At first Henrietta thought Tony was joking when he challenged her to a race. She had been telling some other colleagues about her latest victory and they had been admiring her long, athlete's legs when Tony butted in.

[More:]

“Fancy a race round the block? Winner buys a slap-up lunch.”

Henrietta stared at him. He was short and fat by anyone's standards. She couldn't imagine he had ever run anywhere. He got breathless even climbing up the one flight of stairs to the office. Mind you, it was hardly surprising given that heavy camouflage coat he seemed to wear everywhere.

“It'll have to be the whole office, if you're sure you're up to it.” She didn't want the proposition to turn into a date. She wasn't really interested in the meal either, too much overindulgence and excess calories. But a win was a win. And she was certain to win, Henrietta thought, flexing her muscles and pirouetting triumphantly.

Henrietta had just turned into the last street and could see the finishing line when she started to feel light-headed. She'd skipped lunch again. Her legs felt uncharacteristically weak and her vision was blurred. She heard a sound like a farmer's shot gun as a car backfired. Then she felt the cold hardness of tarmac.

Jogging past ten minutes later, Tony was more surprised that there was no sign of Henrietta at the finishing line than the ambulance parked in the street. He noticed a crowd gathered round someone lying at the side of the road. But he didn't stop, there was no point, there were already plenty of people there to help. Besides, he hadn't much farther to go now, Tony thought, puffing steadily on down the street and across the finishing line, dressed as always in his heavy tortoiseshell coat.

4 November, 2007