He selects a pair of brightly coloured Nikes and throws them at me.
"Catch!"
I, of course, drop them, and nearly do again when I see the price. "Ninety pounds? For a pair of trainers?"
"If you"re going running, it"s important to have good shock absorption. That"s what you"re paying for."
"So I don"t damage my knees?"
Dan grins. "Or the pavement."
After I"ve staggered to the cash desk, and handed over the best part of two hundred pounds, Dan and I pile back into his car and head home.
"See you in the morning, then," he says, as he drops me off. "Eight o"clock?"
I grunt a reply, retrieve my bags from the boot of his car, and head inside, not relishing the prospect of the morning run, as even just carrying all my new gear is hard work. Once I"m sure Dan"s gone, I head out to the video store and rent Rocky III for inspiration, then on the way back buy a packet of cigarettes, a six-pack of lager, a large bar of Dairy Milk, and order a large meat-feast pizza with extra cheese. This is my farewell meal to the old Edward, my goodbye to all my old vices; and as I watch Stallone do his stuff I relish every mouthful, savour every drop, and appreciate each unhealthy puff, and when I"ve finished, I pack the rubbish into a large black bin liner, head off to bed, and sleep like a baby.
Tuesday 18th January.
8 a.m.
Suffice to say, I"m not feeling my best after last night"s indulgences, and I"m sitting on my bed, trying to work out how to lace up my new running shoes, when Dan rings the doorbell. In an attempt to be colour coordinated, I"m wearing my new red tracksuit on top of a red sweatshirt, which strains a little over my stomach.
Dan snorts with laughter when he sees me. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, mate. All you"d need is a white beard and you"d pa.s.s as Santa."
"Ha ha."
"Don"t you mean "ho ho ho"?"
"Dan, please, it"s too early."
"Sorry."
While I pull my trainers on, Dan unzips his spotless Tommy Hilfiger top and does a couple of energetic stretches. Even though it"s a chilly January morning, he"s wearing shorts, no doubt to show off his muscular, hairless legs, which seem to be suspiciously tanned given the time of year.
"So, what"s the plan then?" I ask him nervously.
"Like I said. We"re going for a run."
"Which involves?"
Dan sighs. "Well, it"s a bit like walking. Only faster."
"No, Dan. I meant where are we going, how far, that kind of thing."
"Need-to-know basis," says Dan, leading me out of my front door and down the steps.
"Don"t we need to warm up or something beforehand?"
"Nah. Best warm-up for running is running. Come on."
Dan hits the pavement and takes off at a light jog in the direction of the seafront, me following about five yards behind. By the time we reach the end of my road, I"m already starting to feel the pace, and it"s with some relief we have to stop at the crossing.
"So...how...far...?"
"See the cafe over there?" says Dan, jogging on the spot as we wait for the lights to change.
I look across at where he"s pointing, about four hundred yards away. That doesn"t look so bad.
"Yeah?"
"Well, my usual run is past that, along to the marina, and then back."
"What?" I say, horrified. "That took us ten minutes last night. Driving."
"So?"
"In the car," I add, just in case he hasn"t got me.
Dan looks at me with disgust. "Don"t be such a wuss. I thought you wanted to get fit?"
"Fit, yes. Not train for the London Marathon."
As the green man beeps at us, Dan sprints across the road, followed by me at a somewhat more leisurely pace. My new trainers are already beginning to hurt.
8.05 a.m.
Brighton"s West Pier is a shadow of its former glory-a hulking, sagging wreck that"s losing the battle against the relentless tide and the pa.s.sage of time. In many ways, it"s just like me this morning.
For the next few minutes our "run" consists of Dan alternately jogging forwards, then turning and sprinting back to where I"m hobbling slowly along. We get as far as the Angel statue that delineates the Brighton/Hove border before Dan turns around to see me in a state of near collapse. He jogs back over to where I"m fighting for breath by the side of the road.
"How are you doing?" he asks, still hardly breathing himself.
"Badly," I pant.
"Come on. You"re bound to get your second wind soon."
"Second wind? I"m not sure I"ve even had my first one."
"Just try to keep it going."
"I can"t," I puff, my face the same shade as the rest of my outfit. "I"m flagging-"
"I can see that," interrupts Dan, "but if you just keep moving..."
"No. Flagging down a cab. To take me home. This is ridiculous. We"ve only been at it five minutes, and already every part of me aches."
Dan punches me playfully on the shoulder. "Come on, Edward. You know what they say: "No pain, no Jane"."
I shake my head, partly to keep me from further humiliation, but mostly to avoid any more of Dan"s awful puns on my girlfriend"s name.
"I"m sorry, mate," I say, in between gasps for breath. "I appreciate you coming out with me this morning, but this just isn"t going to work."
Dan shrugs, starts to say something, and then is distracted by two attractive girls jogging past in the opposite direction. He looks at me, then at them, then back to me, a pleading expression on his face.
"Go on then," I say. "Fetch."
As Dan sprints effortlessly off in pursuit, I wait by the road for a taxi. The first two drive straight past, obviously reluctant to pick up someone who looks like they might expire on their back seat, but eventually one takes pity on me, and I climb awkwardly in, mumbling some excuse about having twisted my ankle while out jogging.
It"s only a short distance back to my flat, but ironically I find myself realizing something. I"m actually at the beginning of a very long road.
9.51 a.m.
When I eventually limp into work, having decided that I can"t sit at home and mope around all day, unbelievably there"s an email in my inbox from Sally Hall. She"s still using the same surname, which suggests to me she"s not married, and when I nervously click "open" there"s a phone number-her work number, I guess-and just one word: "Intrigued". I call Dan for advice.
"Well, phone her, dummy."
"And say what?"
"That you"d like to meet up. And that it"s important, but you can"t tell her why over the phone."
"But what if she says no?"
"She won"t. Trust me."
I put the phone down, and after I"ve steadied my nerves with a guilty cigarette, pick it up again and dial Sally"s number. Her secretary-she has a secretary-puts me through, and although I nearly bottle out when she asks, "Will Ms Hall know what it"s concerning?" after a few seconds, Sally comes on the line.
"Well, well. Edward Middleton. To what do I owe this honour?"
I"ve not spoken to her for ten years, but recognize her voice immediately, even though it"s heavy with sarcasm.
"Hi, Sally. How are you?"
"As I said in my email. Intrigued," she replies. "Nothing for ten years and then, out of the blue..." She leaves the sentence hanging.
We chat a bit, about people we knew at college mostly, and then I remind her that I need a favour.
"So you mentioned. What kind of favour?"
I clear my throat. "I can"t really tell you over the phone. But something"s happened to me, and I need your help. Can we meet?"
Sally leaves a suspicious pause. "Okay. Just let me check my diary." There"s the sound of tapping on a keyboard, then, "How does Thursday next week sound to you?"
"Can"t you do any sooner?" I ask, conscious that my three-month clock is ticking.
"I don"t think I can," says Sally. "I"m away tomorrow on business. I don"t get back for a week."
So, not only does Sally have a secretary, she also has a job where she"s away on business. And for a week at a time. The closest I get to being away on business is walking to the end of Ship Street to post a letter.
"Well, how about today? Lunchtime? It won"t take long."
Sally sounds hesitant, "I don"t think I can..."
"Please," I say, putting as much urgency into my voice as I can muster. "It"s really important."
There"s an even longer pause, and then, "Fine. Somewhere public, though."
I have to think fast. She works in Pimlico, so... "How about Victoria Station? One-thirty? In front of WH Smiths?"
Sally laughs. "Ooh. How romantic. And how will I recognize you?" she asks, playfully. "Do you still look the same?"
I"m about to laugh myself, and nearly tell her that that"s the point. Thinking about it, Jane doesn"t seem to recognize me any more, so why should Sally? My eyes flick to my waste bin, where yesterday"s Big Issue is still sitting, and I have an idea.
"I"ll be carrying a magazine," I say. "Just in case."
"Well, I"ll see you at one-thirty, then," says Sally.
As I put the phone down, it suddenly occurs to me that there"ll probably be rather a lot of people carrying magazines in the vicinity of Victoria Station"s biggest newsagent, and I"m wondering whether to call Sally back when a voice from the doorway makes me jump.
"Making a date already?" asks Natasha, who"s come in at the tail end of my phone conversation.
"Not a date, exactly. More of a second opinion," I say, explaining Dan"s theory to Natasha. When I"ve finished, she shakes her head.
"What on earth are you doing that for?"
"I thought it might help me find out where I"ve gone wrong. And what I should be aiming for."
"But you"re a.s.suming that Jane is still looking for the old Edward. The one she met at college. Maybe her tastes have changed since then?"
And while I worry that Natasha might be right, I don"t have anything else to go on.
1.07 p.m.
I"m sitting on the 12.19 to London, reading through the second copy of the Big Issue that I"ve had to buy from Billy in as many days, as, unfortunately, while I"d been nervously primping myself in the toilet, the cleaners had come and emptied my bin of the one I"d been planning to take with me. I"ve already had a dilemma about what to wear, but realized I"d left it too late to go home and change, so the jeans and jumper I wore into work today have had to do.
I get to Victoria a little early for our rendezvous, so lean on the window outside WH Smiths and scan the crowd, trying to spot her. The station"s pretty busy, Smiths turns out to have two "fronts" and, as I feared, there seem to be lots of people carrying magazines, so I"m wishing my choice of a meeting place had been a little bit more specific. Never mind how I"ve changed, will I still recognize her, I wonder? What does ten years do to any of us, unless you"re Dan and you dedicate your life towards the pursuit of youth? Female youth, that is.
I"m a little nervous, I must admit, not to mention cold, and I"m cursing the fact that my leather jacket has seen better days, so I"m hopping about, trying to keep myself from shivering, while simultaneously trying to display my magazine as prominently as possible. All of a sudden, I hear a female voice.
"I"ll take one of those. Your last one, is it?"
I look up, startled, to find a pretty young girl standing in front of me. She"s dressed smartly, and holding a Starbucks cup in one hand. For a second, I think it might be Sally, but if so, she"s been spending even more time on her appearance than Dan.
"Pardon?"