The Name I Call Myself

by Beth Moran

  Another sleepless night, staring at the ceiling.

  The Monday after New Year I woke up to the doorbell ringing. Fumbling for my phone, the time read seven o’clock. I lay there for a moment, hoping the caller would go away, but the bell rang again, followed by a sharp knock. I tumbled out of bed and crept over to the window, peeping out through a chink in the curtain. A black four by four had been parked behind my new car, but the person at the door stood too close to the house for me to see them.

  After another ring, I pulled on a sweatshirt over my pyjamas and went to peep through the front window. A man, about my age, stood on the doorstep. He caught me looking, smiled, and gave a salute.

  “Hi. You must be Faith,” he said when I opened the door, his accent hailing from somewhere in the southern hemisphere.

  I nodded, still too asleep to speak.

  “Anton. Your personal trainer. I’m guessing you’d forgotten your appointment?”

  That would explain the shorts in January. I rubbed my face with one hand, trying to get my brain going. “No. I really think I would remember making an appointment with a personal trainer. Sorry.”

  “It was a gift card? From Mrs Upperton? For Christmas?”

  Eugh. Now I remembered. I hadn’t even bothered to check if an actual appointment had been made, presuming it would be left up to me to call Anton and arrange a session. What a ridiculous presumption, considering whom the gift came from.

  “Um. She never told me an actual session had been booked.”

  “Riiiight.” Anton frowned sympathetically, still managing to smile at the same time. He bounced up and down on his heels. “Not to worry. You go on and trackie up and we’ll get going. The session’s two hours, so plenty of time to work off some of those mince pies.”

  “Actually, I think I might give it a miss. I haven’t slept all that great, and, well, you know how it is. Stuff to do, places to go.”

  Anton leaned against the door frame and began stretching his leg muscles. “No can do, I’m afraid. I heard you got a wedding emergency. Too fat for your dress. And that was before the holidays. We’ve got serious work to do.”

  He moved on to his arms, pulling them behind his head.

  “Okay, look. Come in for a minute and I’ll explain.”

  “I’d save your breath if I were you. You’re gonna need it. Trust me, I’ve heard every excuse in the book. There ain’t a reason on earth why I’m gonna let any of my clients remain a fatty.”

  “I’m wearing a sweatshirt! Everyone looks fat in them.”

  “Trust me, darling, I don’t.”

  I sighed, wondering what would happen if I just closed the door and went back to bed. “If you’re not going to go away, then please come in before the house gets any colder.”

  He grinned and stepped inside, then began jogging on the spot in my hallway.

  “Come into the kitchen. I need a drink.”

  “Just water! No caffeine required to get pumping in one of my sessions.”

  Ignoring him, I filled up the kettle and switched it on.

  “If I tell you something, will you keep it confidential?”

  “No worries. What happens in session stays in session. My lips are sealed.”

  “I don’t actually need a personal trainer. I have a physical job and I walk fifteen miles a week. Underneath this sweater I am actually in okay shape. I lied to Larissa about not fitting into the wedding dress any more because I’d ripped it and it’s her dress and I didn’t want to upset her. So I really don’t want to waste your time and undergo fitness-related torture for two hours every week for no reason.”

  “Two times a week. And it’s been paid for. Be unethical not to coach the sessions. And there’s always room for improvement in my book.”

  I poured myself a coffee. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  “Got any oolong tea?”

  “Er, no.”

  “I’ll pass, then.” He nodded at my mug. “That stuff is poison. Look, have you ever tried a trainer before? Why not give it a go? Most people can benefit from a decent workout. Releases stress, lowers blood pressure. Lotta tension involved in organizing a wedding.”

  “Thanks, but my choir sorts that. It does give me an idea, though.”

  A quick phone call settled it. Marilyn greeted us at her front door wearing pink running gear and a matching bandana.

  “They’re in the high chairs, ready for breakfast. The porridge is on the hob; it’ll need another minute or so. Make sure you blow on it. And don’t turn your back for a second! Oh, and if they make a mess, don’t worry about clearing it up. Changing bag, spare clothes, beakers, Pete’s dummy, Nancy’s dog, remote control are all in the living room. Anything else?”

  “Um, nope. Don’t think so.”

  “Cool. I feel sexier already. Speaking of which! Hell-o!” I followed her gaze to see Anton, now out of the car, doing more stretches. He’d taken his jacket off, the skintight running top underneath leaving nothing to the imagination. Flicking back his blond hair he clapped his hands together.

  “That’s what I like to see! Something to get my teeth into,” he called out.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Marilyn muttered, before I slapped her.

  “Behave!”

  “Seriously though, Faith. Those arms.”

  A squealing sound came from the direction of the house.

  I braced myself. “Right. I’d better go. Anton – Marilyn, Marilyn – Anton. Please don’t work her too hard. She needs enough energy to look after two babies for the rest of the day.” I dashed inside, took one look at the bomb site of Marilyn’s kitchen, Pete smearing the mess from his nose across his high chair tray with a plastic spoon, Nancy screaming next to him, sniffed the burnt porridge on the splattered hob, and wondered which of us was going to have the less strenuous morning.

  An hour and a half later, I declared it a draw.

  In my baby-free, magazine-article, rose-tinted spectacles, I had planned to do some tidying up for Marilyn, maybe put on a load of washing or get the iron out while the twins gurgled in their playpen.

  My plan hadn’t factored in that ninety-nine per cent of the time (eighty-nine of the ninety minutes) one or both of them were crying, pooping, sneezing, smearing, spilling, snatching, poking, or getting their head stuck in the cat flap (a frankly terrifying moment only solved by a lightning-fast Internet search and a packet of butter).

  Wowzers. Babies were hard work. I now understood Marilyn’s eagerness to join the choir, and to spend an hour and a half slogging round the park in freezing cold rain being shouted at by a half-man, half-golden retriever. She returned red-faced, sweat-soaked, and dishevelled, barely able to stretch her arm up to meet Anton’s high five.

  “Tea. Cake. Help.”

  “Green tea, a granola bar, and I’ll see ya Thursday. Great job!” Anton jogged back to the car as fresh-faced as when he arrived.

  “I can’t believe it’s only nine in the morning.” Marilyn limped inside, pausing to kiss her children on the head before falling face-first onto the sofa.

  I made us some tea and fruit toast.

  “How was it, then?”

  “He’s a maniac. As soon as the session started it was like the Incredible Hulk. He flipped into this beast-man. Like an SAS commander or something. Only I’m not a soldier. I’m an obese woman in her thirties who drives to the corner shop on the corner of her own street. He had me doing squats. Squats! And pulling a tyre on the end of a rope. Every single inch of me hurts. I threw up twice and at one point went blind in my left eye.”

  “Eek. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was flippin’ awesome. This is the start of the new, improved Marilyn. Marilyn mark two. James won’t know what’s hit him when he comes home.”

  So now, along with work, seeing Sam, organizing a wedding, choir rehearsals, and worrying about being hunted by a murderer, I got up at six three times a week and spent two hours trying to apply damage limitation with Nancy a
nd Pete. And in between all that, I walked, pounding through the fields as if eventually I could outpace my problems.

  No chance.

  Halfway through the month, Gwynne phoned to let me know Kane had been attending all his probation meetings, including one only a couple of days earlier. If he had been in Nottinghamshire, and hanging around in HCC, it had been for a few days at most, and he wasn’t there any more. His probation officer would be keeping a close eye on things. I thanked her, and let out a long sigh of relief. I tried to picture the blurred face on Mike’s phone. Maybe the man wasn’t Kane. Maybe the redhead he was looking for wasn’t me.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to tell Sam, after all.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Choir rehearsals were buzzing. Not only were we learning two new songs, but following the success of the carol service, Hester announced she had entered Grace Choir into a competition.

  “The East Midlands heat of the International Community Choir Sing-Off. This is it, choir! A chance to convince yourselves you are a real choir. That you can sing, together, and create something magnificent. That when you put some effort in, believe in yourselves, and embrace the togetherness of the team, you can do it.”

  “How many teams are in the competition?” Rowan asked.

  “Irrelevant!” Hester retorted. “You be the best you can be. Don’t think about who you’re up against.”

  “Are they, like, proper choirs that have been together for ages, with, like, people who are musicians and sing in theatres and stuff? How would we stand a chance against choirs like that?” Rowan added.

  Hester picked up the folder of music and bashed herself over the head with it a few times. “You. Are. A. Proper. Choir. You are musicians! And none of the choirs in the competition are allowed to hold auditions.”

  “And none of them have Hester,” Mags pointed out. “I bet other choirs don’t strip off and climb mountains together.”

  “Would I enter you into this competition if you weren’t ready?”

  “No, Hester,” we droned in unison, like schoolchildren.

  “Incorrect! None of you are ready! You still don’t believe in this choir, because you still don’t believe in yourselves. Or each other. But you will! We’ve got six weeks. Both the choir that gets first place and the runners-up go through to the national final. Those of you who talk to God, please start praying. Those of you who don’t, now would be an excellent time to start.”

  The first song we learned was “Stand by Me”, by Ben E. King, mashed together with the chorus of “All Together Now”, by the Farm. No prizes for guessing what Hester’s point was there.

  She announced that she wanted us to choose our second song. We had two weeks to offer suggestions, after which she would decide the winner.

  “No meaningless slush, sentimental claptrap, or sexualization of women! No whoop-de-do now I’ve found a man I can stop feeling sorry for myself as I must not be ugly after all, my life finally has meaning and I don’t have to worry if there’s a spider in the bath.”

  Millie scratched her bobble hat. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Who’s it by?”

  Hester scowled. “A man wrote it. A stupid one whose wife only married him to stop feeling like a worm. It didn’t work. She became a worm with an idiot husband.”

  “Are you talking about somebody in particular, Hester?” Melody asked.

  “Time to stop blethering on and learn some notes! How on earth are we going to be ready for this competition if we keep falling behind schedule? Now, on a count of four…”

  The fourteenth of February fell on a Saturday this year. The previous Valentine’s Day had been one of the times Perry proposed: a trip to a planetarium, where he’d bribed some soppy intern to reprogramme the stars so they spelled “marry me Faith”. That had been a test of my mettle, saying no while two members of staff hovered hopefully in the corner with a bottle of champagne and some glasses.

  This time around, he surprised me with two tickets to Rome the week before. We were eating the second of his Christmas voucher slap-up dinners. The plane left in six days.

  “You want me to take the whole weekend off?”

  “And all day Friday and Monday. If I can spare the time, running a business, you can manage it.”

  “I think you get better tips than me.”

  “Four days, Faith.”

  “This is really short notice. I think I’ve got something booked already.”

  He put down his fork, leaning forwards slightly across his half-finished gnocchi. “Then cancel it.”

  “I hate cancelling. It makes them less willing to call on me again.” And it lets the poverty wolf snap closer at my heels.

  “You’re the best waitress they’ve got. They’ll always call on you. Come on, Faith. You need a break. You look exhausted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m worried about you. Please take the weekend off and come and have a lovely time with me.”

  I said nothing, trying to sort the reasons I felt such resistance to the idea into a rational order.

  “I’ve booked us separate bedrooms if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “I can’t go for four nights.”

  “Three.”

  “I don’t want to go to Italy.”

  Perry threw his napkin on the plate. “Well where do you want to go, then? Pick somewhere else if Italy bothers you. Paris, New York, Baghdad? Quite frankly I don’t care. I just want to spend a few uninterrupted days with my fiancée, enjoying ourselves. Sorry for being so ludicrously demanding.”

  I took a deep breath, but Perry hadn’t finished.

  “What is it with you, Faith? Most women would be delighted to be whisked off to Rome for the weekend. You make me feel like a needy fool, wanting to spend time with you. Is Italy the problem, or is it me?”

  “No!” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. I don’t want to leave Sam for that long.”

  “So… what? You’re never going to go on holiday in case Sam needs you? That’s ridiculous. And what about his girlfriend?”

  “It’s just, right now is a particularly bad time. He’s going through some stuff.”

  “Oh, come off it. It’s always a bad time, and he’s always going through stuff.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What then?” He stood up, pushing his chair back. “Tell me, Faith. What stuff is he going through right now – stuff he isn’t normally going through – that means you can’t leave for three nights?”

  Even in my bubbling frustration, I knew I should tell him. About Kane and my mother, moving to live with Grandma. Sam’s addictions. If not all of it, then at least something. He stared across the table, eyes challenging me to finally open up and let him into an area of my life that actually mattered.

  “I haven’t got a passport.”

  “Then get one. You’ll be needing it anyway for our honeymoon.”

  “I can’t afford a passport, Perry. They cost eighty pounds.”

  He pulled out his wallet, yanked out a pile of twenties, and threw them on the table before storming out of his own dining room, and then out of his own house. I swallowed a couple more mouthfuls of the gnocchi, put the cappuccino brûlées back in the fridge, and cleared up the kitchen.

  In the end we compromised. I booked four days off, and we went to York. If Sam had a meltdown, we would come home. And Perry would also come with me to our first marriage preparation class at Grace Chapel. Three days before the trip we spent an hour and a half in the lounge room at the chapel with three other engaged couples and the older husband and wife leading the class. To our relief, it involved no sharing or baring of secrets – just a video followed by time in our pairs to work through some questions. The topics were listening skills, time together, and conflict resolution.

  How apt, considering the weekend to follow.

  The couple leading the class were lovely. They asked if they could pray for us before we left.

  �
��No, thanks.” Perry smiled his businessman smile. “See you all next week.” He took my hand and led me out of the building, but as we reached the car I stopped.

  “I think I forgot my gloves. Hang on.” I scurried back in, to where the class leaders were tidying up the mugs and stacking the chairs.

  “Oh, hi, Faith. Did you forget something?”

  “Will you pray for me quickly, please? Perry’s waiting in the car.”

  “Of course.” The woman – Zoe – came over and put one hand on my shoulder. She looked at me, and I could see the concern. I didn’t say anything. Goodness me. If she knew the truth she’d be a lot more concerned. I knew it, and I certainly was.

  She spoke out a brief prayer, head bowed and voice low. I don’t even remember what she said, apart from praying for peace. And in that short moment, as a kind woman took my secret problems, my mammoth-sized anxiety, my doubts, fears, loneliness, helplessness, and whirlpool of spinning confusion – as she took these things and handed them over to a higher power, the God these people believed could somehow help, and for some reason cared, the burden on my tired shoulders lifted, a little, and in its place fell a soft, warm blanket of peace.

  The blanket shifted soon enough, knocked aside by a ten-hour stint at a weekend wedding reception where the bride passed out drunk underneath the top table and the groom had a fist fight with his best man on the dance floor. They toppled the four-tier cake into the champagne fountain, smashing glasses in all directions, injuring three guests, and covering several more with lemon icing.

  Sam continued calling me several times a day – he couldn’t find his jumper, the workmen outside were giving him a migraine, he needed a specific brand of cereal from the supermarket, April had gone out and he didn’t know when she would be home. Translation: I’m scared, I’m panicking, I can’t cope. I’m teetering on the edge of the abyss and I need someone to pull me back.