She couldn’t help feeling that if she confessed to being diabetic, people would look at her generous curves and come to the conclusion that she’d brought it on herself. Hell, why wouldn’t they, since she was thinking the exact same thing? It wasn’t fair, though; there were loads of overweight people who didn’t have diabetes (Trinny, for one), and Nora felt she’d been dealt an unlucky hand. After all, she didn’t sit on her backside all day stuffing her face with cake. She had an active job and was on her feet from nine in the morning until seven in the evening some days. Okay, one day: Thursday was late night opening. And Saturday was early closing. And the salon wasn’t open on Sundays. But the rest of the time she was on her feet because you couldn’t cut hair sitting down. Well… youcould,and youshouldif the client had long hair, but the vast majority of the time hair cutting was an activity best performed standing up.
Andrea asked, ‘What can I get you today? A coffee puff? A custard slice? Or how about a nice Belgian bun?’
‘Actually, I don’t think I’ll have a cake,’ Nora found herself saying. ‘Just three chocolate chip cookies, please.’
Start as you mean to go on, she thought. And she meant to go on by cuttingdown, not cuttingout. She’d still have her treats,just not as many or as often. Or as much. One slice of cake instead of two, for instance. And swap normal pop for the zero sugar variety. Maybe invest in some reduced sugar syrup for her coffee, too. Going cold turkey wasn’t for her – she’d never be able to stick to it.
Until something happened later that day which made her realise that she might not have any choice…
‘It’s a lovely day, so why does everyone look so miserable?’ Andrea wanted to know as Elijah limped into the shop with a tray of twisted blueberry buns fresh from the oven. Still warm, they smelt divine, but he barely noticed.
Andrea was saying, ‘First there was the postie, because his van had a flat tyre. Ashton, I said to him, at least it’s not raining. Then there was Nora from the hairdressers. She looked washed out, poor thing. But the menopause can do that and I think she’s suffering a bit. I couldn’t even tempt her with a custard slice. So,’ she put her hands on her hips, ‘what’s your reason for having a face like a slapped arse? Is your leg hurting? I see you’re not wearing your boot. Did they tell you to take it off?’
‘Yeah.’ Elijah didn’t want to say any more. He couldn’t. If he did, he feared he might howl.
‘You do look a bit pale and drawn. Why don’t you sit down for a bit? Have you taken any painkillers?’
It wasn’t his leg that was aching. It was his soul. No more running? Elijah couldn’t contemplate life without it.
And how was he going to tell his son?
Abruptly Elijah felt old, worn out, on the scrapheap. He’d envisioned himself still running into his seventies and eighties, yet at fifty-two he was washed up. He hadn’t believed the doctor. Had asked for a second opinion. And when she’d gone to see whether the consultant was available, he’d been convinced she was wrong.
But she hadn’t been. And Elijah was devastated. What was he supposed to do now?
Last night he’d lain awake, telling himself he should be grateful for what he had. There were people who were in far, far worse situations than him, unimaginably worse. He had his health, he owned his own business, he owned his own house; he even had all his own teeth and a full head of hair (although it was receding ever so slightly at the temples). But nothing could console him. His life was about to undergo a major upheaval, and he wasn’t ready for it.
Was he overreacting?
He suspected he might be. His ex-wife would probably tell him to get over himself. Get a grip. Find another hobby. But running was what hedid. It was who he was, and he didn’t think he had it in him to reinvent himself.
And then there was his son. Running was what connected him and Cameron. Was that about to be lost? Cameronwas twenty-two, with a promising career and a busy social life. Would Elijah see as much of him if they didn’t go running together? Would his son now regard him not as a fit, agile man who happened to be his dad, but as a middle-aged boring person who he had to visit out of duty once or twice a month?
Elijah hated to admit it, but there was also a sense of pride in being a long-distance athlete at his age. Most of the guys he’d been in school with had beer bellies and man-boobs, and on the odd occasion when he bumped into one of them, he was secretly pleased with how he measured up.
No longer being able to run was unthinkable. Yet that’s what was happening.Hadhappened. He’d run his last marathon.
The question he now had to ask himself was, what could he do instead?
Nora squinted crossly at the appointment book. The pencilled in details were blurry, so she took off her reading glasses (she’d reached the age where she, along with many of her contemporaries, were forced to wear them), and blew on them to create a momentary fine coating of mist on the lenses, then gave them a rub with the hem of her tabard.
Replacing them on her nose, she peered at the diary again.
Annoyingly, the writing wasstillblurry, so she took the glasses off once more and held them up to the light. Both lenses looked clean enough, but she gave them another polish anyway.
It was only when she popped them on again, did she realise it wasn’t her glasses that were the problem – it was hereyes. Her right eye, to be exact.
Nora went hot, then cold, as nausea swept over her. With a racing heart and clammy hands, she picked up her phone and did a quick google search. Squinting through her good eye, sheconfirmed her fears: blurred eyesight could be a sign of high blood glucose, and as she’d discovered during her research last night, high blood glucose could lead to impaired vision, even blindness.
Oh, hell.
CHAPTER THREE
Nora clutched the shopping list in her hand as she wandered up and down the supermarket aisles. Her cupboards, fridge and freezer were woefully bare of anything edible (and by edible, she meanttasty) because in a state of panic last night she’d thrown out everything with even a hint of carbs or sugar. Which hadn’t left a lot: her fridge had only milk and butter in it, and a sorry-looking iceberg lettuce, and the cupboards held little more than a jar of Marmite, three eggs and a small bottle of brown vinegar – and she was having second thoughts about the vinegar.
The thought of whatwasn’tin her freezer made her want to weep – the bag of frozen broccoli didn’t have the same appeal as the tub of salted caramel ice cream she’d binned. If it hadn’t already thawed to a runny gloop, she might have been tempted to fish it back out last night and have it for supper.
After her frantic emergency appointment with the optician this morning (thankfully her vision had sorted itself out overnight, but she went anyway, in case it happened again),she’d not gone into work for the final hour. Instead, she’d come to the supermarket in Thornbury, even though she’d felt as guilty as sin for leaving her staff in the lurch, despite the salon closing early on Saturdays. Kendra had been fine about it, but still, Nora hated to impose. The salon washerbusiness,herresponsibility, and taking time off went against the grain. However, she’d been realistic enough to realise that she wasn’t in the correct frame of mind to trim a hedge, let alone a client’s hair, so it was better all round if she stayed away.
