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She smiles. ‘It can be a maze. But you’ll soon learn.’
She introduces herself as Camille, one of Boones’s administrative staff (he has staff? That’s news to me), and she takes the time to show me the dining tent, where the Berber chefs are already laying out the provisions for a monster buffet, with all the Moroccan specialities – a huge tagine of vegetable couscous, grilled chicken and lamb, plus a variety of carbs that I know the runners will love: mountains of bread rolls and vats full of pasta. It’s the only time the runners will be fed the entire race. Otherwise they have to eat the food they’ve brought themselves.
‘And this is the comms tent, where we have theall-important Wi-Fi. So if you need to upload your images, you can do it from here. Just remember, you can’t share the password with anyone else on the race.’
‘Got it.’
A moment later, she stops in front of an open-sided tent – similar to the ones set up for the runners – with several people inside. ‘This is where you’ll be sleeping. Any issues, let me know. And here.’ She hands me some sheets of paper stapled together in the corner. ‘This is the finalized list of runners, their race numbers and tent allocation. So you can get your interviews done for social media.’
‘OK, thanks,’ I reply, glancing at the paper.
A man steps out of the tent, stooping to duck beneath the edge of the black camel-hair cloth. ‘Camille, hi!’ he says. He glances over at me, rubbing at the thin line of beard running along his jawline. ‘This our missing tentmate?’
‘That’s right. Dale, meet Stella. He’s another race photographer. You’ll be paired up in the Jeep tomorrow.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ He extends his hand to me. ‘I was just about to get some pre-race shots. Soak up the atmosphere. Want to come with?’
But I don’t have time for that. ‘Is this a joke?’ I ask.
She frowns. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This list.’ I can see from Camille’s face that she thinks I’ve lost my mind.
‘Problem?’ Dale asks.
Damn right there is. On the first sheet of paper is a list of the elite runners. And right at the top? A name I never expected to see.
Adrienne Wendell.
Fuck. How did I not know she’d be here?
‘Boones,’ I manage to spit out. ‘Where is he?’
But Camille isn’t listening. Her hand flies to her ear – an earpiece connected to a radio. ‘Sorry, bivouac emergency,’ she says, her hands flapping. ‘I have to go.’ She darts away before I can stop her. I can’t exactly play thedon’t you know who I amcard. I don’t want anyone to know I’m related to him if I can help it.
‘You’re looking for Boones?’ Dale asks. He’s tying a bandana round his forehead, keeping the sun off his bald scalp. A DSLR camera hangs on a strap off his shoulder.
I nod.
‘Then come with me,’ he says. ‘I know how to find him.’
3
Adrienne
The queue to register stretches out in front of me, thirty-odd people deep. Under the glare of the bright sun, my skin tightens and my eyes prickle, as all the moisture seems to be baked from my body. I wonder if others are feeling as uncomfortable as I am, but most of the elite athletes would have acclimatized to the soaring temperatures using fancy heat chambers, some of them with built-in treadmills so they could really get their bodies used to exerting themselves in the heat. All I’d managed to do is convince Debbie at the PureSpa in town to let me use the sauna for a few hours as a thanks for sending so many clients her way from the shop. If it gets much hotter, I’m not sure that’s going to cut it.
I dig out my water bottle, use some of it to soak my cap, then take a big swig. I pop a salt tablet too. It’s not only about hydration; I must also replace the electrolytes that I’ll be losing through sweat. The thing about the dry Moroccan heat is that the sweat evaporates almost instantly, so it’s easy to get dehydrated without being aware of it.
Some people have failed in desert races purely by forgetting to take their salt. I’m not going to be one of them.
With my cap and sunglasses, dressed in a long-sleeve moisture-wicking white shirt and black running shorts, I blend seamlessly into the crowd. For the first time Idon’t feel eyes on my back. I’m just another runner, like everyone else. All around me, excited chatter fills the air, the atmosphere electric. The buzz of athletes about to embark on a challenge they’ve been training their minds and bodies to achieve for months. They are either ready or not. But can you ever truly be ready for a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile race? Ultimately it’s going to come down to grit.
And that’s why I love it. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
That turned out to be the cost of speaking out. If I’d known, would I have made a different decision?
Never, I think, shuddering, but then it’s my turn at the desk. I approach a frazzled-looking man with a clipboard and show him my invitation.