It’s blatantly obvious that she’s uncomfortable, what with the death grip on the steering wheel and the flat refusal to acknowledge my presence. Usually she would at least attempt to get me talking, but today it’s as though she’s scared to. Not that I really care. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, taking a few deep breaths and silently praying that this year, my life will change.

My mind runs in circles, weighing things up, making lists of pros and cons, trying to draw a sensible conclusion. Either I’m trying way too hard or it’s just impossible because I’m getting nowhere with this.

I really don’t have the mental stability to worry about what-ifs right now. I do, however, have to worry about my hair, which is driving me nuts.
 
 

 James sits opposite me, chuckling to himself, and I wonder at how he can be so alive. Wide awake. Bright as a button. It’s ridiculous.

I’ve never, not once, sat with these people at a meal, and now suddenly I’ve done it twice in as many weeks. It’s crazy. I sort of don’t know what to do with myself. Unsurprisingly, my discomfort is making me even more sarcastic and cynical than usual. Yeah. I’m loving this.

Maybe he could have warned me that a prerequisite for this running business is being able to breathe when your trachea won’t take in oxygen.

Before I know it I’m trying on my seventh ball gown. It’s strapless and blue, with sequins and studs and all kinds of shiny things, and has an enormous skirt-thing that hardly fits in the fitting room. Obviously, it wasn’t one I picked out. I look ridiculous.