A Spring Wedding. Alice Ross

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       ALICE ROSS

      lives in north-east England.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Jake O’Donnell didn’t swear. Normally. Today, however, he made an exception. Stopping his jeep at the gate of the third field of cows the grating voice on the sat nav directed him to, he uttered a couple of expletives before stabbing at the button and switching it off. He could do a better job without it, despite not having a clue where he was, or being able to rely on that old-fashioned time-served method of following a map: his misjudged faith in modern technology meant he hadn’t brought one. Oh well, he couldn’t be any more lost so he might as well carry on driving until he stumbled upon his destination of Buttersley, or met someone who could point him in the right direction. Still, there was one consolation he concluded, as a waft of warm June air scented with manure drifted through the open window: he was - however inadvertently – discovering the delights of the Yorkshire countryside and, with the sun beating down from the dazzling cloudless sky, he couldn’t have chosen a better day for it.

      Annie Richards’s calves ached. And she had a stitch. And she could feel a blister bubbling on her left foot. But she was determined not to stop running. If she could just make it back to Buttersley, she would have completed five miles - the longest distance she had ever run in her entire life. Visualisation! That was what the running magazines recommended. She needed to visualise herself completing the Buttersley 10k race in a few weeks’ time. Oh yes. She could imagine it now: the deafening roar of the huge, flag-waving crowd spurring her on – although, given how small Buttersley was, it would more likely be a low-key rumble from a handful of pensioners flapping their bus passes. Still, that rumble would, hopefully, make all the hours of training, the blisters and the aching muscles worthwhile. If it didn’t, Annie knew exactly who to blame: her best friend Portia Pinkington-Smythe.

      Were it not for Portia, Annie would never have contemplated running anything other than the bath. She often wondered why she couldn’t have a normal female best friend instead of a gorgeous war correspondent, who also happened to be a member of the super-rich aristocratic Pinkington-Smythe family. But, for all their differences, the two of them had forged a bond which had lasted three decades – ever since their first day at boarding school. Had it not been for the nominal fees Annie’s mother’s head teacher post entitled her to, it was likely the two girls’ worlds would never have coincided. But Annie was immensely grateful they had. Particularly over the last few years. Indeed, without Portia she had no idea how she would have coped. The girl had proved a lifesaver, although, given that this running business had been her suggestion, she might well be a life-ender if Annie dropped down dead with a heart attack.

      ‘Oh, look – a list of forty things to do before you’re forty,’ Portia announced a couple of months ago, sitting in Annie’s kitchen cradling a mug of coffee and flicking through a magazine. ‘I’m going to pick ten for you and you have to make sure you do them in the next five years.’ She rummaged around in her handbag and pulled out a red pen.

      Across the table, Annie spluttered on her herbal tea. ‘Er, don’t forget that it’s not just me turning forty in five years’ time. We’re in this together remember. And you’re a month ahead of me.’

      ‘I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,’ replied Portia, shaking back her mane of glossy dark hair. ‘But I’m not the one who is in a rut.’

      ‘Neither СКАЧАТЬ