely bloody freezing
. I know without having looked in a mirror that my lips are blue. I can’t feel the end of my nose, the tips of my fingers or any of my toes.

More than anything else, I am utterly exhausted.

The first signs of the gaping void between Paul’s ability and mine came in the first ten minutes when he went striding ahead and I desperately puffed behind, trying to keep up. Which, of course, I couldn’t. Paul had to keep stopping and waiting for me. By the time I caught up with him, I was desperate for a rest, but having waited for at least three minutes, he wanted to get going again, meaning I was too tired to catch up with him . . . and so the vicious cycle continued
. Continues
.

‘Are you okay, love?’ asks a concerned voice as I pause for a rest.

I look up and see a climber. He looks about seventy-five.

‘Me? Oh, yes!’ I pant, feeling as if my chest is about to spontaneously combust.

‘Take it easy, won’t you?’ he adds with a worried smile. ‘You’re coming to the ridges now. It’s quite hard going, even for those of us who’ve done it for years.’

‘Oh, it’s no problem. I’m with my . . . my . . . I’m with someone who knows what he’s doing.’

I look up and Paul is nowhere to be seen.

‘Okay. Well, good luck.’

As he strides off, I take a deep breath and remove my bottle of water from my rucksack. The water is freezing as it hits my throat but I’m so thirsty I don’t care. What I really want is the coffee Paul has in his backpack but he says we’re not allowed that until we get to the top.

The sun stopped shining long ago and the lovely fluffy snow at the bottom of the mountain has iced over up here. Which means that as well as being exhausted and freezing I’ve slipped over and almost broken my leg at least twelve times now. I’m starting to regret not actually doing so – at least then I’d have an excuse to be airlifted down.

I put back my bottle into the rucksack and try to summon some strength.

‘
Lucy!
Are you coming?’ shouts Paul, who has descended the mountain again to find out where I am.

‘Er, yes, I . . . I’ve injured myself,’ I tell him, as if I’m bravely battling against adversity.

‘Oh, God.’ He looks guilty. He scrambles down the mountain and pauses on the rock above.‘What have you done? Let me see.’

‘It’s my foot,’ I improvise. ‘I think I’ve sprained it. I don’t think it’s serious, but it is making me slower than usual.’

He looks at it and frowns. ‘It’s not swollen.’

‘These things can be deceptive,’ I reply.

‘Right. Well, we’re nearly at the top so it’d be a shame to turn back now, don’t you think?’

‘Well, of course, but—’

‘Come on, I’ll go a bit slower.’ He hoists me up.

I can’t help feeling annoyed. My injury might be entirely fabricated but he could be more sympathetic. Sulkily, I follow him up the mountain, which gets ever more slippery, treacherous, dark and unenjoyable.

‘Here’s the first of the steps on the ridges,’ he announces. ‘I love going across this. Such a challenge. Come on!’

I look across at the gaping chasm, with a sheer drop below. It would be a challenge for Indiana Jones, never mind me.

‘Oh, er, I’m not sure this is a good idea with my injury,’ I tell him.

‘You’ll be all right.’ I’m sure he thinks his expression is reassuring. ‘You’ve done it before, right?’

‘Um . . . not for a long time.’

‘Here, follow me.’

Paul proceeds to scale the rocks as if he could do it in his sleep, then turns round. ‘Come on, Lucy – you can do it!’

He clenches his fist and punches the air. Fanciable or not, he’s starting to get on my nerves.

‘Go, Lucy, go!’

I shuffle to the base of the rock wall and look down. My heart freezes in terror and, despite the cold, sweat pricks on my forehead. I want to cry.

‘Come
on
, Lucy! You can
do
this!’

I tentatively put out my foot but my leg isn’t long enough to reach. Shaking, I try to put my hand on the top of another piece of rock to steady myself, but it slips off the ice. The only way I’m going to make it across this gap is to jump. The thought makes me positively ill.

‘LUCY!’ shouts Paul.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes and tell myself to find some courage from somewhere. Then I leap.

Instead of landing neatly at the other side like Paul, my foot wobbles and I stumble forward onto my outstretched hands. They’re shaking so much they utterly fail to stop my cheek smashing against the rockface with a painful crunch.

‘You okay?’ He helps me up.

My heart is racing wildly as I take off my glove and hold my hand to my face. ‘Am I bleeding?’ I ask in shock.

‘Only a little. Come on, we need to keep going before it gets dark.’

By the time we get to the bottom of the mountain, it has gone four-thirty and I feel like one of those
Titanic
passengers rescued after fourteen hours on a raft with their legs in freezing water.

My limbs could be made of lead. I’m convinced from the squelching in my boots that I’m developing trench foot. And my body is battered from the number of slips on our frantic journey down the mountain, desperate to beat the fading light.

I trudge into the Old Dungeon Ghyll pub and go straight to the toilet, something I’ve wanted to do for two and a quarter hours. My legs are so chapped as I peel down my trousers it feels as if they’re taking three layers of skin with them.

When I emerge from the cubicle to wash my hands, I’m confronted in the mirror by the face of a banshee and hair that could have been washed in the sewers of turn-of-the-century London. The really weird thing is, I couldn’t care less.

I pull out my tube of lip balm and smear its dregs onto my mouth before returning to the bar like I’m in a remake of Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
video.

‘A pint of bitter and a bowl of soup,’ smiles Paul, inviting me to sit down next to him. ‘You can’t beat it.’

He bends down to his spoon and takes a hearty slurp. In contrast to me, he looks energized, rosy-cheeked and content. Like one of those blokes on the posters in Black’s. The bastards.

I pick up my spoon and take a slurp. I have to admit it’s good. But then, I could consume a bowl of dishwater at the moment and it’d taste like something Michael Roux had rustled up.

‘Tell me, Lucy,’ says Paul, leaning back in his seat, ‘is it really only recently that you climbed Scafell Pike with a group of advanced walkers?’

I’d blush if I wasn’t so numb.

‘I haven’t been walking for a while,’ I mutter. ‘But this foot was the main problem. It was playing up from the beginning – that’s why I was so slow. I didn’t want to say anything.’

‘Poor you,’ he says.

I look up to see if he’s being sarcastic. He doesn’t appear to be. Instead, he’s smiling.

‘I wouldn’t mind taking a look at it later for you,’ he winks.

I suddenly remember what it was that made me fancy him so much. The flirtatiousness. Those sparkly eyes. That winning smile.

‘What do you think?’ he adds mischievously.

‘I don’t go around letting
any
blokes examine my foot, you know,’ I reply.

‘I should hope not,’ he adds. ‘Only it was rather more than your foot I was hoping to examine.’

Suddenly, the soup is warming me up.

‘We should have booked a room here for the night,’ he says. ‘Driving back is the last thing I feel like doing right now.’

‘What sort of girl would I be if I agreed to stay the night with someone on our second date?’

‘Does that mean you won’t let me seduce you? I was hoping you might.’

‘That’ll be because I look so gorgeous, is it?’ I say ironically, brushing a ratty-ended piece of hair out of my face.

‘I’m sure it won’t take long before you reclaim your gorgeous self,’ he grins, taking a gulp from his pint. ‘Your clean clothes are on the back seat of the car. Personally, I think you’ve got an earthy charm.’