by Carol Wyer
When she’d written her debut novel, William had provided much of the fodder with stories regaled by his almost nightly trips to the local pub, and she’d drawn on her own passion, unleashed by the man she loved, to develop some of the raunchier scenes. However, with William no longer in her life, she felt unplugged. As if all the ardour inside her had drained away. She couldn’t imagine creating such wickedly suggestive scenes for the new book, but try she must.
She aimed the remote control at the television and stared at two naked bodies making out on a wide bed, each groaning with desire. It seemed fake to her ears but research was research, and if this could ignite a flicker inside her she might be able to start writing. The male was dark-haired and broad-shouldered with smouldering eyes that never left his lover’s face. He bore a slight resemblance to Alex. She snorted at the thought and lifted the mug of chocolate to her lips, oblivious to the chocolate foam moustache above her lips.
The couple on screen became more physical, their desire more ardent. Chloe shut her eyes and tried to picture her new male protagonist. Would he perform like this? Would he be strong and dominant? Would he have passionate depths or be a cad, a rogue even, who broke hearts? Ronnie suddenly leapt to his feet and began barking. Somebody was at the door. She placed the hot chocolate next to the opened bag of marshmallows on the table and pressed the pause button.
Alex stood on the doorstep, a black handle in one hand. He held it out to her as a peace-offering. She noticed telltale purplish eye bags and his stubble seemed thicker today.
‘Hi again. Sorry about earlier. I was in a terrible rush. Stuff had gone wrong on site and I didn’t have much time to get it sorted out. I might have sounded a bit brusque. Didn’t mean to.’
She gave him a nod.
‘I need to change your log burner handle. They’re faulty. One fell to pieces on us over at number four. I thought I’d change yours before that happens here. I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself. Is it okay if I come in?’
‘Sure.’ She waved him through, glad that he wasn’t annoyed with her for blocking his route. He’d been in a rush, that was all. Overseeing the development must be stressful. She trailed after him into the sitting room and caught sight of her face in the glass reflection of a picture. What the hell? She paused to check her face. A creamy brown stain lined her top lip. Shit! She licked her finger, rubbed at the foamy mess and peered again at the painting, hoping she’d removed the worst of it. She looked up. Double shit! Alex was standing stock still in front of her television set. The image frozen on the screen was of a full-fronted naked man who undoubtedly resembled Alex. She choked an apology and launched for the control to shut off the television set, knocking the marshmallows onto the floor.
‘It’s not what it seems,’ she said, words sticking in her throat as she flicked the off button and tried to shoo Ronnie away from the sweet treats now on the floor to no avail. ‘I was looking for inspiration.’ She flapped at Ronnie who was snaffling the small marshmallows at speed.
‘Well, that bloke certainly isn’t leaving anything to the imagination,’ Alex said. She tried not to groan. Bending down he deftly unscrewed the handle and replaced it with the new one. Ronnie had hoovered all the marshmallows up and was wagging his tail. Chloe stared at the now empty bag and the huge mug of chocolate and tugged at the baggy jumper which reached mid-thigh. She must look ridiculous in her socks and jumper, face covered in hot chocolate. She was a complete twonkarina. Why was it that every time he saw her she made such a bad impression, and why hadn’t she turned the damn television set off?
He stood again. ‘There you go. That one shouldn’t break.’ He gave her a grin. ‘I’ll leave you to your research.’
‘It really is,’ she offered.
‘Sure it is,’ he replied with a wink. As he left, whistling, she was torn between the urge to race after him and insist she was only watching the film to help her thought process or hurl a bag of marshmallows at his head. Once again, he’d succeeded in making her feel utterly ridiculous.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, 20th December
‘Reckon I look okay?’ Ronnie didn’t move. He was sulking in his basket in the kitchen.
‘You say all the right things, don’t you? She crouched on her haunches. The seams on her jeans stretched tight against her thighs, threatening to pull apart. She hoped they’d hold and whatever was planned for them wouldn’t involve too much physical activity. She ruffled the fur on his neck. ‘I won’t be long. You can have a nice nap and enjoy guarding the house.’
For the umpteenth time she tried to think of some way to pull out of the outing. People who didn’t suffer from her condition had no idea of how terrifying it was to meet groups of people. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. She had to face up to her fears. She’d be with Eleanor, she reasoned. She could always say she felt ill and leave if it really became impossible or, here’s an idea, her inner self said, explain to Eleanor that you have social anxiety disorder that got completely out of hand following the death of your sister and parents, and that meeting more than one or two people at any time sends you into meltdown. She shook her head. She’d had the chance to do that when they’d first proposed joining the club. It was too late.
The internal turmoil continued. She closed her eyes and thought of Dr Melanie Turnpike, the gentle mild-mannered physician who’d understood her dread in certain situations and tried to help her control what was more than mere shyness…
Dr Turnpike rubs the lenses of her round glasses with a large white cloth. Nanny Olive is in the chair next to Chloe, one cool hand on top of hers. Dr Turnpike smiles warmly at them both. Chloe can’t meet her eyes even though she’s friendly, and looks down at her school uniform skirt. She hates the way it fans out around her thighs. She hates everything about her uniform and the school she has to attend. Nanny Olive doesn’t know the half of what’s been happening. All she knows is Chloe cries a lot because of the pain in her stomach. Her forehead is wrinkled and lined with anxiety.
‘Chloe is exhibiting the classic symptoms of what we call social anxiety disorder. She blushes easily, feels embarrassed and breaks out in a sweat, or has a panic attack at the thought of mixing with others in a social situation. Is that right, Chloe?’
She nods. She answered all the doctor’s questions honestly but now she wonders if that was the right thing to do. Nanny doesn’t seem too pleased with the doctor.
‘People who have this disorder often suffer physical symptoms too: stomach problems, maybe diarrhoea and muscle tension and I believe Chloe’s digestive issues and muscular pain are arising from her anxieties.’
Nanny squeezes her hand.
‘There’s no one thing that causes social anxiety disorder. Sometimes genetics is likely to have something to do with it, maybe there’s another family member with social phobia?’
Nanny wets her lips before answering in a stiff tone. ‘There’s no one in our family with it.’
The doctor continues. ‘Well then, it could also be linked to having an overactive amygdala which is the part of the brain that controls the fear response, or it could be something else.’ She pauses for an instant and Chloe knows instinctively what she’s going to tell Nanny Olive. ‘If we consider what has happened over the last year – the loss of her parents and sister and then having to attend a new, unfamiliar school – it is unsurprising that this has occurred, Mrs Piper.’
It seems strange hearing Nanny Olive addressed as Mrs Piper. Chloe thinks of another Mrs Piper – her mother – now gone forever and swallows hard. Maybe she ought to have told the doctor about what’s been happening at school: the name-calling, pupils stealing her lunch money and pens and ridiculing her for her accent.
‘Social anxiety disorder can be linked to a history of bullying, teasing or abuse.’ Her words are serious and heavy but Nanny Olive shakes her head.
‘She’s not been abused. What are you saying? I hurt her? Her parents hit her?’
‘I’m not suggesting any
of that for one minute. I’m merely explaining what can trigger such a condition and in Chloe’s case there are several factors: the loss of her parents and sister and then moving from a very familiar environment to another quite different one. Chloe is struggling with it all, Mrs Piper.’
Nanny has two fire-red spots on her cheeks. ‘Are you saying I can’t look after my granddaughter properly?’
The doctor holds up both her hands. ‘Not at all, Mrs Piper. I think the change of school has been a real issue for her.’
‘I’m sure it has, but she has to go to school, hasn’t she? What else am I to do? Home educate her?’
‘Please, there’s no reason to get defensive, Mrs Piper. I’m sure you’re doing an admirable job.’
‘Don’t you patronise me. You’ve no idea what we’ve been through. Both of us. Come on, Chloe love. There’s nothing more to be gained from sitting here.’
‘Please, don’t go. We haven’t discussed how best to treat Chloe.’
‘What do you suggest? Drugs?’ Nanny’s voice has changed and become hostile, her eyes narrow slits.
‘Well, there’s some antidepressant medication available that might help but I was going to suggest cognitive behavioural therapy with a therapist.’
‘Antidepressants? A therapist? She’s not crazy, you know. She’s a lonely, sad little girl who’s lost her family. She doesn’t need behavioural therapy. She needs time. She needs to adjust. That’s all.’
‘With the greatest of respect…’ the doctor began.
Nanny pushes back her chair and tugs at Chloe’s hand. Her eyes have filled with tears. ‘With the greatest of respect, I shall look after my granddaughter. Good day.’
Nanny had never entirely grasped what was happening to Chloe until it had taken full hold, and at sixteen Chloe had finally been put on a treatment programme. Poor Nanny had never forgiven herself for not acting sooner. Up until recently, Chloe had had it under a certain amount of control. She could cope with a few people at a time and as long as she didn’t have to face crowds or new people alone, she could get by. William’s deception had sent her spiralling backwards. His actions had brought back the insecurity and self-doubts that had plagued her in her youth. This time it was harder to fight them off. She knew what was happening to her but powerless to bat away the phobias. Her daily meditation wasn’t working and without internet she couldn’t contact the online support groups upon whom she had come to rely. Her stomach lurched. She had to try and battle against the panic that threaten to flood her body with an uncomfortable warmth and make her heart beat uncontrollably quickly until she thought she’d pass out. She had to fight it and go out and meet new people.
In spite of the pep talk she’d given herself, she couldn’t face the day trip out to meet the other singletons. The fear had beaten her again. She picked up her mobile to ring Eleanor.
‘I’ll say you’re ill,’ she told Ronnie who ignored her. ‘Okay, maybe that’s bad karma. I don’t want you to be ill. I’ll say I have to go out to an appointment.’
The phone was slippery with sweat. She released a lengthy sigh. How she hated being like this. She dialled Eleanor’s number and cursed. There was no signal in the room. She made her way into the kitchen, studying her phone, waiting for a bar to appear. She waved it high and low but there was no signal until she reached the front door where she breathed in deeply, ready to make her excuse and tried dialling again. Pharrell William’s Happy was suddenly audible, followed quickly by Eleanor’s voice.
‘You’re keen, aren’t you? Don’t panic. We’re right outside your front door.’
She looked through the small square of glass and sure enough, Eleanor was there, phone pressed to her ear and wide smile on her face. There was no getting out of it.
* * *
Fairfax and Eleanor weren’t giving anything away and it wasn’t until they turned into the car park at the snowdome that Chloe had an idea of the activity planned.
‘I’m really no good on skis,’ she said. ‘Terrible sense of balance.’ She blushed at the memory of the ski school in Aviemore, Scotland, where they’d headed for a long weekend, of hands scrabbling for William’s jacket sleeve as she slid downhill backwards on the nursery slopes, screeching for help before falling on her backside in front of a small group of children who were no older than three and who had skied around her with a skill she’d never possess. It had been the only time they’d been on a skiing trip.
‘You’re not skiing,’ said Eleanor. ‘Now. Let’s see who’s here.’
Chloe chewed at a nail. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure Eleanor could hear it. Her neighbour picked up on her sudden nerves. ‘They’re just as worried about meeting up as you are. It’s always strange the first time you come to these events but we make them easy so you don’t feel awkward. I’d really like you to meet Sean Campbell first. He owns a bookshop, A New Chapter, in Uttoxeter. It’s only a small establishment but it’s charming and I happen to know he’s on the lookout for some assistance there. After what you told us about your previous job, it might suit you.’
Chloe nodded dumbly. She’d told them about working in a bookshop. She clearly hadn’t said anything about being a writer. At least that was something.
‘And there he is,’ said Eleanor waving furiously at a man in a black beanie hat and a black wax jacket.
Sean responded with a small nod and came towards them. At about six foot, he towered a good half a foot over Chloe.
‘Sean, meet Chloe,’ said Eleanor.
‘Recognised you from your photo on the website,’ he responded, large hand extended. His voice was melodic and with a transatlantic twang.
Chloe shook it. It was a firm, warm handshake. She flushed. ‘I’m the one with fake antlers,’ she said and immediately wished she hadn’t. Why did she always come out with such dumb statements? Sean smiled politely, heightening her discomfort further as she felt he was only humouring her.
‘I think that’s Jacqueline’s,’ said Eleanor, pointing out a red Ducati motorbike near the entrance. ‘Let’s go and check. We’re due to meet at reception.’
They crossed the short distance from the car park to the main entrance. Chloe cringed at her rubbish comment about the antlers and wished she could turn around and go home.
‘Chloe’s heavily into books,’ said Eleanor.
‘Are you?’ His large blue eyes crinkled behind his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘What genre are you into?’
‘Most really: classics, romance, historical fiction, thrillers. You hand me a book and I’ll read it cover to cover.’
‘Favourite author?’
‘Enid Blyton. As a child, she offered me the best escapism possible.’
He nodded approvingly. They’d entered the snowdome. Talking about books had briefly interrupted her concerns, but once again Chloe was aware of a drumming in her ears as she spotted the small gathering of people. She fought back the sudden urge to flee. Sean and Fairfax now flanked her and to run would be impossible. A rush of air cooled her as a woman in a bright red woollen coat and red gloves that matched her hair arrived in a rush. ‘Sorry everyone. Traffic was bad and I was so nervous I needed to go to the loo first,’ she panted. Chloe concentrated on her breathing. Eleanor greeted everyone warmly and fell into hostess mode with ease.
‘Looks like we’ve all made it,’ said Eleanor. ‘Thank you all for coming and I hope you all have a terrific time. As most of you know, it’s called Speedy Speed Skating Date but as with all our events, there’s a difference. You’ll see how it works once you come through to the ice rink. It’s ours for the next couple of hours. If you’d like to collect your skates from the lodge over there we’ll get started.’
Sean picked up the conversation about authors, distracting her from the warm bodies around her, and before she knew it, Chloe found herself in the queue. She’d never skated before but if past performance on skis was anything to go by, she’d be on her backside within a few seconds of getting on the ice. She clenched her
teeth tightly together to stop them from chattering. Sean was talking in an easy slow manner about classics he enjoyed and how as a child he’d read extensively. He attended a local book club and this month they were reading the Golden Man Booker Prize winner, The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. He also ran a book review blog and posted about latest releases from many new authors who were on virtual book tours. It was soon her turn to collect her footwear for the rink.
‘Size six,’ she said and received a pair of ice skates. She stared at them miserably. Sean caught her expression.
‘Never skated before, huh?’
She shook her head.
‘Half of the secret to skating is to lace the boots up properly,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tell anyone here but I’m a pro at this. Ice hockey is Canada’s national winter sport. I grew up wearing blades.’
They made their way into the cool ice rink area, a domed arena with maroon stepped seating for spectators. The others were talking in low voices as if in church, frightened their voices would echo around the large space. Three women aged somewhere between thirty and fifty were grouped together on the front benches, hunched forward pulling on boots. The woman with bright red hair had removed her coat to reveal a red jumpsuit and was chatting effortlessly to a bear of a man with neck-length black hair and bushy eyebrows. Other members were scattered, some experimenting standing on their skates for the first time whilst clinging to the handrail. Chloe and Sean took a vacant bench.
