Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson

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       Chapter Five

      ‘Really?’ He makes his way towards the small queue at the counter. ‘You mean you shoplifted it? That was very bold of you.’

      ‘I mean accidentally,’ I say quickly. ‘I tried it on in a shop and it was awful, some kind of playsuit thing that came up to here’ – I indicate thigh-length – ‘and it was so hot and stifling in there, and I was so desperate to get out I just walked off with it . . .’ My entire body tenses in preparation for a hand landing heavily on my shoulder and being named and shamed in the Collinton Gazette. Mother of Three, Wife of Local Hero, steals playsuit from city centre store . . . I glance around nervously.

      ‘What did you say it was?’ the man asks.

      ‘A playsuit. They’re the big thing for summer, apparently. I’ll have to take it straight back.’

      ‘Why not have a coffee first?’ He narrows his eyes and glances through the window. ‘Can’t hear any sirens out there. You should be safe for a few minutes.’

      ‘Think so?’ There’s a faint throbbing in my neck. Not even the sight of all the muffins and pastries can soothe me.

      ‘I’d say you could risk it. I’ll keep an eye out if you like.’ His blue eyes crinkle appealingly, and I notice how long and luscious his dark eyelashes are. Clients have theirs tinted at the salon to achieve a similar effect. ‘After you,’ he adds, beckoning me to join the queue.

      ‘Thanks,’ I say, relaxing slightly. I order my coffee, choosing a shortbread biscuit for nerve-calming purposes, and buy three giant chocolate coins for the kids. The stranger joins me at a vacant table. ‘I’m Danny,’ he says. ‘Okay if I sit with you?’

      ‘Laura.’ I smile. ‘Sure, no problem, as long as you don’t mind associating with a master criminal.’

      He grins. ‘Think I can handle it. So, what’s the plan with the playsuit?’

      ‘I don’t know. How would you go about un-shoplifting something?’

      Danny shrugs. ‘I might run past and throw it in through the door . . .’

      I laugh. ‘I’m not running anywhere. You know the parents’ races they have at school sports days?’

      ‘Well, I can imagine,’ he says with a shudder.

      ‘Didn’t even make it to the finishing line,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a wonder my family hasn’t disowned me.’

      He chuckles. ‘Well, don’t they say it’s not the winning . . .’

      ‘. . . but the taking part that counts. Not at my kids’ school. It’s a deadly serious business.’

      He sips from his mug and wipes a little coffee froth from his upper lip. ‘So, how many mini-athletes do you have?’

      ‘Just the three.’

      ‘Whoa. Quite a handful.’

      ‘You could say that,’ I laugh, appraising this cute, friendly man with a cheeky smile who has lifted me from changing room despair to a far more agreeable state of mind. Danny has dark brown, slightly unkempt wavy hair, and a hint of stubble. He is chunky, like me, but it lends him an endearing quality and rather suits him. Anyway, men can get away with it. A little extra weight makes them look cuddly and cute. As they don’t have the babies, they’re not subjected to a barrage of pressure to lose their pregnancy weight in ten minutes. I nearly vomited when Naomi bragged that her body had ‘snapped back’ to pre-pregnancy tautness within ten days of giving birth to Phoebe. There was a distinct lack of snapping with mine. On particularly fat days I still wear my vast preggie knickers, and fear that they’ll still be surgically attached to my rear when Toby leaves for college.

      ‘Laura,’ Danny says thoughtfully, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

      ‘Uh-huh?’ I lick a spoonful of cappuccino froth. I should have ordered a skinny latte – or, better still, a bottle of joyless calorie-free water. What the hell.

      ‘You could post it back anonymously . . .’

      ‘Great idea. I could include a note telling them that it didn’t have a security tag on, so they’d realise there’s a fault in their system . . .’

      ‘. . . Which means you’d be doing them a favour,’ Danny says triumphantly. ‘Or I could take it back for you and tell them I’ve decided I don’t have the legs for it.’

      We are giggling like children as we finish our coffees and step out into the bustling street. The grey April sky has brightened to a clear baby blue, and York looks sparkly and alive. ‘Think I’ll just take it back and explain what happened,’ I say, smiling.

      ‘Very sensible.’ We pause, then he adds, ‘Well, it was nice meeting you, Laura. You really brightened up my day.’

      ‘You too. And I’m sorry I barged into you like that. I’m not usually so rude.’

      He grins. ‘I’m sure you’re not.’

      ‘Bye, then.’

      ‘Bye, Laura.’ As we head in opposite directions I turn, briefly, to see if he’s merged with the crowd. Danny turns too, catching my eye and giving me a little wave and a cheek-dimpling grin before disappearing around the corner. I stand for a moment, thinking, what a sweet man, and tasting sugary shortbread on my lips. I feel giddily alert, as if every cell in my body has just woken from a long hibernation and sizzled back into life.

      It’s been so long, I realise with a jolt to my heart, since anyone has made me feel like that.