by Beth Moran
‘You don’t want Cee-Cee to turn me into you, you mean?’
I blinked back the sudden rush of tears. ‘Cee-Cee isn’t to blame for my panic disorder. Or my choices. But I still think we need a break from her, okay? And we need to find out more about the Gladiators before we decide anything. Even if it is the right decision, there’s no way you can train all the way on the other side of Nottingham and still get to school on time.’
Joey’s face fell. ‘So, I can’t do it then. Not without Cee-Cee to give me a lift.’
‘Why don’t we speak to your Brooksby coach, Mr Gallagher is it? See what he’s got to say. We might be able to come up with some sort of compromise.’ I said this, knowing full well the Gladiators would consider compromise a pointless, wimpy waste of time, not worth a moment’s consideration.
Joey considered it, however, allowing the frown to morph into a slow smile. ‘Gallagher’s awesome. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out who you are.’
‘Sorry, bud. That stays between you and me for now.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because there’s enough gossip goes on in this village without people discovering that the once celebrated Amelia Piper is now an overweight, scaredy-cat recluse living in a tiny little house in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Mum, you’re ill, not a scaredy-cat recluse.’
‘I know that. But thank you.’
‘You could do with losing a bit of weight though.’
‘Sorry, what was that? “I volunteer to do all the washing up and tidy the kitchen, after bringing my beautiful mother a cup of tea”? Aw, thanks Joey, you’re the best!’
In the end, he washed up and I tidied the kitchen, answering more questions about my glory days, while avoiding mentioning the terrible ones that came after, laughing about the antics his friends had got up to in science that day. Team Piper. I felt the tension in my neck and shoulders soften and clutched tightly to the spark of hope that dared to believe we would be okay without our coach.
3
Stop Being a Loser Plan/Programme
Day Three/One
The next morning, after Joey had loped off to school, I sat and stared at the box containing the girl I once was until I found the nerve to have another go. After rescanning the notes I’d printed off the agoraphobia websites, I tried the back door this time. Opening out onto the enclosed garden, I reminded myself it was still part of my property – safe, secure, private. I stared defiantly at a point on the floor, as instructed, and attempted to lock my frenzied thoughts in neutral. Then, phone held ready, one millimetre at a time, I pushed down the handle and pulled the door towards me.
I made it about three inches. Slowly, slowly, I forced my eyes up to the crack in the door. Belligerently took in the narrow strip of the world outside – grass, still short from where Joey had mowed it the week before. The brown fence behind it, blue sky above. A thrush hopped into view, before cocking its head and moving on. I strained above the hammer of my heart to hear the distant sound of the traffic, a neighbour calling to a friend in the street. Dug deep, deep down to the long-buried grit that had won a FINA World Championships gold medal and held on to the door for dear life until I could squash the panic back behind my stomach. I opened up my lungs and found I could just about breathe. I even counted to ten, resisting the mounting pressure until, like a flood, the panic burst out again.
I clicked my phone, slammed the door, span around and collapsed on the mat, whimpering like an animal.
I glanced at the phone. ‘Eleven point two five seconds. A personal best,’ I gasped.
And yes, while the time to beat had been zero point zero zero seconds, it was a start. And doing what it took to beat my personal best was something I could be extraordinarily stubborn about.
I opened a new note app on my phone and tapped in the time and date.
This was it, day one. Watch out world, here I come!
It all seemed so obvious now. If there was one thing I knew how to do it was follow a training programme. I knew how to override stress and tiredness and intimidating opponents and do what had to be done. So, the Stop-Being-A-Loser-Plan had become a Stop-Being-A-Loser-Programme. Simples. I’d be cavorting around town in no time. I just needed a strong cup of tea and a good lie-down first.
4
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Two
Cee-Cee managed to stay away for three days. On the Saturday after I’d told her to get lost, Joey answered the front door, and she stalked in carrying several bags of groceries and sporting a nonchalant tilt to her head.
‘Thought you’d be running low on a few things.’ She opened the fridge door to find it packed.
‘I did an internet shop.’
‘Oh. Well. No need for that.’ She creased her brow, disapproving and perturbed.
‘Maybe not, but I did it anyway.’ I turned away, closing my eyes and silently counting to ten through gritted teeth.
‘Risky business. Online shopping. A stranger fingering your fruit. Palming the old veg off on you. Replacing organic granola with chocolate puffs of air as a substitute. And what a waste of a delivery fee.’
I ignored her, adding a grating of parmesan to the risotto I’d cooked.
‘What am I meant to do with all this then?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, Cee-Cee. Return it. Eat it yourself. Donate it to the food bank.’ I nodded at Joey to set the table.
‘Rather ungrateful!’
‘I’ve told you, it’s time I did my own shopping. Now, seeing as you’re already here, are you staying for dinner?’
‘I will. Thank you.’ The frown deepened.
‘Then let’s change the subject.’ I talked a big talk, all cool and calm and collected, standing up to the woman who’d domineered me for so long. Pretending that asking her to give the key back didn’t mean I meant to cut off all contact altogether. But, oh my goodness, as Cee-Cee and Joey chatted about the football season, his history project, how the heck she’d never mentioned the tiny matter of his mother being a world champion swimmer, my hands shook so hard, I could barely scoop rice onto my fork.
At eighteen years old, my life consisted of three things: swim, sleep, show-up-and-smile. The Athens Olympics were fast approaching, and I was the only hope the UK had of a woman winning a swimming gold medal since 1960. My manager and agent (once known as my parents, before being infected with the fame bug) were treating the run-up to the Games like an American presidential campaign, doing whatever they could to stir up media interest in between training sessions. I’d chopped ribbons with giant scissors, rabbited away on radio phone-ins and even fumbled my way through a couple of television appearances.
Cee-Cee was not impressed. I had become a puppet, my coach tugging on one arm, my parents-slash-entourage greedily pulling the other. Following orders, cringing beneath the verbal bullets whizzing between the opposing factions of Team Piper, the weight of expectation grew with every feature article, every jealous look from my squad. I was lost, emotionally exhausted, utterly strung out and desperate for some time to myself. If I still existed underneath all that pressure.
So, when I stepped out into the May sunshine following a particularly brutal early morning session where Cee-Cee had used callipers to show the team my microscopic gain in body fat, instead of heading for the waiting taxi, I turned in the opposite direction.
A shiny, happy, turquoise bus was pulling up to the nearby stop, and before I could think about the consequences, I hopped on.
‘Where to, duck?’ The driver shut the doors with a hiss.
‘End of the line, please.’
‘Two quid.’
‘Ah. Right.’ My ridiculous, micromanaged lifestyle meant I’d not even considered the need for money. After an awkward pause, I made a weak pretence at searching my tracksuit pockets for non-existent change.
‘Ain’t got all day. D’ya wanna ticket or not?’
‘Um…’
‘Come on, mate.’ A gu
y called out from a few rows back. ‘You can give a free ride to a future Olympic champion.’
‘Eh?’ The driver swivelled back to glower at the man, probably only a year or two older than me, who winked at me from beneath artfully mussed up blond hair.
‘It’s Amelia Piper? The swimmer?’ He fixed dancing blue eyes on mine as he spoke.
‘I don’t give a toss if it’s the bloody Queen. The fare’s two quid. Otherwise, the pavement’s that way.’
The doors hissed back open. Dropping my gaze, I wondered how far my manager was prepared to take the ‘any publicity is good publicity’ theory, and whether that included being thrown off a bus.
‘Here.’ A hand brushed my wrist, and I turned to see the man holding out a paper ticket, his face creased in a smile. ‘To the end of the line.’
Mumbling my thanks, I slunk into a seat near the back, but he came and sat down next to me.
‘So, Amelia Piper, what’s waiting for you at the end of the line?’
I’d grown used to strangers acting as though they knew me, expecting autographs and photos as their right, and had grown wary of people overstepping. But even if this guy hadn’t just saved me, his smiling eyes and soft voice made me want to answer.
‘I don’t care, as long as it’s not a big rectangle of water, or another load of questions about how it feels to have the nation’s hopes riding on my shoulders.’
‘How about an ice cream and a wander up to the castle?’
‘What?’
He leant over a little closer, dropping his voice even further. ‘I meant with me, if that wasn’t clear.’
‘I don’t usually wander about with strange men.’
His smile widened to a grin, and, honestly, every muscle I’d been hammering into solid rock melted like butter.
‘Sean Mansfield. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amelia Piper.’
Oh boy. If I was still capable of rational thought, I might have realised that what was waiting at the end of this particular line was a whole lot of trouble…
5
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Three
Sunday, I had toyed with taking a day off from the Stop Being A Loser Programme. But the squeeze of sorrow and loneliness when waving Joey off to another gala had refused to be appeased with a book or Netflix. Instead, it was as if peering through some of the fog I’d been hiding in for the past few years had twisted the familiar ache to a sharp pain inside my chest and behind my eyeballs. I wrestled with the temptation to slump on the sofa and sob, but I pictured myself as that girl, fourteen years ago, how she would have dealt with the heartache, and instead I used the pain to propel me to the kitchen door and wrench it open. Teeth gritted, gasping frantically, I held my ground against the panic for forty-nine seconds.
A personal best, to go alongside Joey’s four wins at the gala. We settled in front of the television that evening with glowing faces, giant smiles and plates of hot, oozing takeaway pizza.
‘Did you tell your coach I wanted to talk to him about the Gladiators trial?’ I asked, after swallowing my first bite.
‘Yeah. But can we not have pizza any more? Cee-Cee says I should avoid unhealthy fats.’
‘I don’t think a pizza every couple of weeks is going to do much harm. You need to celebrate your success.’ And for years we’d been doing that with a double pepperoni and sweetcorn. I felt a sharp twinge of agitation. Being cut off from so much of Joey’s life, these little rituals had become disproportionately important. Even more precious, now that I had woken up from my stupor, and each day seemed even longer, emptier and more unbearable than the last.
‘I’m happy with some chicken or something. Cee-Cee gave me a list. She said she’d stock up if I want.’
‘Why don’t we do an online shop together? You can tell me what you’d like, and I can show you what I used to eat when I was training.’
‘Well, okay. But Cee-Cee says—’
‘Cee-Cee never won a medal.’ Ouch, Amy, jealous much? I took a deep breath and went back to my original question. ‘So, does Coach Gallagher want me to call him?’
‘He said he’d come round.’
‘When?’ That floored me a little. ‘I’m happy to talk on the phone.’
‘Yeah, but then I can’t listen. I said you were always in, so any time’s fine.’
Well yes, I might always be in, but sometimes I was also in my pyjamas, or in the shower, in bed freaking out under the duvet, or just generally in an otherwise unfit state to be welcoming visitors…
‘He said he’s got a full-on couple of weeks but will let me know.’ Joey wolfed down another slice, contrary to instructions. ‘So, I was looking you up online.’
Oh, crap. My mouthful of pizza turned to a concrete lump halfway to my stomach. I should have guessed this would happen and prepared Joey for it. Prepared me for it.
‘Some of your races are on YouTube. You were awesome.’
‘Thanks.’ I held my breath. Braced myself.
‘But that interview on breakfast TV was well bad.’
I took a careful drink of water to try and clear the lump. ‘Anything else? Or was that it?’
‘Nah, that’s it.’ He fidgeted in his seat, started pulling a piece of crust into tiny pieces. ‘Only, I was wondering… did you stop because of me? I mean, you were like nineteen when I was born, weren’t you?’
‘No.’ I sat up straight, looked my son in the eye. ‘No! I’d already stopped when I got pregnant. It was nothing to do with you. Although, if you had been the reason – it would have been totally worth it.’
‘Well, obviously!’
The doorbell rang, and I hastily adjusted my dressing gown while Joey answered it. If it was Coach Gallagher then I might have to hide behind the sofa, which wouldn’t be a great start.
‘It’s Cee-Cee!’ he yelled, despite the front door being only a couple of metres from the living room.
Rolling my eyes, I stretched back out along the sofa again. For the first time, I felt a twinge of pity that Cee-Cee, who had spent all day with Joey, and now had the freedom to go and do whatever she liked, had nothing better to do than keep coming back here.
‘I’m not staying.’ Cee-Cee walked into the room holding out an iPad, a video paused on the screen.
‘Awesome!’ Joey stuck his head right next to mine. ‘It’s me crushing it, Mum. Look – watch that start. Aaahh – bad turn though.’ He carried on commentating, analysing his performance against the other competitors, until he sat back, triumphant. ‘The champion once again.’
I couldn’t speak.
While part of me was aghast that I’d never thought to do this before, welling up with pride, overcome at the sight of his strong, sleek body powering through the water, so grateful to have seen it, another part of me was seething. I may have actually frothed at the mouth a little. How had I let this happen? How had I become a parent watching her incredible, beautiful, gifted child on a screen? How could I have allowed myself to miss years of galas, meets, championships? Football matches, school plays, trips to the zoo.
And I felt pleased about opening the back door for a few seconds? Like that was something to be proud of?
I pretty much hated myself in that moment. Had it been possible to suffocate in shame, I would have gurgled to my death then and there.
‘Mum, are you okay?’ Joey peered at me.
‘You’re doing that Gladiators trial. And I’m taking you.’
‘Yesssssss!’ He fist-bumped the air and flipped off the sofa, sprinting out of the room to do a victory circuit of the house.
Cee-Cee frowned. ‘He can’t be worrying about you losing it poolside. I’ll take him.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Might well come to that,’ she muttered.
‘Excuse me?’ I stood up, my anger swivelling round to lock onto a new target.
‘Nothing. I’m just being realistic. Anyway, you need to sign this.’ She pulled a form out of her pocket and handed it to
me.
It was a consent form for an interschool athletics tournament. ‘Why do you have this?’
‘He got it Thursday. I gave him a lift after training. He mentioned it.’
‘So why did you take the form, instead of leaving him to pass it to me?’
‘He forgets.’
‘Well, if you keep reminding him, he’ll not learn to remember, will he?’
Cee-Cee ignored me, staring out of the window instead.
‘How often are you giving him lifts?’ I asked.
‘It was raining.’
‘How often?’
‘Why is it a problem?’ Cee-Cee barked. ‘You’ve been happy enough with it the past thirteen years.’
‘Because it’s not just giving him a lift, is it? It’s keeping hold of his letters and telling him what to eat. You know how precious our post-win pizza is. That’s why you happened to call in when you knew we’d be in the middle of it.’
‘I’ll go then.’
‘I think that’d be best. And next time, call before you drop-in to check if it’s convenient. Even better, find something else to do, so you can stop obsessing over our lives and get one of your own.’
Since taking me in, Cee-Cee had gone above and beyond in treating me like the child she’d never had. The problem was, above had become too much, and beyond now felt too far. I wasn’t a child, and if she couldn’t get that, I had to redraw the boundaries, even if it did feel like ripping the bandages off a gaping, raw, anxiety-riddled wound, leaving it exposed to all sorts of infections and further trauma.
Cee-Cee, face taut, silently handed me another couple of school letters and then left. One about uniform, another to inform parents that a black car had been seen parked outside the school gates on several occasions, with the driver appearing to watch the children. While there was no indication that the occupier intended any harm, pupils had been told to report immediately to a teacher if the person approached or tried to speak to them.
