Free Me Before You by Jojo Moyes

out the picture of him and Alicia, her face now obscured by a bent silver frame, amongst the other casualties.
    I swallowed, staring at it, and slowly lifted my eyes to his. Those few seconds were the longest I could remember.
    ‘Can that thing get a puncture?’ I said, finally, nodding at his wheelchair. ‘Because I have no idea where I would put the jack.’
    His eyes widened. Just for a moment, I thought I had really blown it. But the faintest flicker of a smile passed across his face.
    ‘Look, don’t move,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.’
    I heard the walking stick drop to the floor. As I left the room, I thought I might have heard him say sorry.
    The Kings Head was always busy on a Thursday evening, and in the corner of the snug it was even busier. I sat squashed between Patrick and a man whose name appeared to be the Rutter, staring periodically at the horse brasses pinned to the oak beams above my head and the photographs of the castle that punctuated the joists, and tried to look even vaguely interested in the talk around me, which seemed to revolve chiefly around body fat ratios and carb loading.
    I had always thought the fortnightly meetings of the Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors must be a publican’s worst nightmare. I was the only one drinking alcohol, and my solitary packet of crisps sat crumpled and empty on the table. Everyone else sipped at mineral water, or checked the sweetener ratios on their Diet Cokes. When they, finally, ordered food there wouldn’t be a salad that was allowed to brush a leaf against a full-fat dressing, or a piece of chicken that still sported its skin. I often ordered chips, just so that I could watch them all pretend they didn’t want one.
    ‘Phil hit the wall about forty miles in. He said he actually heard voices. Feet like lead. He had that zombie face, you know?’
    ‘I got some of those new Japanese balancing trainers fitted. Shaved fifteen minutes off my ten-mile timings.’
    ‘Don’t travel with a soft bike bag. Nigel arrived at tricamp with it looking like a ruddy coat hanger.’
    I couldn’t say I enjoyed the Triathlon Terrors’ gatherings, but what with my increased hours and Patrick’s training timetable it was one of the few times I could be guaranteed to see him. He sat beside me, muscular thighs clad in shorts despite the extreme cold outside. It was a badge of honour among the members of the club to wear as few clothes as possible. The men were wiry, brandishing obscure and expensive sports layers that boasted extra ‘wicking’ properties, or lighter-than-air bodyweights. They were called Scud or Trig, and flexed bits of body at each other, displaying injuries or alleged muscle growth. The girls wore no make-up, and had the ruddy complexions of those who thought nothing of jogging for miles through icy conditions. They looked at me with faint distaste – or perhaps even incomprehension – no doubt weighing up my fat to muscle ratio and finding it wanting.
    ‘It was awful,’ I told Patrick, wondering whether I could order cheesecake without them all giving me the Death Stare. ‘His girlfriend and his best friend.’
    ‘You can’t blame her,’ he said. ‘Are you really telling me you’d stick around if I was paralysed from the neck down?’
    ‘Of course I would.’
    ‘No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t expect you to.’
    ‘Well, I would.’
    ‘But I wouldn’t want you there. I wouldn’t want someone staying with me out of pity.’
    ‘Who says it would be pity? You’d still be the same person underneath.’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be anything like the same person.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I wouldn’t want to live. Relying on other people for every little thing. Having strangers wipe your arse –’
    A man with a shaved head thrust his head between us. ‘Pat,’ he said, ‘have you tried that new gel drink? Had one explode in my backpack last week. Never seen anything like it.’
    ‘Can’t say I have, Trig.