One More Go

Fenna wanted another go. Not because the last one had gone badly. Quite the opposite. As she eased off, she felt her legs had grasped something she'd spent weeks trying to think her way through, and she wanted to go back to the start before she lost it.

Gita looked up from her list. 'That's it.'

'I didn't say anything.'

'You're already looking at me.'

On the other side of the infield, Madelon was putting on her jacket. She had tied her hair back so tightly that her ponytail still stuck almost horizontally out of her helmet. Fenna would have said something about it if she hadn't been trying to catch her coach's eye one last time.

Gita put her pen away. 'That's your lot for today. More next time.' She pointed at Fenna's towel. 'That's yours. I've got enough washing at home.'

Fenna picked it up. The pleasure was still in her legs, unreasonable and glorious. Two weeks ago, after a warehouse shift, she'd mainly been trying to get to the venue on time. Now she'd done a whole session with the sprint group without a message about a changed shift, a half-formed arrangement or a request to try another day. For twelve winter weeks, her name was simply on the schedule. She still couldn't make a living from cycling, but this was time she wouldn't have to keep scraping together.

She walked her bike over to the agreed spot to gather her things. Madelon was already sitting on a bench, eating a roll she hadn't quite unwrapped. A corner of paper stuck out of her mouth. She pulled it out, inspected it and carried on eating.

'You looked pleased,' she said.

'I am pleased.'

'You sound as though someone's insulted you.'

'I just want to know if I can do it again.'

'Next time. Gita's just said it for you.'

Fenna sat down beside her. Something small in her sock had been prickling her throughout the session. She took it off and found a red thread from her work glove. The warehouse managed to follow her everywhere. That morning she'd spent three hours packing bike lights advertised as brighter than the last range. The boxes showed exactly the same photograph of a man cheerfully riding up an unlit mountain. Fenna had sent him off to his destination sixty times in a row.

Madelon bent over her bag. 'Early start tomorrow?'

'Not till the day after.'

'There you go. Living the dream.'

A man came through the entrance to the infield, wheeling a bike with a yellow banana between his teeth. He wore a dark shirt without a huge sponsor's name on it, and looked round as though he knew where he was supposed to be but hoped someone might offer him something more interesting. When he saw Madelon, he raised two fingers. The banana fell. He caught it against his chest, let the helmet slip from his other hand and trapped it with his foot.

Fenna burst out laughing before she'd decided whether that was kind.

The man looked at her. He kept his foot on the rim of the helmet. 'I can do it with an orange, too.'

'A whole fruit bowl would be properly impressive.'

'I'm building up to it.' He put the banana in his bag and picked up the helmet. There was a fresh mark from his sole across the front. He rubbed it with his sleeve, without much success.

'Marten,' Madelon said. 'This is Fenna. She's had a good day, so you don't have to be careful with her.'

'So I see.' He held out his hand. 'Marten Beek.'

His hand was warm. Fenna gave it a quick shake and held on a fraction longer than she needed to. She knew his name. Once, at a track meeting, she'd stood behind a group of men talking about him as though his race existed solely to prove their predictions wrong. She hadn't watched his race. What she remembered was the chorus of protest from all four when things failed to turn out as they'd said.

'You've got something on your helmet,' she said.

'It's meant to be there. Wear pattern.'

Madelon rustled her sandwich bag. 'I'm off. You two can manage a conversation about fruit without me.' She put the wrapper away and picked up her bike. As she said goodbye, she gave Fenna's shoulder a squeeze. 'Eat. Actual food. You already sound annoying and I've got to put up with your messages tomorrow.'

Fenna watched her go. Marten put his bag down with the endurance group's kit. A few other riders were getting ready. Their coach called something and he answered with a thumbs-up. So he didn't have a whole free hour to stand around being charming. Fenna felt a small, ridiculous pang of disappointment.

'You lot finished?' he asked.

'I am. Reluctantly.'

'So I heard.'

'Gita's loud.'

'So are you.'

She looked at him. He smiled without apology. One of his front teeth was slightly crooked. She realised she was looking at it and moved her gaze to his eyes, which didn't help much.

'I wouldn't mind a good session lasting longer,' she said.

'I'll think of you.'

'That won't make your session any shorter.'

'No.' He bent over his bag and took the banana out again. 'But it'll give me something to do.'

She laughed again. This time she saw he'd been waiting for it. He peeled the banana, took a bite and went over to his group before she could answer. She minded him simply walking away more than she ought to.

She showered, got dressed and discovered she'd brought only one clean sock. The other was probably still inside a trouser leg at home. She stared into her bag for a while, as though persistence might produce a second one. Then she put the used pair back on. She had no plans that involved anyone sniffing her ankles.

The foyer by the coffee machine was quieter than the track. Fenna took the food container out of her bag and sat down at a table. Rice with chicken, peppers and something that had once been a courgette. The lid was covered in sauce. She scraped it clean with her spoon and ate. Through the open passage she could see a stretch of track. She couldn't immediately tell which of the men riding past was Marten. When she recognised him by the line of his shoulders, she found it annoyingly pleasing.

Her phone vibrated. A photograph of Madelon's cat, sitting with both front paws on the zip of her kitbag. Underneath: He thought it was a good session too.

Fenna replied that she was eating proper food. She attached a photograph of the container to forestall further supervision.

Madelon replied at once. And a photo of what's in it, please.

Fenna held her empty spoon up to the camera and sent that. Then she put her phone away. She wasn't here to wait for a man to finish training. She was eating because she was hungry and because there was nothing much to get excited about in her fridge. It was quite possible that her meal would last about as long as his session. There were probably people who could work that out; she wasn't going back to the infield to do it.

After fifteen minutes, the explanation no longer held up. Her container was empty. She'd scraped the pepper stuck to the bottom off with her spoon. She'd even rinsed the container. All she had to do now to go home was stand up.

She took her phone out again and opened her shopping list. Bread, laundry detergent, eggs. Beneath eggs she typed socks. She didn't know whether the supermarket sold them, and that suddenly seemed an excellent problem to spend a long time thinking about.

A woman shutting her laptop at the next table wished her a good evening. Fenna wished her the same and felt caught out by someone who had no interest in her whatsoever.

She picked up her bag. Her thighs were tender when she stood, in that good way that would feel less good later if she lay on the sofa too long. She put her rubbish in the bin and went back towards the passage. The endurance group was still going. She didn't stop to watch. By her bike, Gita was on her knees retrieving a loose sheet of paper from under a case.

'Forgotten something?' her coach asked.

'No. Had something to eat.'

'Good. See you Thursday.'

Fenna nodded. Thursday was soon enough. It suddenly seemed unnecessary to fit another exercise into the evening after all.

She wheeled her bike towards the exit and stopped at the last bench to zip up her coat. On the bench lay a helmet with a black mark across the front. She looked round. Marten was coming from the other direction with his own bike, his hair damp against his head. He looked from the helmet to her and lifted one corner of his mouth.

'I left it there on purpose,' he said. 'As a warning.'

'To people with bananas?'

'To anyone who thinks I'm organised.'

She sat down on the bench. The lining of her sleeve had folded over and she couldn't get her hand through. It would have been easier to take her coat off for a moment. Now she'd started, she wanted to win. Marten watched without helping. When her hand finally emerged, he gave her a thumbs-up.

'Don't say anything,' she said.

'I was impressed.'

'Yes. I could see.' She pulled up the zip. 'Will you be here on Thursday too?'

'That's the plan.'

'Same here.'

He hung his helmet from his handlebars and let his gaze linger on her face. It was long enough to make her question mean more than whether they would be in the same sports hall. She hadn't needed to ask. Now that she had, she wanted him to understand.

'Nice,' he said.

She narrowed her eyes. 'Is that the best you can do?'

'No. But I don't want to give it all away on my first evening.'

Fenna stood up. 'You know, I wasn't waiting here for you at all.'

'Shame. I went to all that trouble of forgetting my helmet.'

She laughed so loudly that the man putting his overshoes on some way off looked up. Marten laughed with her. There was something light about it, both of them knowing how ridiculous this was and carrying on anyway.

Outside, they each walked to their own car. Once the bikes were loaded, he came over to her door for a moment. He said her name before he left, simply, as though he wanted to try it out. Fenna raised a hand and drove away. She stopped at a red light at the first junction. She didn't have his number. She could have asked. She thought of Thursday, of the black mark on his helmet, and realised she was still smiling.

There were no socks in the supermarket. She bought bread, eggs and a bag of mandarins she didn't need. Only at home, unpacking her shopping, did she realise why she'd picked them up. She sent Madelon a photograph of the net.

The reply came as she put a pan on the hob. So you didn't buy laundry detergent.

Fenna looked at the list. Then at the dirty towel hanging over her bag. She started laughing again.