Marathon, Bar

Peta/Sam

Act 2, Chapter 6

He gazed out over the waters of South Quay Plaza, seeing the warships and the lone tug boat being refuelled. In the distance, the river Thames circled back around the white spot that was the O2 arena, and the smog from the industries in the area of Dartford hung in the middle of the distant skyline.

Sam was working for a financial firm. Never mind which one, there'd been a few. He'd sat at this desk with this company the longest, enjoying the manner of the complaints department and the ease of the work which followed. Pick up phone, talk to people, send a letter. Then repeat.

Drinks on a Friday, followed by a one night stand with whichever other person in the industry he'd been chatting that evening. In his head, that's what happened. So far, in actuality, in twelve weeks in this company, there'd been just the one, one night stand. He'd gone back to her place. She was a receptionist for a low key insurance firm. Brunette. That was as much detail as he was willing to admit.

They'd both been horrendously drunk. The sex was very much low grade, neither of them had been intimate with anyone for a while. She had been wet the moment he'd suggested a night of passion. She hadn't shaved down there in a while, it seemed, a thicket of hair covering her innards deeply.

He'd had to grope around a little, but eventually found the flaps and put his mostly hard dick in with the intent of coming on her stomach: but after a few thrusts, they'd mutually decided they didn't want to get pregnant together, but both had wanted to just have sex, so she retrieved a box of condoms from her bedroom and sheathed him, awkwardly, before he fucked her sideways whilst thinking all of the while of different women he'd rather be with. In fairness, she was thinking the same thing. The exact same thing.

It was almost a financial transaction. His hard-ish dick for her wet-ish pussy and the just don't look into each other's eyes kind of sex and enjoy the mild-ish sensations between them. He'd come into the condom, pulling out just at the moment of release, she'd masturbated herself to orgasm just after. He'd then slept on her sofa, waking to grab his wallet and put on his clothes and leave, tired, for a Saturday shift at work. He appreciated over-time hours: it paid for the drinking he was doing.

He felt over weight and out of kilter. He was definitely over weight, carrying more than just puppy fat. He was late twenties now, but looked much older, instead of the contacts he used to wear now just glasses, every day. He barely brushed his hair anymore, let alone anything else. His new beard was bushy and unkempt, but dark and soft. He'd given up on being an architect, he'd given up on owning his own home, and he was fast approaching outright depression without so much as a fight.

Sam was not in the best of places. His friends and colleagues knew this, and watching him sink further and further into depression was pushing them away from him. Eventually Motty and Al, two of his colleagues at the complaints centre, took him to one side.

"We're worried about you," Motty said, taking the beer from Sam's hands. "All you do is drink and bitch about the life you've got. It's time to start getting yourself better. We used to have fun on these nights now, now you're making everything..."

"Terrible. Just terrible. You're terrible," Al said, mincing none of his words. "You need to man the fuck up. Come to the gym with us, starting tomorrow. And put your goddamn contact lens back on, and brush your hair. You look like Weird Al Yankovic, you terrible man."

They all laughed at this, Sam included. "Okay..." he said reluctantly. "I'll try...maybe I should have an aim though, like a thing to achieve for the fitness levels".

"London Marathon." They chorused. "You love running," Motty reminded him. "Why did you stop?"

"I don't know, there didn't seem to be any point without Peta."

Al promptly slapped him in the balls.

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

"Any time we hear the name Peta," Al said, raising his hand again, "it's a direct slap to the balls. Seriously. Get over it. She's gone, you're here, make the most of it. You're better than this."

"Okay, but don't slap my balls again," Sam muttered, rubbing his crotch gingerly.

The next few weeks were horrific. Motty and Al pushed Sam to his limits in the gym. It took a wait for the bulk of the weight to start shifting, but by the end of the first gruelling month of sweat decks, treadmill and boxing workouts, Sam was starting to look and feel like his old self again. His first real test came with the financial company's charity 5km round the Canary Wharf area.

He started the run quite quickly, accelerating past everyone on the first straight out of South Quay plaza, but then to Motty's and Al's collective surprise, kept going at the same pace around the circuit.

"That was superb," Motty said, as Sam panted into the ground next to him, "I've got twenty minutes and fifteen seconds for you on the phone".

"Check again Mott," Al said, pointing to the electronic board. Sam's name had come up with the legend of 19:57:59. They both squealed! "SAM! Sub twenty mate. You legend!!!"

Sam looked up at the board with a grin. "Best run to date for a five kay," he said, wheezing. "I'll take it!"

The next week or so was an anxious wait for confirmation of the London Marathon place. Sam got his answer in the post when a neat package with a conciliatory London Marathon jumper arrived.

"Nope, not this year," he said to Motty on the phone. "Just one of those things I guess."

"We will find another way, you have to do it," Motty urged him. "You've got up to fifteen kay now, and your times are just getting better and better. You have to do this."

The solution came unexpectedly, in the form of a colleague hobbling over to Sam's desk at the end of the next week. "Sam, isn't it?" He looked up.

"Hi Anita. That looks serious..."

Anita grimaced. She was balanced on two crutches with her right leg in a cast. "It is...broken bone and cartilage issues," she said. "Motty tells me you want to run the London Marathon...?"

"Yes..." Sam said.

"So I have a charity place, but I can't run it now. If you run for my charity, you can run."

"Oh my god! Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks Anita. What's the charity?"

"It's the local cancer charity," Anita replied. "I was supposed to be running for my dad, he died last year."

"I'm so sorry," Sam said, taking her hand. "I will run it in his honour."

Anita smiled, appreciating the gesture.

With that, the running prep got even more ridiculous. Motty had taken to making Sam do public press ups in the company's foyer at lunchtimes, with colleagues laughing and pointing at his wheezing and gurning.

"Step right up folks, see this brave man overcome his horrendously shaped body to run a marathon. It's al for a good cause, it's to commemorate our dear colleague Anita's father, and to raise funds for their cancer charity", Motty cheerfully called through the loudspeaker as Al pushed Sam to do another ten press ups.

"Come on Sam, keep it going."

"You...get...down...here...and...do...this...in...a...three...piece...suit..." Sam gasped for air.

"Well I told you to change!" Al said, laughing. "Barber's next to sort out that ridiculous beard of yours. Fancy a Robert Downey-Junior cut?"

"Only if you're paying," Sam muttered. In fairness, Al did pay. And Sam, for the first time in years, looked like himself. Maybe even a better version of himself.

The days and weeks turned to months, and the day of the marathon approached. Sam had the full plan: Motty would be waiting around milepost ten, Al at milepost twenty. They'd have water and snacks. Sam was running with a water belt and a small hold-all for paracetamol and, if really needed, blister plasters.

His other friends, Paul and Ferry from the architectural firm, were waiting at milepost five and twenty-five. They held the running gels, for energy. The aim was a sub four hour marathon. Sam felt nervous beyond belief. Even sick. The morning of the run he'd got up early, checked the course map repeatedly and whatsapped round the group, asking them to make sure they were visible.

Blackheath Common was the starting point for the London Marathon, and Sam stretched out just by the gates to Greenwich Park. There were thousands of runners: all numbered, but grouped into different sections. Each section had a different start time, to stagger out the professionals and amateurs as evenly as possible throughout the day.

There was a group of German speaking runners behind him, and he could hear a few of them speaking English quite clearly as the volunteers encouraged them at the gate. "...You have to leave her. We have been doing this for too long, it's not fair..."

"Christophe, my love, I will do it when I am able. I can't leave her now, not with her grandmother unwell."

"Ja, I understand, but when will we be together, Hans?"

"Soon, I promise."

Sam glanced back, he hadn't seen who had been speaking. "I'm glad I'm not involved in that love triangle," he joked to himself. He didn't think about the names he'd heard. The cheating runners, whoever they were, had been swallowed up by the many runners following him. He turned to face the gate, a big mess of scaffolding and a banner declaring the start line of the London Marathon.

He clicked his watch as he crossed the line. People thronged the route, cheering. Children "high fived" the runners as they passed, but Sam stayed to the centre of the roads, trying to take the fastest route possible.

Three hours and fifty-five minutes later, Sam was on the final mile. He was really pushing for the finish line. He wanted that sub four hours. Running along the river Thames, runners were everywhere. The cheering was getting louder as he rounded the bend onto the mall, where there were stands of cheering people.

In his head he could hear words...You can go your own way...Fleetwood Mac blasted out of the speakers as he sprinted for the finish line, gasping for breath, completely out of form, but running on nonetheless. Sam crossed the finish line, breathed a sigh of relief, and looked to the enormous digital clock giving his time.

Four hours and nine seconds.

He had been so close! He laid down on the ground, wheezing, as other runners stepped over him to get at their medal bags. Eventually, he pulled himself up, and walked despondently to the exit. He was just passing the end of the mall when he heard a voice. Not just any voice. It could only be...?

He turned, and saw her. Wearing a red summer dress, she was walking alongside a tall man, skinny with a thin stubbly beard. She was protesting loudly in German. He was angrily throwing his hands in the air. She stopped arguing, paused for breath, and flounced off into the crowd.

Sam followed, trying to catch up with her, but limping with his dead legs. "For god's sake...PETA!" He yelled.

"Kannst du dich bitte schleichen!" she yelled back, not looking, stomping her way towards Trafalgar Square.

"No, PETA! It's me! It's Sam!" He gasped, falling to the pavement with a thud and landing on his wrist. "FUCK!" He howled.

Peta turned to see Sam hobbling towards her, holding his wrist with the worst grimace she had ever seen. "Sam?" She asked, cautiously. He looked different. The beard was sharp, his blue eyes shone. He looked...fit? His stomach was the flattest she'd seen it, and his posture was good. Different...but the same?

"What are you doing here?" He asked, breathless, leaning against a railing.

"I came to support my husband," Peta said, fighting back tears. "He wasn't happy to see me and told me to go home. He's going straight to work."

"I'm sorry Peta." Sam could see her distress, and really meant it.

"It's okay," Peta said, recovering a little. "I am pleased to see you. You finished too? What was your time?"

"Four hours, nine seconds. I was so close!" Sam said, holding his hand up and showing the small space between thumb and forefinger, "so close!"

"That is still an amazing achievement, ja?" Peta said.

"I mean...yes...for a first attempt."

"You're still too humble," she said, gently. Then, "What are your plans later?"

"Oh..." Sam said, sheepishly. "I'm meeting up with my friends later. We have a table booked..."

"Ja, ja, that makes sense. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No, it's okay."

They looked down at the floor, both not sure what to say to the other.

Sam was the first to break the gaze, and looked at Peta. She was still insanely beautiful. Maybe more beautiful, than he remembered. The red summer dress accentuated her legs, and the hint of cleavage was all he needed. He noticed a small scar down the middle of her chin, something he'd not seen before. Her hair had reddish streaks through the blonde locks. This was new, something else he'd not seen on her before. Different...but the same.

"Peta...look, not tonight, but...? Maybe tomorrow?"

"I am going back to Wien tonight," she replied. They were silent again as people bustled past them.

"I'll come to Vienna." The words came out so easily.

"Are you sure?" Peta asked, her eyes hopeful.

"Yes," Sam said firmly. "I'll get a ticket and a hotel. We could meet up in the city?"

"Ja. I'd like that. We could...how you say...catch up?"

"For sure". This time, they looked into each other's eyes. It felt like no time had passed at all between them. It was like the first time on the beach, and the last time at the RAF club. Sam suddenly felt dizzy, and held the railing, flinching as he used his injured wrist.

"At least let me help you get back to the medics for help?" Peta asked him.

"Yeah...that would be good", Sam said. Peta put his arm over her shoulders, and together they hobbled towards the medical tent.

She dropped him off and bid him goodbye. Just as she was about to leave the tent, she paused, and turned round. "Is your number still the same, ja?" She asked.

"Ending five-eight-four", Sam replied.

"Ja, I got it. Okay. Tell me where to meet you?"

"I'll come up with something."

She smiled, and left. Sam sat there, brooding, for a while, before being discharged by the medic with a bandage and some paracetamol.

The burger joint was good, and his friends were jovial as always. Sam wasn't really there, in the moment. She's married, he thought, repeating it over and over. She's married. She's married. She's married.

Nothing could happen. Yet...he was compelled. He had to go to her. He made his excuses just as Motty, Al and Paul started singing karaoke at the bar. He pulled his 3GS from his pocket and started checking for flights, hotels and a restaurant or bar. He could get a midday flight to Vienna, no problem. The Hilton in Vienna was by the Danube: expensive, but available.

Then he saw a bar mentioned in an article in his Google search. Le Loft Sofitel. It was near the cathedral, overlooking its famous patterned roof. He could make a booking online with an email. Perfect.

As he boarded the train at Charing Cross station, his mind was racing. By the time he had got back to his family's home, and in bed in his attic room, he'd booked everything. Packing was easy, the hold-all he always used and a few jeans, white shirts and his puffer jacket, just in case.

He texted Peta's number. "Le Loft Sofitel. 7pm. Table by the big window."

He put the phone down and laid out on the bed, silent. What was he doing...this was wrong.

There was a buzz from the iPhone, and he looked down.

"Ja, I'll be there. P x."

He had to go. There was nothing else.

***

The clock stuck seven. The night was clear in Vienna. Sam stood, staring out of the window of the rooftop bar. Le Loft Sofitel had the best views, he felt. He was wearing his best jeans, a crisp white shirt and his Ralph Lauren jacket. Herringbone, brown and caramel, with brown boots. He gazed into the glass of the windows. In the reflection, he saw her emerge from the lift. Turning, Sam watched her walk into the room.

It was as if she'd never been away. Tight black dress, figure hugging, plunging neckline. Hair, blonde, draping over her shoulders. Black heels, shiny, and a clutch purse. Her green eyes matched her emerald earrings, as Peta walked into the bar, seeing Sam and smiling.

"Hey you."

"Hey yourself," she said, their customary greeting sounding as fresh as the first time they'd said it on that beach. Sam hesitated, then stepped forward and embraced her. She hugged him back, tightly, before stepping back, both blushing. Sam noted the wedding ring, still on her finger. No engagement ring seemed present.

"So...can I get you a drink?"

"The usual, Sam," Peta said, obviously nervous.

Sam called a waiter over, and asked for a nice large glass of Gruner Veltliner. "You remembered," Peta said, sitting.

"Always."

Sam's drink was already half drunk, a whiskey sour, so he ordered another. They made small talk, about jobs, friends, and as the drinks arrived, the subject turned to Hans.

"...it's not going well. In fact, it's been awful." Peta said. Sam nodded.

"I saw...he was shouting at you."

"He didn't want me there," Peta complained, "I thought I was being romantic. Then his colleague, Christophe, shows up and they head off back to the hotel. I gather they're flying off to the rig together too."

"I would have appreciated you being there." Sam instinctively took her hand. Peta looked up at him, her eyes wet.

"Sam..."

"I missed you."

The words were as easy as breathing.

"I missed you, Peta. I know it's too late...but I just needed to say that."

She stared back at him, gulping for breath. "Sam...I missed you too..."

Suddenly the static was crackling between them. Eyes locked on each other. Sam's heart raced. He took Peta's hand, and placed it onto his chest. "Even now...it beats for you," he said.

Peta took his other hand, and placed it over her breast firmly. "Ja...mein too," she said, breathless.

The words hung there between them, an admittance of guilt. The crackle of static intensified. Then Sam bent in, and kissed her, gently, pulling away to look at her, to see her reaction. The thumping in his ears was his heart.

Peta was wide eyed and quivering. Then she lifted her lips to his, and pulled him close to her. They kissed, by the light of the bar overlooking the cathedral, forgetting all else.

Their lips curved round each other's, intertwining tongues and closed eyes completing their embrace. Sam gently pulled away from her, grasping her hands in his.

"Let's get out of here."

"Ja, let's go."

The taxi ride was hazy, they were kissing passionately throughout, in the hotel lift Sam had lifted the lower edge of her dress, reacquainting his right hand with her left buttock. Peta laughed, and giggled, as she always did.

They entered his room, still kissing, going to the balcony overlooking the Danube and holding each other in the cold river air. Peta beckoned him to the bed, and pulled him to the sheets.

Piece by piece, they undid each other's clothes, still kissing, hands running over each bare patch of skin revealed. Peta Sam pulled down her panties, and stared over her. Peta, naked, her breasts pert and perfect, her skin smooth and supple, and spread across his sheets, was his for the taking. Peta looked up at Sam, hairier, more muscled, naked, erect, hanging over her. Sam was hers to have.

Sam pulled the sheets over them, and they faced each other, kissing hard, as Peta grabbed Sam's dick, and pushed it towards her, guiding it in. Their sex was wordless, yet loud. She moaned on his entry, he gasped on her tightness, they writhed in the bed together, Sam swaying into Peta, who wrapped over leg over Sam and threw her head back in ecstasy.

"Peta...Peta..." Sam panted, "I'm going to come..."