Running in Heels by Anna Maxted

nonaerobic but tough.”
    â€œOh,” I gasp. “I know what Pilates is—I work at GL Ballet, a lot of the dancers do it. Julietta Petit—you’ve probably heard of her—she’s always going on about it. I’ve, I’ve not tried it myself, although I’m sure it’s, er, great. I’m Natalie, by the way.”
    â€œHi,” she replies. “Alex. I see you here pretty often.”
    I feel grateful for her attention and I want to hang on to her kindness. I say, “Do you want a coffee? I mean, I owe you a drink.”
    She glances at her watch. “Yeah, ten minutes, why not?” We shower and change—I into a cable-knit navy top and long skirt, she into fresh gym gear—and march next door to the juice bar. I learn that Alex used to be a solicitor, lives in Shepherd’s Bush, and is recently divorced.
    â€œBut you’re only twelve!” I exclaim, before realizing this could be construed as impertinent. She booms with laughter at my worried face. She has a rich, hearty laugh, like being given a present.
    â€œI’d better go,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I have a meeting at two-thirty.” I shuffle to my feet. “Well, thanks for the water,” I say shyly. “Maybe see you at next week’s class—if I live that long.”
    Alex beams and, as she walks away, calls, “You’ll be back before then!”
    I smile after her, confused but warmed by the fading sunshine of her presence. There’s a glow about her that reminds me of Babs. I’m so childishly pleased to have made a new pal, I forget I’m in disgrace and tell Matt.
    â€œAnd did you,” he says, “tell this new best friend that Paws has gained four pounds through his addiction to peanut butter basset biscuits?”
    I redden but decide that if he’s cracking jokes about my blunder, I’m half forgiven. This, plus the insufferable smugness of having exercised, puts me in such an excellent mood I call Babs.
    â€œSorry to bother you at the station, only we didn’t get a chance to speak last night,” I gabble. “And I’ve got so much to tell you. And, of course,” I add quickly in deference to her recent mood swings, “I want to hear your news. Have you got your wedding video back yet?”
    â€œAs it happens, it’s at my parents’,” she says. “I’m going to get it tonight. Si’s working late, poor love—shall I bring it round?”
    â€œOh!” I say—I want to be on standby in case Chris calls, but Babs won’t stay long, not these two-by-two days—“Definitely. You get off at six, don’t you? Why don’t you come straight over?”
    â€œWell I’ll be at Mumandad’s till about half-seven, I reckon, so I could be at yours fifteen after that. The video’s an hour and a half but we don’t have to watch all of it.”
    â€œFine, brilliant, can’t wait,” I crow. I put down the phone and make a face. An hour and a half! It’s Babs’s wedding, but in my experience, all wedding videos are alike: endless footage of people milling about or dancing badly and a series of middle-agedmen telling plotless tales and bad jokes. Still, the Italians might compensate. And Chris, of course.
    I take a taxi home from work—I feel as fragile as scorched paper, like I might crack and crumble at the slightest touch. So I’m not about to trust myself to public transport. I’m pleased, if surprised, to find that Chris has double-locked the door as I asked him to. I look for the key but it isn’t on the mat. Then I squint at the Afghan rug and breathe deep. He—he—he has vacuumed ! I sweep into the lounge and run an incredulous finger along the mantelpiece. Not a speck! “Unbelievable,” I murmur to myself. “ Un believable.”
    I run into the bedroom. Spotless. I shake my head in awe when I see