How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re being naïve.’

  ‘Please remember it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Just don’t get sucked into something without realising it.’ She sighed, adjusting her position on the sofa. ‘He’s not as terrible as I remembered. It might be more tempting than you think.’

  If I hadn’t been quite so annoyed, I might have paid more attention.

  It was later on, when we were trying to stuff cheese and crackers into stomachs still bloated with dinner, that I was startled into wondering if Cee-Cee might be right. Joey was badgering us for stories about when we first met, and I remembered faking a hair appointment for a magazine photo shoot while I was actually with Sean, my parents then pretending to like the dreadful hack-job he’d done.

  ‘I did wonder, once the horror of my butchering skills began to emerge, whether to just shave it all off and make something up about aerodynamics.’ Sean couldn’t stop laughing.

  ‘I overheard Mum and Dad arguing about it when they thought I was getting my make-up done. She wanted to sue the hairdresser, but Dad insisted it must be some new noughties trend they didn’t know about. She was all, “Gareth, if ugly, backward mullets with random chunks of hair missing had suddenly become fashionable, I would have one by now.”’

  And then it happened again. A repeat of when we’d been watching Joey train together. Our eyes met, and a spark of warmth, camaraderie and shared history flashed between us. Instantly, the distant memory of first love, the intensity of summer nights drenched in passion and promise felt a whole lot less far away. I hastily looked down, shovelling a cracker in my mouth. But I could still feel Sean’s gaze on me, lighting up every nerve ending on my skin.

  Get a grip, Amy! I berated myself later, once Cee-Cee and Sean had left. Stop acting like a hormone-riddled teenager who’s been locked up in a basement for thirteen years, snarfing up crumbs of attention from the first two men to pay her any attention. Actually, forget about getting a grip, how about getting some standards?

  It was a relief to realise I might not be falling for Nathan after all. Unless I was also having legitimate feelings for Sean. Which made me want to rip off my own skin and prise out my heart with a carving knife, so probably not.

  44

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day One Hundred and Twelve

  During the twixtmas funk, fuelled by leftovers, chocolate and way too much slobbing around with nothing to do, I repeatedly came back to one thought: ploughing on with the Programme, forcing myself outside was not enough. At some point, I had to confront the root of it all. I would have loved to talk to Nathan about it – to get an outside opinion from someone who knew who I was, but he was in the Alps with a crowd of adventurous, fun and attractive women (okay, so some men too, but it was the women in his Instagram pictures that I noticed – an excellent reminder of the off-duty Nathan’s world and the kind of people he had things in common with).

  In the end, I just picked up the phone.

  ‘Mum. It’s me.’

  A horrible silence. ‘One moment please.’ Was this her, or her voice-double now employed as a secretary? I then heard my mother, the one who had publicly disowned me at eighteen years old during the middle of an emotional crisis and privately rejected my weeping, pregnant, homeless self a few months later, frantically whispering to my dad: ‘It’s her! On the phone! What do you mean, who? Amelia! Here. You deal with it.’

  A broken, stuttering heartbeat away from hanging up, I heard my dad take the phone. ‘Amelia?’

  ‘Yes.’ It took everything to get that one word out.

  ‘How… Is everything all right?’

  I pressed my free hand to my forehead, trying to stop my brain from trembling. Was there even an answer to that question? ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean, you’re not… ill, or anything?’

  Does raging nausea, cramped lungs and a shattered heart count?

  I took a deep breath, counted to five in my head. ‘No, Dad. I just thought I’d call. See how you were.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Another count to five.

  ‘How are you both?’

  ‘Fine. We’re fine. I suppose. Your mother’s keeping herself busy with tennis and lunch club. And I’m still managing the shop. Part-time, now. Have to watch my blood pressure after the stroke.’

  ‘Stroke?’ Oh. Oh. Oh my goodness. I slumped back in my office chair. My parents had grown old without me. My own blood pressure careened upwards in response.

  ‘Just a tiddler. Nothing to worry about. You’d never know, except they have me on that many pills I rattle.’

  The endless possibilities of the past decade flashed in front of my eyes – all this time, anything could have happened. Just because my life had consisted of the barest remnants of nothing much for year after year, why had I assumed the same for them?

  ‘But you’re all right?’ Dad asked. ‘And what about… your little one?’

  ‘He’s six foot now. Not so little.’

  ‘Ah, got his mother’s genes then.’

  ‘He’s the most amazing swimmer,’ I blurted.

  ‘Of course he is. You get to find out what it’s like from the parent’s side, now.’

  ‘Dad, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For what I did, and the way I did it. I was young and confused and I panicked. The pressure of competing was bad enough, but then with all the TV stuff, the appearances and interviews, I felt trapped and lost all at the same time, if that’s possible. I couldn’t think clearly and I didn’t consider properly the effect it would have on you.’

  A well-known kind of apology is the one where you say sorry in order to get an apology back. I hadn’t realised quite how strongly this fell into that category until my dad replied.

  ‘Right. Well. I appreciate that.’

  I waited. Filling in the silence with what I so desperately needed to hear… No – we’re the ones who are sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. We were greedy and selfish and bitterly regret abandoning you when you needed us. The only reason we haven’t tried to contact you is that you are better off without us. We think of you every day…

  ‘And I am glad to hear you’re all right. Keeping well.’

  Keeping well? At what point in the conversation did we discuss how I was keeping?

  ‘Right. I must get on. Nice to hear from you. Bye then.’

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  I stared at the phone as if it was the font of all knowledge, holding the very secrets to life itself.

  Because following that conversation, it was pretty darn close to it. The secrets to my life, anyway.

  The secret?

  My parents were crap.

  Beyond crap.

  It explained a lot.

  And while it would not be an excuse, as I pondered and raged and pounded through the frosted forest later that day, it did allow me to release a little of the shame and the guilt along with my cloudy breath. It did convince me that I would strive to not let my past control me any more. I would choose to no longer define myself by my worst mistake.

  I am Amelia Piper. My friends call me Amy. And I have as much right to be here, walking, talking, running, sweating, taking up space and oxygen and vital resources as anyone else.

  I am here.

  It was time I bloody well started acting like it.

  45

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day One Hundred and Twenty-One

  The first Saturday of the new year, Nathan sent a text, which was absolutely no reason for my heart to skip up and down my ribcage, given that he’d sent it as a group message to everyone in the club:

  First pre-triathlon practice run tomorrow. 8K so allow for an extra 30min, depending on how fast you run

  What!? How utterly outrageous. The texts pinged back. Didn’t Nathan know these Larks had work to do, ill mothers and young children to take care of, church to attend and spas to relax in? Every woman had a reason why
she squeezed an hour’s run right at the start (or, in Bronwyn’s case, the end) of her day. All of us had a lifeful of people and pressures needing our time and energy. Except for me, of course. And Marjory, who sent a short sharp reply reminding us once again to respect our coach, that winning took commitment and if we couldn’t spare an extra thirty minutes on a Sunday morning we might as well give up now. And where would that leave Tate?

  There was an hour or two of radio silence while calls were made, schedules adjusted and rotas rearranged. The Larks would be there. By hook or by crook, we women would do what it took. Except, for goodness’ sake, Nathan, please could you give us a bit more notice next time?

  Great. An extra thirty minutes. I was the only person not to respond. Say yes, and that meant risking sunrise on a country path with nowhere to hide. Say no, and I was basically saying no to the triathlon, to the campaign.

  I could plead a migraine, a stomach bug, a groin injury fifteen minutes into the run.

  Nathan knew where I was at with this. The Larks was supposed to be a safe, non-judgemental place. Who was he to decide when and where I faced my next hurdle? Let alone who with. He didn’t even know that I’d spent the past few afternoons scuttling down my front path and back again, daring myself to linger for longer each time at the gate.

  He’s your coach, the message from Marjory reminded me. And your friend.

  I waited until ten that night. Joey was staying with Sean and I had spent the evening typing out and deleting messages until my thumbs ached. Sick of once again finding myself in this loop of despair and nervous panic, I went and stood in the garden, span around looking at the stars, the treetops and the cat from a few doors down until my skin had cooled off, my nerves stopped jerking about and I typed a momentous, ‘see you then’.

  Nathan replied two seconds later. Not a group message, this time.

  OK?

  * * *

  Not really. But I’m doing it anyway.

  I added on a chicken and a giant lollipop.

  He replied with a picture of a lion.

  Oh boy.

  46

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day One Hundred and Twenty-Two

  Early the following morning, I headed out into the delicious darkness. It was far too cold to hang about waiting for the rest of the Larks at the leisure centre, so I took my favourite detour down Foxglove Lane. The house with enormous windows was completely dark. I thought about Audrey, hoped she was doing okay. Muttered a heartfelt prayer that Graham was genuine, and that if he wasn’t, Audrey would realise it in time to leave the relationship on her own terms rather than be discarded by someone else who thought she wasn’t good enough.

  The women who gathered in the car park were half optimistic buzz, pumped on New Year’s resolutions, rejuvenated by the break and eager to take on the extra challenge. The other half were pale-faced, half-assed, comparing notes on how much weight they’d gained and how little they’d moved in the past few weeks.

  ‘I’m literally running on cheese and chocolate right now, Coach,’ Bronwyn moaned.

  ‘Are you going to whinge the whole session?’ Selena snapped. ‘Because some of us have come here with a New Year PMA and don’t want to hear about your crap choices.’

  ‘If that’s a positive mental attitude, then it must have been a ho ho happy Christmas at Selena’s,’ Dani murmured, stretching her quads out beside me.

  ‘She went to her brother’s,’ Mel said, silver bunches bobbing as she jogged on the spot. ‘Wanted to get away, what with Audrey not being there.’

  ‘Hmmm. I suppose we can extend a little grace. For now. But at some point that woman has got to learn the art of healthy communication. Otherwise she’ll be spending a lot more than Christmas alone.’

  ‘And I’m not going to whinge!’ Bronwyn called across to Selena. ‘I’m just prepping Coach that if I collapse halfway round, he’ll need to carry me the rest of the way.’

  ‘How’s he going to manage that after stuffing yourself with cheese?’ someone yelled, their head between their knees for a hamstring stretch.

  ‘Fireman’s lift?’ Bronwyn purred, flicking her hair at Nathan. ‘Cradling me like a knight bearing a fair maiden to safety, or a groom sweeping his bride across the threshold, I’m not fussy.’

  ‘I don’t even like cheese, Nathan,’ someone else said. ‘If I get tired, will you carry me?’

  And so it went on, Nathan studiously ignoring the catcalls and the borderline harassment as he led us through the rest of the warm-up, while I pretended my irritation was down to moral decency and respect for my friend-slash-coach, not possessiveness and jealousy because even if I wanted to ask Nathan to ‘sniff my new non-cheesy body spray’, I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t, because unlike most of the women safe to hoot and holler at him, I probably would collapse for real if he leant in to catch a whiff.

  ‘Right, let’s take it steady now, we’re doing an extra 3K today, so pace yourselves. Especially those of you who consider Christmas a good time to fuel your body with toxic waste and then stew in it. And for those of you who seem to have forgotten the Health and Safety policy, if anyone collapses, then the designated First Aid Officer will secure a safe means by which to evacuate them to the nearest appropriate medical facility. If they are unable to walk, then this will be via a stretcher, or ambulance if necessary.’

  Nathan’s face was a mask. I had no idea if he was playing along with us or not. Then he turned to me, and for the briefest of moments his eyes crinkled up as they held mine. A rush of warmth swooped up my chest and neck, catching my heart and sending it spinning.

  It was a tough run, up and down and through the forest in the freezing early morning, warily skimming the horizon for signs of sunrise while also attempting to avoid tripping over a root or a stray bramble. But the hardest part of that hour was trying to stop the grin from splitting my face in two every time I remembered that crinkle.

  It’s okay to enjoy a private joke, I told myself, even my thoughts huffing with exertion. It’s been a really long time since I had fun with people, and it’s perfectly normal given the circumstances that it would feel as though the moon had reached down from heaven and wrapped its soft, strong arms around me…

  Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Amy.

  At what my thighs reckoned was probably around the twenty-six-mile mark, but my new watch insisted was only 7.5K, we were still nowhere close to Brooksby. My wavering anxiety, kept at bay by the memory of a crinkle, began to stir. A thick line of bleached-blue now crowned the field to the east, as we shuffled along the edge of the woods, and the winter stars were fading one by one, swallowed up into the dawn. I knew this was coming. I had prepared for it. Was ready. But what I was ready for was to sprint down the hill, along the road into the village, with every ounce of my being fixed on the sanctuary of home. Lost on a hilltop in the wilds of Sherwood Forest was not how I had planned to do this.

  To give my anxiety even more of a boost, up ahead people appeared to have decided this was a good point to take a rest. Half a kilometre before the finish line.

  It was now light enough that I saw it, several metres before I reached them.

  A silhouette of camping chairs, stretching along the brow of the hill. A table, behind them all, with two huge flasks and an array of breakfast food. I lumbered up to where Marjory, one damp curl on her forehead, was slicing up a pineapple.

  ‘Stretches, people,’ Nathan ordered the stragglers.

  I ignored him. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Looks like breakfast to me,’ Bronwyn said, helping herself to a yoghurt.

  ‘The café’s closed today, Chris and Gill are away.’ Nathan watched me carefully.

  ‘Did everyone else know about it?’ I asked, my voice managing to span a good couple of octaves in one sentence.

  He shook his head, before turning to where the other Larks were crowding like pigeons round the table. ‘I know some of you have pressing commitments this morning, feel free to
grab a snack and then go. It’s a fifteen-minute walk if you follow the fence back through the wood. But, for the rest of you, feel free to stay and support Amy in her next challenge.’

  ‘What?’ someone asked. ‘How is a picnic breakfast a challenge?’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ Selena retorted. ‘Honestly, some people notice nothing any more unless it pops up as a notification on their phone.’

  ‘Some people might say that’s better than being a nosy cow,’ Dani said, smiling sweetly before taking a sip of tea from a cardboard cup.

  ‘Some other people, and by that I mean me, think we should stop bickering and start considering Amy’s feelings.’ Mel pointed at me, which was about the last thing my feelings wanted right then. I felt as though a grenade of stress hormones had exploded in my chest, blurring my vision and sending my head reeling.

  ‘Where do you want to sit, Ames?’ Bronwyn asked. ‘You plonk yourself down and I’ll bring you a cuppa.’

  Um, on my own sofa at home? Buried under my duvet?

  ‘Stretches first,’ Nathan said, as if he’d never held my hand as I flailed about on the street like a dying haddock.

  How dare he do this without asking me first? How dare he expose my worst fears in front of these women I respected? How dare he keep pushing and prodding me forwards when I’m not ready, as if trying to prove that I’m incapable of deciding these things for myself?

  I somehow resisted the urge to stretch so effectively my fist connected with his face, even as he stepped closer, head bending towards mine.

  ‘You’re ready for this. Studies prove that by tackling your fears with a supportive community of trusted people around you—’