“Hmm,” said the blonde. “From time to time. Things are a bit tight all over these days. But I’m eating. What’s up with you?”

“Dreary job,” said Jane. “And dreary people. I’m teaching. It pays the rent.” She looked around her. “The same old types seem to be here. How can you bear it, week after week?”

“It’s not that bad,” said Milly, the languid brunette, with a yawn. “As long as you don’t have to talk to anyone.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Jane. “It’s too hot and noisy and there’s nothing going on.”

“All right,” said Jenny. “Where to?”

“Somewhere where there might be a bit of action. How about the After Hours?”

“Okay,” said Milly. “But I heard that the last time Linda was down there she got pulled in, you know.”

“Crap,” said Jane. “Linda is too stupid to get out of the way of a slow-moving train. It’s perfectly safe, and this place is deadly boring.” She looked around her once again. “Anyone else like to come along?”

Chapter 4

Jane stared over the red, blonde, and brown heads of twenty-four sixteen-year-old girls, her own head throbbing unpleasantly. She listened to the rustling murmur grow from surreptitious whispering to barely muted high-pitched giggles.

“Quiet!” she said, her voice pianissimo but nasty. “One more sound and the entire lot of you stays after the bell. I am quite prepared to sit here until five o’clock, if it takes that long for you to learn to work in silence.” Liar. This day had already lasted at least a week. “Does anyone have anything she might like to say before we all start working?” She heard her voice, sharp, sarcastic, and shrewish, echoing in her aching head, cutting through the nervous hush. Amanda Griffiths buried herself deeper in her physics problems. Rosemary Hemphill turned to comment on the situation to the girl next to her, changed her mind, and opened her physics text in an elaborate parody of industry. But a flicker of interest—her first that class—darted across the lumpish face of Cathy Hollingsby, who put up her hand and produced her contribution to science.

“Mrs. Conway, we saw you going into the After Hours last night—my dad and me. Do you go there a lot? We would have stopped and said hello, but we had to get home. My dad said that it was a pretty interesting place.”

The hush was palpable now. Amanda’s interest in problems became all-consuming. Rosemary, silent for once, stared in astonishment at Cathy. Only Cathy would be stupid enough to say something like that to Conway. She wasn’t the kind of teacher you made personal remarks to, especially when she was in such a bitch of a mood.

Anger made Jane’s queasy stomach lurch; blood pounded in her ears. “My life outside this classroom is entirely my own affair.” she said, her voice cold with rage, “and someone with such a miniscule grasp of physics as yours could well spend more of her time on problems and less on gossip. Get to work.” The words echoed and re-echoed inside her fuzzily hollow head. Oh God, let that bell ring now.

Jane rolled off the bed and padded across the dull gray carpet into the bathroom. “Hey, where are you off to?” said a lazy male voice. “You only just got home. Come back to bed, sweetheart. It’s been a while, you know.”

“I know,” she said, splashing water around as she washed with vigour. “But I don’t feel much like a cosy little chat now. I’m going running while it’s still sunny out there. You can stay if you like.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Which? Staying? Or running?” Shivering in the cool afternoon, she reached for the running clothes on the back of the chair. Neat shorts, a red T-shirt with “Run for Life” on it, proclaiming that she had raced ten kilometers for cardiac research last spring, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

“Running,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched her dress. “I wouldn’t have thought it was very good for you—or very safe. Where are you running these days? The same routes?”

“More or less. Up the ravine to Moore Park and then around and back, usually. And what’s wrong with it? You think I can’t outrun some rapist? Or do you think I’ll do myself an injury getting more exercise today? You over-estimate yourself, baby.” She turned her back to him and reached for her well-worn Nikes—she really needed a new pair, she thought, looking at the worn heels—and then sat down and put them on with great care.

“Wait,” he said, as she started her warm-ups. “We still haven’t had that chat, you know. How about a drink somewhere tomorrow after work?”

“I’m not sure about tomorrow.” she said jerkily, as she swung her torso around in deep bends. “I might have something on. Why don’t you call me?” She leaned against the wall and started stretching her calves.

“Can I call you at work?” He got out of bed and began picking up his own clothes.

“No. That’s impossible. Call me here at 4:30.” She was leaning against the dresser, stretching her quadriceps. “I’m off now. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.” She moved toward the living room.

“You’re going to pull a muscle if you don’t watch it,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “You don’t warm up enough.”

“Goddamit, stop trying to run my life. If Grete Waitz doesn’t warm up, why should I?” she said, and flung herself out of the apartment.

Jane shivered as the cold wind hit her bare legs. In spite of what she had said, perhaps she would just drag herself a couple of miles—enough to clear the chalk dust from her lungs, the knots out of her neck and shoulders, the stale alcohol poisons from her bloodstream.

The hangover, the exhaustion, and the sleepless night all made those first steps agony, but imperceptibly the pain faded, her head cleared, her shoulders dropped, and she fell into an easy stride. By the time she had reached the first corner she realized that the heaviness in her legs had disappeared. A long run, that was what she needed, to get away from the whole confusing mess. At that, she veered sharply left past the bridge down to the running path in the ravine. She had a seductive and illusory sense of tremendous speed as she relaxed and let her feet fall down the hill. She hadn’t been running as fast these days. It must be the lack of competition; ever since she had walked out on Doug she’d mostly run alone. You had to admit that he was a good running partner—lousy to live with, but great on his feet.

It was stupid to have let Marny talk her into going to the party; stupider to have let herself get into that fight with Grant; stupider still to have dragged Milly and Jenny off to that bar. And if that bloody kid and her precious dad go around talking about seeing her there. . . . What in hell was a kid doing outside a place like that at 11:30 at night? I wonder what the school will make of it? She grinned as she panted up the hill imagining the look on her department head’s face. What the hell, she thought, as she crested the rise, I’ve lost the crummy job anyway. A beer, that’s what I need, five miles and then a beer, a bath, a sandwich, and at least ten hours’ sleep. Stuff the marking, the girls, and the whole bloody school. She floated down the hill.

Time and distance disappeared; without any clear memory of getting there she had reached the end of the trail and was circling around to travel back the way she had come. Grant’s interesting business proposal teased at the edges of her brain, and she began to idly calculate how much money she could earn if she decided to throw her lot in with him. The noise of rush-hour traffic distracted her a moment, and she stumbled slightly; she hadn’t realized she was that close to the spot where the path drew near to the road. Then music replaced the calculations in her head as she picked up her pace again, and almost drowned out the running footsteps that started up behind her. The footsteps drew closer as she rounded the corner by the wooded section, and she slowed to let the other runner pass. I wish I had leg muscles like a man’s. Tuna on dark rye and a beer. The music in her head slowed down as she relaxed her pace, and the footsteps behind her grew louder and faster.