Page 41

‘Same reason he put on the Ampersands, I suppose. Curiosity. But he’s a better race director than runner.’
‘What about when he’s not directing races? What does he do then? When is “Boones” not actually “Boones”?’
I pause. Of course ‘Boones’ is a nickname. A play on words. A boon is meant to be a good thing. When he’s not in that character, he’s an ordinary man, with an ordinary job – a bookkeeper for a couple of local businesses. Truth is, he works as little as he can get away with. He’s never been massively rich or ambitious in any other avenue other than racing.
His notoriety is what’s worth millions. People fall over themselves to impress him. But his ordinariness might be part of it. Because ultrarunning doesn’t attract flashy attention-seeking people – it’s too long, too arduous, too painful for that. Boones wants to elevate the ordinary to extraordinary.
And, in his mind, diamonds are only made under extreme pressure. Otherwise they remain part of the dirt.
The information I give Glenn seems to satisfy him – at least for a bit – and he lets me stick around. When I’d arrived here a week ago, I’d been so tense, my back in knots with anxiety. Despite her talent, I didn’t want Yasmin to run in one of my dad’s races. Not only were his trails dangerous –hewas dangerous. Everyone applauded him, but I know the risks.
Watching Yasmin thrive under Glenn’s instruction has gone a long way to making me feel more at ease, though. She’s in her element on the trails, navigates with ease, manages to stay relaxed. With time she’ll be a contender. For now I’m counting down until the camp is over, when Yasmin and I have planned a backpacking trip around Spain. Sangria in Barcelona, tapas in Granada, and lots of lounging on sun-drenched beaches after all this high-intensity running. Since I moved to California and she lives in London, we hardly ever get to spend quality sister time with each other. I cannot wait.
Yasmin runs past me, and I snap photos of her finishing. She raises her arms high in the air, sweat gluing rogue strands of hair that have come loose from her headscarf to her forehead.
‘Great job!’ Glenn high-fives her as she crosses the imaginary finishing line. He throws a towel round her shoulders and offers her a bottle of fresh ice-cold water, which she accepts gratefully. He’s a whirlwind of advice after that. ‘Beautiful action on those uphills. You’ll just want to watch your form – don’t be afraid of dropping to a fast walk to keep your footing. Remember that nose breathing: in, in, in, out. Can I see your watch? I need to note your stats. Knowledge is king.’
Yasmin holds her wrist out as he takes down all the metrics recorded on the fancy GPS running watch. Glenn is as bald as a cue ball but wears it well, with a strong, chiselled jaw and unique amber-flecked brown eyes that don’t seem to miss a moment.
‘Get any good pics?’ Yasmin asks me in between gulps of water.
‘Loads. I’ll pick a few for your Insta and drop them to you. How are you feeling?’
‘Épuisée,’ she replies. ‘And I’m still way behind Adri’s time. I don’t know how she does it.’
‘You’ll get there,’ says Glenn. ‘Now, drink this.’ He takes her water away and gives her a different bottle filled with a murky brown liquid.
Yasmin grimaces. ‘This that recovery blend again?’ She spins the top off. ‘So gross.’ She throws her head back and takes a deep swig.
‘It’s good for you. Why don’t you head back to the resort?’ Glenn says to me. ‘I want to run through a few cool-down drills with Yasmin and some boring performance-review stuff.’
‘Are you sure?’ I direct the question to Yasmin.
She nods. ‘Yeah, definitely. I’ll see you back in the room to get ready for dinner.’
I wander back down the hill towards the lavish sports resort Glenn uses as a base for his camps. Someone in a light blue visor is jogging in the opposite direction. ‘All finished?’ she asks as she looks up, and I realize it’s Adrienne.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s Yasmin?’
‘Oh, she’s with Glenn. They’re doing a cool down or something.’
Her eyes flash. ‘Just the two of them?’
‘Yep.’
She drops her head back down and powers past me. I stop, watching as she sprints the hill. I think about that look in her eyes. Anger? Jealousy? I wonder. It wouldn’tsurprise me if she and Coach Glenn had a thing going on. There had been rumours about him – creepy behaviour, some negative comments from other runners not invited to his special camp – but Adrienne had been the one to assure Yasmin he was the best. Told her how her career could be transformed through Glenn’s coaching.
The light is so beautiful on the island. The sun is setting, casting everything in a purple haze – a built-in Instagram filter. I take a photo looking out to sea, then check the result in the viewfinder. I flick through the images on my camera.
There is Yasmin. Except not Yasmin.
I see Atalanta, goddess of running. The one who challenged any man who wanted her to a race and beat them all.
I only hoped that whoever would eventually catch up with her would be worthy.
17