by Beth Moran
‘Bye then, Chris. Thanks for breakfast.’ Nathan did not sound very thankful.
‘And he lost the captaincy. Gotta have a damn good reason to decide you’re going to change plans for the first time in your life under those circumstances.’
He whisked away before Nathan could say anything else.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, wishing I’d never brought it up. ‘I’m not going to pester you to tell me.’
Nathan huffed and shook his head, picking at an imaginary spot on the table. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
Hmmm. Sounded like it might be.
We left then, along with the rest of the Larks, who made me promise to join them another time. I jogged home through the mist, mercifully keeping the threat of sunrise from snapping at my heels.
And then, because I’m a nosy, emotionally stunted woman pretending she isn’t growing increasingly and dangerously besotted with her running coach, I had a good rummage around on the internet for Brooksby FC.
According to the list of team fixtures and match reports, the (ex)captain missed the first game of the season, against their biggest rivals Houghton, on Wednesday, 19 September.
September 19 was the day Joey came home from school with tonsillitis.
The day a strange man found me collapsed in a heap in the street, helped me get to the pharmacy, waited outside after I’d rudely rejected his offer to walk me home and made sure I got back safely anyway.
Nathan, the responsible, reliable man who never broke his rules had broken them for me.
Yep. Besotted.
23
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty
Monday was 5 November. Bonfire Night. Gunpowder, treason and plot. Or, in my case, hot chocolate, warm hat and watching the Brooksby Grace Chapel firework display from the back garden. Joey brought me back a toffee apple – pretending to leave his friends early because of training the next morning, but in reality carrying another kitchen chair outside to join his mother.
‘Looks better from out here than the upstairs window,’ he pronounced, grinning at me from behind his scarf.
I breathed in a deliciously chilly lungful of smoke that had drifted over the fences, blended with the faint aroma of popcorn and hot dogs, and turned to gaze at my gorgeous son, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. ‘It certainly does.’
‘It’s even better from the field. And a lot warmer if you get near the bonfire.’
Pink and green and blue rockets of light whizzed above our heads with a loud crackle.
‘Maybe you’ll come with me next year?’
I blinked, hard, and vainly tried to swallow the broken lump of love wedged in my throat. We watched another rapid succession of whooshing explosions.
‘I don’t think so.’
Joey tensed in his chair.
‘Mum tags along with fourteen-year-old son and his friends at a bonfire display? I can find my own friends to hang out with, thank you very much.’
He let out a relieved laugh. ‘Well, I thought it was only polite to ask.’
‘Maybe we’ll go on holiday or something together instead.’
There was silence for a few moments. When Joey replied, his voice was soft enough to crack my heart. ‘That would be awesome.’
It truly would.
24
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Two
The car was there again, in the leisure centre car park. Crouching in the furthest space from the building, half-hidden in the shadows. I’d walked over to meet Joey after his early morning swim, another success to tick off on the Programme, but hadn’t managed to cajole myself as far as the swimming pool window this time, sticking to the bench instead. I checked the time – nearly eight. Late enough to message Lisa:
What make is the car hanging around school?
* * *
Black merc. That’s why people noticed it. Think you’ve seen something?
I peered through the darkness. Quickly googled Mercedes, to double-check.
Leisure centre car park. Joey says it’s been here a few times
* * *
Report it
I knew I should report it. The school had asked us to call the non-emergency police number. I thought about that while switching my gaze from the car to the leisure centre door and back again. Thought about the police arriving, asking me to wait. Imagined an interview, a methodical police officer going over things, one careful question at a time, as the strip of pinky-blue peeping over the horizon spread. Thought about how much I hated being this person, still so weak and messed up, as I turned and hurried home.
Once Joey had gone to school, I phoned the leisure centre and left an anonymous message. The guilt held me hostage in the house for the rest of the week. I scuttled between my desk and the duvet, my anxiety jeering in the background the whole time. My shame piled even higher. My self-loathing rose to lung-deep.
25
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Six
Sunday, I was jolted awake at eight-thirty by the doorbell. After a moment’s consideration, I decided the best course of action was to bury my head under the pillow and go back to sleep.
The doorbell rang again, a few seconds later. Followed by a knock and, to my indignation, what sounded like a vigorous rattle of the handle. Huffing and chuntering, yet baffled enough to investigate, I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pyjamas and cautiously descended the stairs.
I saw a head-high blueberry cloud through the shadow of the glass, a much taller, darker blob beside it.
‘Amy? You in?’ Two hands poked the letter box open, and an upside-down mouth somehow managed to speak into the gap, less than a foot above the ground. ‘It’s Mel and Dani. From the Larks.’
Well, yes, I had figured that one out, thanks, Mel. Could I sneak back upstairs and pretend I was out? Ignore them, with a who cares if I’m in or not, it’s eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and I’m having a lie-in for once…
Did I want to do that? The boulder of self-pity I was dragging around with me voted yes, make them go away. Why should I have to face strong warrior women who rocked at life, who met troubles and suffering and just waded right on through? I was a crappy mess, and I didn’t need that being rubbed in my puffy face on my day off.
But before I had a chance to self-sabotage the situation, the front door popped open and Mel strode through.
‘What?’ I garbled.
‘Amy! There you are.’ Mel grinned at me from the bottom of my stairs. ‘We weren’t sure if that flashy car outside meant you had company. But seeing them pyjamas, I’m assuming it’s a no. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’
Excuse me?
They bustled down the tiny hall into the kitchen, Dani calling, ‘Are you up to eggs? Or we’ve got raisin toast. I brought a selection of pastries too. Nathan said not to get granola, so it’s all the unhealthy stuff.’
‘I…’
‘Goodness, it’s nippy in here. I’ll get the fire on.’
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, tried to slap a bit of life back into my face and endeavoured to remember if this was actually my house.
Once I’d established that, yes, this was my home, and no, I hadn’t invited Mel and or Dani into it, I forged confidently into the breach to get some answers.
‘Nathan said you ain’t been well. You’re a single mum without a Gordon, or a Jordan, or a mum around,’ Mel shrugged, spatula in hand, as if it was obvious. ‘So, we stocked up at the Cup after running and ’ere we are.’
‘Most people wait to be invited in.’
‘Oh. Honey,’ Dani laughed. ‘We are not most people.’
‘How did you open the door?’
Mel winked, giving the spatula a wave. ‘We’ve been around, picked up some skills.’
So once again, Joey woke to find these self-appointed aunties in his kitchen, one of them cracking eggs, the other ironing school shirts, despite my protestations that, a) Joey could iron his own shirts an
d, b) I was fine and really didn’t need their help.
‘Joey should be saving his strength for the gala,’ Dani tutted. ‘And he will be exhausted when he comes home.’
‘And, no offence, but you need someone’s help. Might as well be ours,’ Mel added, sliding an enormous omelette onto a plate for Joey. ‘This kitchen looked worse than the inside of my wheelie bin when we got ’ere.’
I would have been offended at that, but after my three-day slob-fest, it was probably true. And I was simply too tired to bother feeling insulted.
‘Right,’ Mel said, once she’d seen Joey off, ‘we can give yer bathroom a good going-over, change yer bedding and whatnot. Or, we can stick on a film, ’ave a good laugh, a good cry and eat the rest of them pastries. See if that ’as you a bit more like yerself.’
At that, I decided for us by immediately going for the good cry. Very good, in terms of number of tears, intensity of blubbering, volume of retching sobs and how much better I felt afterwards.
‘I’m terrified this is myself,’ I’d wheezed. ‘I think I’m doing better. So much better. Like this is the new me. But then I act like an idiot and the old me comes back. What if the old me is the real me, and she’ll always be there, just waiting to spring out again? I can’t get rid of her, and I hate her wimping guts.’
Mel and Dani had no answers, no advice, no platitudes or reassurances that it would be okay. They knew as well as anyone that sometimes things were far from okay, and not every ending was a happy one. But they had love, and care and hugs and soft hands to stroke my hair, and somehow that felt even better than if they’d waved a magic wand and banished old Amy forever. I clung on to my friends’ strength, their unspoken promise to keep turning up if they were worried about me, breaking in if necessary. And I found hope there. So I sucked up their kindness, and as I applied some of that kindness to myself, it shrivelled my self-hate and shooed away my shame.
Before Mel and Dani left, we watched six episodes in a row of a cheesy reality show where brides- and-grooms-to-be who’d all been through horrible life situations, like cancer or having their house burn to the ground, got an amazing wedding, along with extras like replacement houses thrown in.
Cue more blubbering. Times three.
I would need to go out and get more tissues.
Only I couldn’t, because despite all the encouragement and support, despite my recommitment to getting back on the Programme, my determination to keep pushing forwards, to celebrate my progress so far, I was still trapped. My prison had expanded, yes. Considerably, compared to what it had been. But it was still infinitesimal compared to the great, big, wonderful world out there. I remained a hostage to the night.
Stepping out into the sunshine of a summer’s day still seemed as impossible on day sixty-six of the Stop Being a Loser Programme as it had on day one. Cutting the ribbon in front of a crowd of people, inside the Amelia Piper swimming centre? Cheering at the side of the pool while Joey competed in the Gladiators trials? For a woman who couldn’t even get to the corner shop to buy more tissues? Well, that made me need a tissue more than ever.
26
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Seven
Early the next morning, I broke my pact with Joey and bullied my reluctant bones out the door for a solo run. Dani had offered to go with me, but I declined.
Stepping back out onto the front path was hard, but I breathed and focused and turned the volume on my running playlist up to max and I kept on going. I found my stride in amongst the pine trees at the top of the first hill, scampering alongside an early morning squirrel. Sucking in as much of the icy air as my lungs could manage while gasping for breath, I savoured the whip of the wind against my burning cheeks, imagined all the places it had blown through on its way here. Frozen fjords? Churning oceans, humpback whales cavorting below? Whizzing between mountains, ruffling the bracken as it sped past. Over moors and meadows, carrying eagles and sparrows, buffeting fishermen and farmers, foxes and field mice. And I was out here and a part of it. I celebrated the fresh air, the leaves tumbling past me, the muddy squelch of every joyous step. I relished muscles aching, feet pounding, chest heaving. A body flowing, a soul awakening, a heart thundering with life.
I slowed down to a walk at the end of my road, feeling deliciously spent and ready for a hot shower and a bowl of porridge before work. I nearly stopped when I saw the black car parked three doors down from my house. A Mercedes. There was a shadow in the driver’s seat.
I ordered my stiff, stilted legs to keep moving. I didn’t have to pass the car to get inside, but still got close enough to send my anxiety into hyperdrive. Stumbling down my path, I fell through the front door and somehow managed to close and lock it before collapsing onto the hall floor.
‘Tough run, Mum?’ Joey wandered into the kitchen doorway, bowl and spoon in hand, tiny dribble of milk running down his chin due to speaking through a mouthful of cereal.
‘Eat at the table, please,’ I wheezed back, lifting my cheek off the laminate. ‘And great run, actually.’ I could have mentioned the car to Joey, but if it was still here I knew he’d be outside, knocking on the driver’s window while still chewing on his peanut butter clusters.
Despite the ridiculous rumours, at no point had the mysterious Mercedes driver of Brooksby done anything to harm anyone. Certainly nothing worth hiding in my house peeping through the blinds and panicking over.
What would a non-loser do? I asked myself.
I listened to my gala-winning son belting out an indistinguishable rock anthem from the bathroom, and added a new step to the Programme:
Next time I see the Mercedes, go and find out who it is.
27
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Eight
There is a difference between brave and reckless, I chided, as I scribbled that new step out the following day.
I’d had another email. Not from Sean, but equal in its power to stir up nauseating memories.
The email was from a journalist, Moira Vanderbeek. She’d become aware of the Amelia Piper Swimming Centre and thought the public would be very interested to hear my story, finally revealing the truth about why I gave up competitive swimming, what happened next and how I’d rebuilt a new life for myself away from the spotlight.
My mind jumped back to an enquiry from a potential client a few days ago that suddenly went cold. My phone number was on the bottom of my work email signature. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard for a journalist to find out where I lived.
If it wasn’t too hard thirteen years ago, when I wasn’t working for a company that handed out my details willy-nilly, and no one in the world save my boyfriend and his brother knew my temporary hideout, I was pretty sure that they could manage it now.
I wondered if Moira Vanderbeek drove a Mercedes.
I pondered whether she’d hang out in the local leisure centre car park hoping to catch the ex-world champion going for a swim, maybe get the zoom lens out and start snapping her cellulite. I considered whether she’d snooped about in the local swimming club circles until discovering that the best swimmer in the league, scouted by the Gladiators, who attended Brooksby Academy, happened to have the surname Piper.
At that point, I threw up, cleaned myself up, sent an email begging my boss to take my details off the company website and spent the rest of the morning wondering what the hell I was going to do.
My conclusion? I was going to keep pressing on, working harder, fighting through and putting one trembling foot in front of the other. I would keep on pounding my way up and down those glorious hills, keep breathing in the fresh, autumn air and not let any journalists, ancient ex-boyfriends or anyone else stop me. This time, it would be different.
After running away from my Olympic dream, I spent five blissful days in Sean’s family summer home in Devon before the bubble burst. Living on cheese sandwiches, young lust and the sea breeze, we swam, slept, sunbathed and did a whole lot of other things beginning
with s.
The mistake we made was venturing out into the local village for ice cream one afternoon, not for one second imagining the media circus currently spearheading the ‘Search for Amelia’, until I spied the headlines in the newspaper.
Sean bought six different papers and we scurried home, our 99s dripping onto the pages as reality sank in.
Calling my parents was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I dialled the number on the cottage landline with trembling hands, my breath frozen in my chest, stammering so badly, I could barely get out an explanation. Their reaction didn’t make things any better. ‘What the hell are you going to do now? No one will ever trust you again. You’ll be bankrupt by the time the sponsors’ lawyers have finished with you.’
Yowch.
Their solution? Get a PR firm on the case, sell some story about an illness, or a mental breakdown, whatever, that wasn’t important, get myself on the next plane to Athens, win the gold, all is forgiven, and there’ll probably be a film deal in it for us to boot.
My stammering counter-offer of a sincere apology for all the time and trouble, a brief explanation of the reasons behind my disappearance, paying the sponsors what I owed them under the contract terms and leaving it at that did not go down well.
I hung up the phone while my mother was mid-screech, hands shaking so hard that I couldn’t place it back in the receiver. Curling up in Sean’s lap, I filled him in on what my parents had said, the weight of my actions starting to sink in.
