CHLOE

If being more like Harry means sleeping rough in a freezing cold park, where there are owls, mice and heaven knows what else, then I think I'll stick to being me.

I wake up the following morning as stiff as a board; my hands, feet and the tip of my nose are like ice. Although the temperature out here is probably not far below eighteen degrees celsius, sleeping on the cold, hard ground with no covers and the added wind chill has made for one of the worst night's sleep of my entire life. I give up at about five thirty, when the sun is peeking through the trees and penetrating my swollen eyelids. My entire body aches, having spent the last two nights on a rock solid surface, and my muscles feel as though they have seized up. I pull myself painfully into a sitting position and stretch, grimacing as I imagine the creaks coming from my bones. 

A couple of feet away Harry is on his side facing me, his chin and hands tucked into the neck and sleeves of his hoodie. He appears to be asleep, and looks as cold and uncomfortable as I feel. Maybe this is what he needs to be convinced to spend tonight in a nice warm hotel. A random vision of Harry lying in a large white bed with no top on and the covers pulled loosely up to his waist dances before my eyes and I push the thought away, but not before a strange twinge flutters through my stomach. 

I haul myself to my feet, jogging a couple of steps on the spot, and decide to take a lap of the park, for no other reason that to warm myself up. I place my bag as quietly as I can next to Harry's head, in case some passing chancer decides to help themselves to all my worldly possessions, and head off at a brisk pace along the line of trees in the direction of the car park that we walked through yesterday to get to the main road. Heading anticlockwise, I march past the entrance, along a worn out dirt path, round the corner to my left and up the side of the park we haven't yet been. I increase my pace to a slow jog, feeling the blood beginning to flow to my extremities and relishing the zing of heat slowly warming the chill in my bones. 

As I reach the children's play area and turn the next corner, the large building visible from our makeshift camp comes clearly into view. I was right: it is a leisure centre. Made of plain, soulless brown brick with floor to ceiling windows at one end, it is a miserable looking construction that looks somewhat out of place in such a pretty rural area. Someone is letting themselves in the tall, sliding glass doors that serve as the main entrance, opening up for the day and undoubtedly ready to welcome sports enthusiasts, fitness gurus, yummy mummies and tanned, toned young men with bulging biceps and rock hard calves. I slow down again to a gentle walk, breathing hard from my own exertion, and peer in the door of the gym as I pass. What must it be like to be one of those people who spends their spare time working out? Someone who can wear pink spandex, Nike Airmax, and run on a treadmill with Rita Ora blaring in her ears? Someone who can slip their waxed body into a flattering swimming costume and dive into the pool to swim twenty lengths, before stepping under a hot shower to rinse the chlorine out of their expensively highlighted hair. Someone who then gets dressed in a power suit and marches off to an office to make important decisions, or pulls on a nice pair of jeans and heels and goes to meet a friend for coffee, or makes it back home in time to kiss the husband goodbye before getting the kids up for school.

What must it like to be anyone but me?

My foot hits something on the path in front of me, stopping me in my tracks and pulling me out of my reverie. It is a white piece of plastic that looks at first glance to be a credit card, but when I pick it up and turn it over it is just a guest pass for the leisure centre, probably dropped out of someone's wallet or purse on their way in or out. It belongs to an Elizabeth Carter, with a date of birth 21/12/1996. There is no photograph, and the pass is valid only for the month of June. My feet have now carried me well past the entrance to the leisure centre, and I shove the card into the pocket of my jeans, with the intention of completing another lap of the park, by which time the centre will be open and I can hand it in at Reception. I break into a jog again, passing the tennis courts to my right and the narrow pathway leading back down to the train station, and approach the cluster of trees in the corner where Harry can now be seen sitting up, his legs pulled up to his body and his arms wrapped around his knees,  every inch of his skin tucked into his clothes. His holdall is tucked at his side, his elbow resting on the very end of it.

"Morning," I call out as I approach him, slowing to a walk and flopping down beside him in the grass, panting.

"Where have you been?"

His voice is croaky from sleep, and lacks the patience of the previous night.

"I was freezing and I couldn't sleep. I went for a jog to warm up."

He says nothing to this, but pulls at the zip of his hoodie, even though it is as far up as it will go.

"You should give it a go," I suggest, still breathing hard. "The exercise will get your blood flowing. I feel fantastic for it."

His arm reaches out, almost of its own accord, to the bag at his side. His fingers seem to give it a gentle squeeze, as though checking the contents are still there. I watch him with interest. 

"I don't do jogging." 

You don't do manners, or courtesy, or indeed much else, I think to myself. Of course I don't say this out loud, but bite my lip instead and look the other way. We are both silent for about half a minute. Then,

"I stink."

I look up again, to be presented with the sight of Harry lifting each arm in turn to sniff his own armpits, followed by a look of disgust as he lifts his gaze to me. I'm not near enough to him to confirm or deny this claim, but after having not showered for at least two days I can guess he probably isn't imagining things. I still say nothing, deciding it is best to keep quiet. 

"I need a fucking shower," he mutters out loud.

"Well," I begin hesitantly, "maybe we could consider getting a B and B, just for tonight? A warm bed and a hot shower would do us both the world of good -"

"No."

I bite my lip again, holding in my frustration and scrambling in my head for the right words to sway him.

"I know you don't want to have to deal with people, but what if I did all the talking?" I suggest. "I'll make the booking, and I'll check us in. You can wait somewhere, and then once I've got the keys you can just walk in with me. You wouldn't need to speak to anyone, you can keep your head down."

He lets me say all of this without interruption, his eyes boring into mine. I can tell he is listening, and for a moment I think he might actually be considering it. I hold my breath.

"No," he says flatly. "It's too risky."

"Well, you're going to have to stink, then," I reply, in the same flat tone. "There's nowhere else that you can get a shower, unless you fancy a walk to the beach and a swim in the sea."

I mean this sarcastically, but he lifts his head to look at me. "Are we near the sea?"

It takes me a couple of seconds to work out if he is being sarcastic back, or if he is asking a genuine question. The look of confusion on his face clarifies the answer for me.

"Well - a few miles away, at a rough guess," I tell him, watching his brow furrow deeper. "Didn't you do Geography at school?"

He shrugs. "Probably, but that doesn't mean I know the exact map of England by heart. I haven't a fucking clue where we are."

"Devon," I explain, as patiently as I can. "We're in Devon."

"You might as well say we're in fucking Timbuktu," he snaps. "I don't know where fucking Devon is, except that it's in England."

"The south coast," I elaborate. "It's supposed to be a beautiful part of the country. Very popular with tourists."

He is staring at me as though I am speaking a foreign language.

"What?" I ask.

"You always talk like you're reading from a text book," he observes, not in a cruel way but more of a musing tone. "Don't you ever get bored of being clever?" 

I am so taken aback by this whole comment, I can do nothing but gape at him openmouthed for a few seconds. "Clever?" I manage to repeat, finally. 

"Yeah. Using all these big words to get your point across. Doesn't it give you a headache? It gives me a fucking headache just trying to keep up." 

I have no idea what to say to this, and I'm not really sure how to take it. He doesn't sound like he is being particularly complimentary, yet I can't help feeling a little glow inside that he considers me 'clever'. It's been rather a long time since anyone has paid me any sort of compliment, however unintended. 

We sit in further silence while the sun rises from behind the houses, casting long shadows across the expanse of the park. The morning birdsong filtering down from the trees above us provides a calming soundtrack; such a beautiful yet unfamiliar sound to anyone used to city living. I allow my mind to wander, exploring the idea of heading to the nearest beach, recalling how it feels to have sand between my toes and waves crashing over my ankles, and breathing pure, unpolluted sea air. That memory belongs to a different place, a different time. A different life. A different me. It is not a place I am ready to revisit just yet, even in my own head.

Harry is staring once again across the park towards the opposite corner and I follow his gaze, trying to work out if he is looking at anything in particular or just staring into space. 

"It's some sort of leisure centre," I say out loud, looking at the building I passed earlier on my jog. "I found someone's guest membership card on the ground on my way past." 

I pull the card out of my jeans, more to make idle conversation than anything, and show it to Harry. He glances at it with an air of disinterest, and looks away again. 

"Probably full of posers," I observe. "And men in lycra. I mean, that's never a good look, is it? It's almost as bad as Speedos. They leave nothing to the imagination. I can't imagine anything worse than standing next to a bloke in a communal shower wearing a pair of them. Budgie-smugglers, my dad used to call them..."

I trail off, and Harry grunts. And then suddenly it comes to me. It has been staring me in the face all along - literally.

"Harry!" I hiss excitedly. "That's it! I've got the most brilliant idea!"