by Beth Moran
Sean shook his head in disgust. ‘What they really mean is what the hell are they going to do now. Did they even ask if you were okay, or if you needed any help? Did they stop screaming for one moment and actually listen to what you had to say?’
He was right. But they were still my parents, and I loved them, needed them, and prayed that they would forgive me. That is, until they called me selfish, self-obsessed and ungrateful on breakfast TV. After that, I turned off the television, hired Sean’s brother to act as my solicitor and got a job working in the local café under a fake name.
Six days after my parents publicly disowned me, the paparazzi found us, and the nightmare siege began. When Sean’s parents realised what was happening, they threw us out of the cottage. We holed up in an apartment in Exeter, but for days, every time I left the building I was followed, photographed, bombarded with questions, jostled and hassled and, on one occasion, knocked off the bike I was riding.
Already on the brink of a breakdown, utterly adrift in my isolation and despair, I retreated inside, hunkering down behind drawn curtains. My anxiety flourished, and my utter loathing and fear of journalists grew with it.
Which is why, right then, I would have preferred a crazed pervert to be lurking inside that car, rather than Moira Vanderbeek. I would not be returning her calls.
28
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Nine
Wednesday, to avoid the whirlwind of my own thoughts sucking me into despair, I skidded through the frost to join the Larks again. Mel was at home with her daughter, Tiff, who’d broken her collarbone thanks to two older brothers, a chestnut tree and a game of dare.
Because the pavements were icy, Nathan insisted we stick to a brisk walk until we reached the more sheltered woods. This meant that for the first time I was able to keep up (just about) with Marjory, the oldest member of the group.
We chatted for a while about our respective families, my work as a bid writer and her former job as a PE teacher, making the most of having enough breath to make conversation.
And then Marjory sucked all the air out of my lungs with one horrifying question:
‘Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.’
It took about ten paces before I could shut my anxiety up long enough to formulate a reply. It was a good one:
‘Um. No.’
Marjory kept her eyes straight ahead, arms pumping. ‘I don’t mean from around here. Are you well known?’
C.R.A.P.
I stumbled on a non-icy patch of pavement, arms pinwheeling as erratically as my thoughts. For half a second, I contemplated allowing myself to smack face-first onto the asphalt in order to avoid answering, but Marjory’s super-strong hand caught one elbow while her arm braced my back, righting me.
‘Okay?’ she asked, one eye narrowed.
‘Yes, fine. Must have hit a patch of ice.’
The other eye joined it.
‘Wow, Marjory you are impressively strong, as well as fast. How are you so crazy-fit?’ I asked, as we approached the footpath leading into the woods.
‘Well.’ She bent down in one smooth motion to adjust her laces. ‘I did run for England once or twice. And don’t worry.’ She straightened up again, leaning in close. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
A wink, a knowing nod, and she left me standing there, stunned, in her dust.
Three miles, four buckets of sweat and an embarrassing fall on my backside later, I cradled a hot cup of tea with frozen fingers and tried to appear semi-normal, rather than a gibbering sack of flopping, floundering nerves.
To make matters worse, Mel had turned up, having left the kids with her care assistant Gordon. Of course, Mel being there in itself was fab, it was the flyer she’d brought along that was the problem.
And by problem, I mean, reason why I wanted to sprint home, pack a bag, jump on the next flight to the middle of nowhere and never return.
‘We totally have to do this,’ Mel said, voice loud enough to catch the attention of all three tables of Larks, the rest of the café patrons and probably Bronwyn, currently in New York with her new boyfriend.
‘What do you think, Nathan?’ Dani asked, waving the flyer in his direction. I’d deliberately sat as far away from him as possible, still feeling flustered about knowing he missed the match to help me, and more importantly how I was ever going to look at him again without blushing thanks to the feelings that accompanied this knowledge. Unfortunately, this meant sitting not only next to Audrey again, but Selena on the other side. Feeling trapped between a granite wall on one side and a pecking vulture on the other had not helped defrazzle my mood.
‘Sounds like a great idea,’ Nathan replied. ‘Having something to aim for can increase cardiovascular capacity and mental resilience.’
‘Hello, did you see the flyer? See that big word in orange letters across the top? That says FUN. Let me know if you need further explanation.’
Nathan shifted awkwardly. ‘Yes, but I’m just saying, it can also be a great tool to build self-discipline.’
‘Yeah? ’Ow about it can be a blummin’ good laugh, and summat to talk about next time that snooty cow at playgroup goes on about how awful it must be to have a child like that, and ’ow tired and crappy I look.’ Mel stopped and blew out a long breath. ‘Sorry. Bad day all round yesterday. And I really missed me run.’
‘Well, whatever the reason, I’m in,’ Dani said, enveloping Mel in a slender-armed squeeze. ‘There’s nothing I love more than winning.’
‘It’s not all about winning,’ Marjory said, winking at me.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Dani retorted. ‘If I’m on your team for once, instead of running against you, I might actually stand a chance.’
‘Winning? In a triathlon?’ Selena let out a caustic cackle. ‘You do realise that would mean us getting on a bike.’ She glanced around, but no one was sharing in the joke. ‘All of us.’
‘No, actually,’ Mel said, speaking in a slow voice as if to one of her smaller children. ‘If you put your bifocals on and bother to read the flyer—’
‘Bifocals!’ Selena choked on her radish smoothie. ‘Hardly!’
‘Whatever. It clearly says you can enter as many in your team as you want, but different people get to do different bits. So, people who are good at ridin’ can do the cyclin’ part. Some of us can run, and if any of us are good at swimmin’, they can do the mile in the pool. It’s five months away, yet. We’ve loads o’ time to practise.’
‘When is it?’ Nathan asked.
‘It’s for the opening of that new fancy pool, in Greasby. Easter bank holiday Monday.’
‘What do you think, Amy?’ Dani, asked me.
Think? I couldn’t breathe, let alone think.
‘Mmm.’ I tried to contort my lips into something not too far off a smile. Tried and failed, judging by the disconcertion on my clubmates’ faces.
‘Don’t put yourself down, love,’ Mel said, coming over to my table and patting me on the shoulder while simultaneously stealing the remains of my cinnamon whirl. ‘You’ve come on great these past weeks. By Easter you’ll be smashing it.’
Well, that was the plan.
But how could Amelia Piper chop the ribbon, or however these things worked these days, give the big speech, present the trophy, while Amy Piper slogged her way through a 5K run, or a 10K bike ride or – possibly worse – swam a mile in broad daylight, with a massive crowd of people – including Nathan AND Moira Vanderbeek – while wearing, most probably, because she’d appear even stranger otherwise, a swimming costume.
My anxiety was positively rapturous.
I made my excuses and bolted.
If I could move that fast on triathlon day, we might stand a chance at winning.
I was so blummin’ fast that I was nearly home by the time Nathan caught up.
‘Hey.’
‘I think we’ve already spoken about the wisdom of sneaking up on women in the dark.’ I slowed to a walk, too exhauste
d all round to keep running while Nathan tried to talk to me.
‘It’s barely dark, Amy. Hadn’t you noticed?’
I glanced up at the clouds all around us, definitely more grey now than black. ‘Yeah, well. I’ve got other stuff to worry about.’
‘Will you let me help?’
I stopped walking.
‘Why would you pick on me, out of all the Larks, to help? Audrey is way slower than me. I wasn’t even in the slowest three this morning. By April I’ll be able to hold my own without extra tuition for the out-of-shape, fat girl, thanks.’
Underneath his beanie, Nathan’s gaze was steady. Authoritative. Slightly intimidating, actually. ‘I don’t help Joey because he’s the slowest. Or out of shape.’ He shook his head, slightly, as if in disgust. ‘And “fat girl”? Really? Like anyone in the Larks ever makes an issue about size.’
I crossed my arms, fat-shamed in a whole new way. ‘So, why am I the one you chase down the street to offer help to?’
Even as I asked it, my heart was about to explode inside my chest, spattering idiotic, hopeless, fantastical feelings everywhere.
It’s not that reason, Amy!
Nathan shrugged, opened his mouth and closed it again a couple of times. Kicked at a non-existent stone on the pavement. Looked up and about as if the encroaching dawn would supply the answer.
‘Because I really want you to be at that triathlon.’
Because…
‘Because it would seriously bother me to think any of the women I coach and train had to miss out on a club event because they couldn’t face it. It bothers me that you can’t relax at the café because you’re so worried about missing the sunrise. That you can’t get your son medicine without having a panic attack in the street.’
‘And I’m working on those things. Making really good progress.’
‘So, with Joey’s trials, what are you thinking about? How you want him to do well, how you’ll be there to offer him your one hundred per cent support? Your… issue…’
‘My mental illness,’ I ground out, like dirt under my shoe.
‘Your illness means that a really big moment in Joey’s life isn’t about him but becomes about you.’
‘Joey knows that I’ll be there! Offering him my undivided attention and support.’
Nathan looked at me. It was my turn to kick at the pavement and scowl at the horrible strip of bronze above the rooftops.
‘Do you think he doesn’t worry about it? About how hard it might be for you? Do you think that he might want you there with him every time he competes, cheering him on like only a parent can?’
Dammit. I did not want to hear this. But then, how could I not hear it, unless it really was all about me, and not my child?
‘I don’t think he’s ever going to know how good he is until you see it. Until you say it. Until then, it’s like it’s not even true for him, because your opinion is the only one whose really matters.’
‘I do say it,’ I choked out, past the jagged ball of shrapnel in my throat.
‘It’s not the same.’ His voice was soft, eyes kind. It didn’t make the words hurt any less. ‘Watching on a screen hours later. You know it’s not the same.’
I did know. Oh, how I knew.
‘I’m working on it. I have a plan, and it’s working.’
‘But when it means this much, why wouldn’t you accept help, when someone who just genuinely cares is offering it?’
I was too overwrought right then to consider whether he meant he genuinely cared about Joey, helping me or possibly, perhaps just… me. ‘I don’t need dietary advice or training techniques. Being able to run is great, but it’s not really the issue.’
‘Amy, about ten per cent of my job is about diet and exercise. Every single woman I work with knows that if she wants to get fitter she needs to eat less cake and move more. It didn’t take many clients for me to realise that what they really need is to get some confidence in who they are. To learn to love themselves better, and not let other people’s expectations or judgemental asides or passive-aggressive Instagram comments hold them back.’
‘Okay. I’m listening. But I need to continue this conversation inside.’ I scurried for the door, a sort of power walk, while at the same time being so far from powerful it was a joke.
Nathan followed me into the kitchen, and I distracted myself with filling up the kettle, even though I’d had a massive pot of tea less than twenty minutes earlier.
‘My problem isn’t confidence. I wish it was that simple.’
‘I get that. But I think I could help anyway. Research shows that everyone does better when they work with someone else. It’s why people pay for piano lessons, even though you can find videos online to teach you how to play, or go to language classes instead of just using an app.’
I finished making the drinks and brought them over to the table. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘We pick different targets, and I’ll help you do it. Maybe start with getting out in the day. Being able to come to a gala, go on a bus. I don’t know, we can figure it out as we go.’
I thought about this. Imagining facing those challenges with Nathan was dangerously appealing, and agonising at the same time. I didn’t know where the line lay between being dependent on someone else and being helped by them. I didn’t know if I’d been working things out on my own long enough to trust myself with that. But then I heard Joey’s footsteps thumping about above me.
‘I can’t pay you.’
Nathan frowned. ‘I wouldn’t accept it if you could. I love Joey. And, in a weird way, I actually kind of think of you as a mate…’ He attempted a sheepish grin. I resisted the urge to lean forwards and topple into his lap.
‘So, how about this?’ I asked. ‘We do some challenge days together. But you have to complete a challenge too.’
The frown returned. Phew, much safer territory.
‘Look, mate, I’m not the only one with issues.’ I looked pointedly at his drink. ‘You would consider it actual torture to drink caffeinated tea, with cow’s milk.’
He picked up the mug, prepared to take a sip, then sighed and put it down again.
‘Don’t worry. It’s Redbush. But on challenge day, maybe it’ll be a chocca-mocha freak-shake with marshmallows and caramel sprinkles and full-fat ice cream.’
Nathan squared his shoulders. ‘If you can accompany me to a café, in the hours of daylight, I will drink that shake.’ He held out his mug, waiting for me to tap it with mine in a toast.
‘Challenge accepted.’
‘This was supposed to be an offer of help. How come with you everything ends up a competition?’ Nathan asked as he was leaving, a few minutes later.
Maybe one day I would even tell him about that.
The whole new head-spinning addition to the Programme had left me in what Mel would call a right tizz. So, when I saw the black car parked a pathetically non-inconspicuous four doors down from my house (yes, I’d been peeking out the windows), I waited until it was near enough twilight, grabbed a torch for temporary-blinding purposes, tucked the hood up on my jacket and went to give Moira Vanderbeek a world exclusive.
As I approached the car, to my surprise, it pulled off. With just enough brain in gear to switch the torch on, I caught the glimpse of a baseball cap as it accelerated past. I stood and watched it disappear up the road, then stood for a whole lot longer, until I could trust my legs to wobble me back inside.
If that had been a journalist staking out my house, he or she was an astonishingly crap one. I had googled Moira Vanderbeek. She might be more Gossip magazine than BBC, but she wouldn’t have driven away when the one person she was trying to interview approached.
And if she had been secretly watching me, she surely had enough wits about her to park further away, on the opposite side of the road so she could drive off without having to pass me.
So, if it wasn’t the honourable Ms Vanderbeek who was hanging around my son’s school, lurking outside the leis
ure centre, now blatantly staking out my house, who the fish-and-chips was it?
29
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Seventy-One
After two days of twitching my curtains and straining my ears to wildly interpret every creak and knock as the return of the Baseball-Capped Killer, Joey’s cricket bat accompanying my woeful charade at sleeping, I was so grateful to receive Nathan’s text, I would have probably said yes to whatever wild and crazy challenge he’d presented me with.
Challenge 1: breakfast at the Cup and Saucer tomorrow
* * *
That’s it? Was expecting something a bit more interesting. If you eat breakfast there every Saturday, and this is just incorporating me into your robot routine, then I’m highly disappointed.
* * *
Have eaten breakfast there about 4 Saturdays since it opened. Thought a familiar place would help you get started.
* * *
Don’t pretend there isn’t a spreadsheet listing precisely how many Saturdays. I’ll meet you there at 9.
* * *
Thought we could meet in the dark, leave in the light. Maybe 7.30?
* * *
Are you trying to stunt my progress? Or hoping if you’re easy on me I won’t present you with a decent-sized challenge in return? Cos that’s not how I roll. And I’m ready to kick some butt, might as well be my own.
* * *
See you C&S, 9.
30
