Distraction

Chapter Thirty

Fifteen miles.

Libby lay in a field behind the Miller's Arms in Gosthwaite Mills, the panorama surrounding her line of vision took in almost the entire route - the climbs, the downhills, the streams, the walls.

Fifteen miles. Twenty-five kilometres. Seven check points. Five peaks.

And two thousand metres of climbing.

It all added up to approximately three hours and forty-five minutes of sheer hell. Less if she wanted to beat Grace's record. Xander's record was three hours twenty, but he wasn't looking to beat his own time. His goal was to get Libby round in a new women's record time - he wanted to punish Grace for the newspaper quote as much as Libby did.

Positives. The weather was perfect. Cool, but not freezing. Barely any wind. Overcast skies, so no need for sunglasses. She was fitter than she'd been in years, potentially ever. Her ankle had never felt so strong. Her abs looked like a washboard. She glanced down at her stomach, where she'd pinned her number. Twenty-four. Her age. Perfect.

Ninety-three entrants, fifteen women, but only one mattered - Grace. She stood chatting to some of the other members of the Haverton Harriers, all easily identifiable in their royal blue running tops.

'How's life now you're dancing again?'

Libby opened her eyes to see Patrick stood a few feet away holding an ancient collie on a lead. Not him, not now. She didn't get him. Hot, cold, hot, cold. How could he go out of the way to drag her into the dance studio then not speak to her later the same day?

'It's good.' She held out her hand to the collie, who limped towards her, licking her hand.

'This is Baxter.'

'Hello, Baxter. You have a dog?'

'Sort of. How were you the next day? Jane said your feet would hurt. I'm not surprised. Standing on you your tip toes like that can't be right.'

'It's called en pointe and my feet were agony, but bizarrely, I miss the pain.' She frowned at him. 'You watched?'

'Only for a bit. I got called away.' He admitted. 'I've never seen a ballet dancer in real life, impressive.'

'Well, thanks for making me go in.' She didn't get him, didn't get him at all.

'You're welcome.'

'Now, why couldn't you have said that when I came round? Two words? Anything would've done. You're so bloody rude sometimes.'

'I had company. It wasn't a good time for a doorstep chat.'

Was that his best apology? Company? Some girl no doubt. 'Whatever. I need to focus.'

Patrick crouched down, stroking Baxter. 'You look worried. It's only a race, Libs.'

'It's fifteen miles of uphill struggle.'

'You know you don't have to finish. Or win. No one will think any less of you.'

'If you think it's the taking part that matters, you clearly didn't listen to the ballet story.'

He smiled. 'You've never done this before. Grace has.'

'You don't think I can do it.' Libby sat up, appalled. 'God, not since my dad thought I'd never... Screw you. I'm going to do this.' Or die bloody trying.

At the start, Libby's desire to throw up intensified. Grace stood six feet away, looking calm, focussed and every bit the professional fell runner. Like Libby, she had her hair in a single plait, her fringe pinned off her face. Grace was probably carrying a stone more than Libby, but all of it in muscle. How the hell had she got so fit so quickly?