by Beth Moran
He marched in stony silence to the car. Once our seat belts were safely on, Nathan gripped the wheel and blew a long, sharp breath out of his nose. I surreptitiously checked – no smoke, so I figured he hadn’t quite blown a gasket, I was okay.
He opened his mouth a few times as if to speak, before finally getting to it. ‘What happened with Gill, that did drive me to bury my head in work. But my motivations readjusted themselves a long time ago. I don’t do this as some sort of penance. I love my job, I enjoy achieving my fitness potential and I like things how I like them. I also just had dessert for the first time in forever, so maybe give me some credit for recognising my tendency towards being inflexible and allowing you to browbeat me into working on it. And, trust me, my emotions are not shut down right now.’
He revved out of the car park in a spray of gravel. A point well made.
Next, Nathan really surprised me. We ended up on a suburb at the edge of Nottingham, where a young guy handed me the keys to a tiny Kia.
‘What is this?’
‘A test drive.’
‘I haven’t driven in six years. I’m not insured.’
‘Jase is a driving instructor, the car’s insured for anyone.’
‘Six years, though.’ I held the keys like they’d been plucked out of the sewer.
‘Do you want to be stranded in Brooksby for another six?’
‘I’m not sure I can afford a car.’
‘No one’s expecting you to buy it, just give it a go and see what you think. But if you do decide that the freedom of having a car is worth the money, you won’t find a better deal than this one.’
In the end, the thought of having a car to hide in, rather than face public transport, coupled with the irresistible promise of newfound freedom, swung it. And it was an excellent price. I spent over an hour pootling around the roads between Nottingham and Brooksby, my confidence growing until I grew tired and made a couple of stupid mistakes. By the time I had swapped the car for Jase’s contact details, and the assurance that he’d hold it for a week, the sun was a white disc in a sea of molten copper.
‘Home time?’ Nathan asked, standing next to me on the pavement.
‘Yes, please.’
We wound our way back to Brooksby through the twilight. I watched the sky melt through Prussian blue to thick black with fluttering joy and wonder. I had only gone and done it.
After spending the drive home phrasing and rephrasing multiple times in my head how to invite Nathan, coach-friend, in to help me celebrate by washing down some of the farm-shop purchases with a glass of wine, he saved me the bother.
‘You made it.’ He parked the car outside my house.
‘I still can’t believe it. Today’s been like a dream. Beyond anything I could have dreamed of, to be honest.’
‘Well done.’
‘Thank you for persuading me to do it. It made all the difference, you being there. And, I’m astounded to say, I really enjoyed myself. And the planning – I can’t tell you how much it means, you bothering to do that.’
‘Well, planning’s kind of my thing.’ He laughed, awkwardly, glancing across until his eyes hit mine. And there it was – pow! A bolt of intensity, like a traction beam locking our gaze. And suddenly we were enveloped by velvety darkness, as the car filled with soft, heart-thumping silence. My chest seized, but this was nothing like the anxiety which had been mumbling in the background for most of the day. This was good nerves. Positive Panic, which I probably just made up, but for goodness’ sake, Amy, stop wittering and do something adorable or sexy or preferably both. But don’t use your hands because they’re sweaty and gross. And watch the handbrake. Maybe try leaning in and—
On second thoughts, maybe not.
Nathan abruptly whipped his head back to face the road. ‘You must be exhausted. And I’m meeting a friend later, so I’d better get on.’
‘Right. Right! Yes, of course. And Joey’ll be back any minute. I can’t wait to tell him.’ I fumbled at the seat belt, continuing to blether on until I’d managed to extricate myself and figure out where the handle was on a door I’d been opening quite merrily all day.
Nathan waited for my malfunctioning mouth to pause for the briefest of breaths, engine already running. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
‘You too! Enjoy your… friend. Thanks again. See you Wednesday. If not before, who knows – I’ll probably be all over the place now, could turn up anywhere.’ Thankfully, at that point, my body took over, slamming the car door and allowing Nathan to drive off before I sprinted down the path to safety.
He did wait at the end of the road until I’d made it inside, but hey, that’s just the kind of guy he is.
Two glasses of wine, an enormous salad and five different types of cheese later, I texted my boss, saying I’d be delighted to accept his invitation to discuss the senior bid writer’s role – name a time and a place and I’d attend the heck out of it, in person, face to face, in actual bodily form, all present and correct.
He replied shortly afterwards, inviting me to his office on 11 February and congratulating me on my use of synonyms.
After a slice of cake made with local, organic carrots, some quick-fire bartering, and a longer online loan application, I had bought myself a car.
47
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Twenty-Five
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the following Wednesday morning, more than a few of the Larks seemed to have chosen me as their pacemaker. Not only had Dani left Nathan and me on top of the hill together, Mel had winked at me so many times across the chapel, someone had asked if her eye needed praying for.
I kept up a steady too-breathless-to-speak pace, but not saying anything only piqued their curiosity, and by the time we reached the Cup and Saucer, I was like the popular girl in an American high-school movie cafeteria scene, there were so many chairs squashed around my table. Nathan didn’t help by leaving straight after the cool-down.
Giving in, I offered a boring as possible summary of the day, pretending that my Cheshire cat grin was down to conquering a day outside, not the company while I did it.
‘Well, I reckon it’s fab that you two are friends,’ Mel said. ‘Nate’s everyone’s mate, no one’s friend. He could do with someone to get a bit more real with.’
I nodded vaguely. He’d barely said three words to me all morning, and not even asked whether I’d been out again (yes, on both days, around the village and even inside a couple of shops), so I was pretty sure I’d been bumped back from the friend zone to client. At least Mel wasn’t insinuating we were more than friends, like there’d been a lust-filled moment in his car or anything.
‘Enough about that,’ Selena flapped her hand, as if discussing the second-best day of my life was beyond boring. ‘We need to plan the triathlon. It’s only three months away, and we haven’t even decided who’s doing what.’
‘If nine or more of us are taking part, the rules say we need at least three in each race,’ Isobel announced from the next table.
‘Thank you, Isobel, for pointing out what we all already knew,’ Selena droned back. ‘The crucial question is, who does what?’
We then entered into a brief debate, involving everyone talking over everyone else and saying the same thing, which was that Marjory should run. By process of elimination, we then determined that the three women with a bike would have to cycle – Dani, Isobel and a woman whose name I hadn’t found out in the acceptable window of asking time and would now remain an awkward mystery until someone else joined the Larks and got introduced. I called her Mystery Woman One, to distinguish her from the other woman whose name I’d failed to learn or remember — Mystery Woman Two.
Selena was the only one who wanted to swim.
‘No way,’ Bronwyn declared. ‘My fella might come, and he won’t be happy if I’m parading about in a cossie.’
‘It’s a swimming pool!’ Dani barked. ‘What does he expect you to wear?’
‘He expects me to wear running gear, and run,’ Bronwyn huffed back. ‘He has to put up with men trying to paw at me every night at work, asking for my number and sending drinks over to the hot bouncer. The least I can do is spare him that on our days off.’
‘Nobody is going to be pawing at you during a triathlon,’ Marjory said, brow furrowed.
‘No, but they’ll be gawping. I mean, come on, it’s only natural.’ She pointed down at herself, trying to make a joke of it, but nobody was laughing. ‘Look, he’s the jealous type, but nobody’s perfect. And I happen to think it’s quite romantic, wanting to keep me for his eyes only.’
In the end, Mel agreed to swim, given that she was probably a better swimmer than runner.
‘On the same basis, Audrey can do it,’ Selena said. ‘She’s not swum in a while, but it can’t be worse than her running.’
There was an awkward silence, while several of the team suddenly felt the need to check their phones.
‘Selena, darling,’ Dani placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m not sure Audrey will be there.’
‘And if she’s not coming to training, should she even be allowed to take part?’ Mystery Woman Two asked.
‘She’s missed three weeks!’ Selena snapped back. ‘If she hasn’t come to her senses by Easter, I’ll drag her out of that viper’s nest myself.’
‘And what else can we do?’ Mel asked. ‘If we haven’t got anyone else.’
‘I’ll swim.’
That got everybody’s attention. Mine, included.
‘You?’ Selena replied, as if I’d just offered to do her pre-pool bikini wax.
‘I heard you had a phobia,’ Isobel said. ‘That you had a meltdown watching your boy swim, started screaming at a sports agent looking to sign him up.’
‘That’s not true.’
I twisted my clammy hands together under the table, reminding myself that however hard my heart might thud, it could not and would not actually break a rib and erupt out of my chest.
‘But it is true you avoid swimming pools,’ Mel added, gently. ‘It’d be good to ’ave someone swim who can smash out a couple of lengths now and then. You’re comin’ on great at the running, Amy, I think you’d do the team proud if you ran.’
‘I’m a better swimmer.’
Marjory chortled. ‘Let her swim. You might be surprised.’
No one looked convinced. They even went as far as to offer to pop in on Audrey and talk her into coming back.
Okay, heart now trying an alternative escape route up my windpipe, knees knocking against the table leg, I went for it: ‘My surname is Piper.’ A mix of blank and sympathetic looks. ‘And Amy is only the short version of my first name.’
Dani got it first. ‘Oh. My. Days.’
‘Shut the fudging fridge!’ Mel stood up, and shouted. ‘You are going to frickin’ well win this race for my Tate!’
‘Eh?’ Isobel asked. Nobody was listening.
Selena immediately plunged into PR overdrive, bombarding me with instructions about press releases and Instagram and contacting Notts TV.
‘Are you even allowed to race though?’ Bronwyn asked, causing a moment’s worried pause in the conversation.
‘She’s Amelia bloomin’ Piper!’ Mel roared. ‘It’s her pool! If she wants to race, she’ll bloomin’ well race!’
‘Does Nathan know?’ Dani asked, eyes wide with interest.
‘Two Olympians on the team – he’ll be ecstatic,’ Bronwyn cooed.
‘One Olympian,’ I said, bracing myself.
‘One World Champion gold medallist, and an Olympian who came home empty-handed,’ Marjory said.
‘Fahitas, fajitas, you’re both bloody brilliant,’ Mel cried, banging her spoon on the table. ‘We’re all bloody brilliant!’ She yelled even louder. ‘HASHTAG POOLPALFOROURPIPER!’
‘Actually there’s no “our” in the hashtag. That wouldn’t make any sense.’
‘Give it a rest, Selena,’ Dani rolled her eyes.
‘If we want it to go viral, we need to ensure people hear the phrase correctly every single time, it’s crucial that the exact wording becomes second nature… Is anybody listening to me?’
48
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Forty
I had, to put it bluntly, been killing it.
By telling the Larks who I was, especially since they had reacted so positively, I had broken off another huge chunk of fear. The shame that had been dragging like a lead weight behind me shrivelled to dust in the daylight. Not that I should need their approval to make me feel okay about who I was, but when alongside the enormity of my public disgrace, it certainly helped.
I’d spent nearly three weeks now furthering my forays into the big wide daylight world. Jase had dropped the car off, and I’d been back to the farm shop, and made a quick excursion round the supermarket. I had even driven into Nottingham and managed a couple of hours in the shopping centre. It was still exhausting, and stressful, and the stupidest things could trigger my pre-panic-attack warning signs (I handed a toddler back the stuffed monkey that she’d dropped, and her mother said thank you in a way that made me wonder for the rest of the day and most of the night if she’d recognised me, as if it even mattered). But I was getting stronger, and braver, and my resuscitated addiction to winning was driving me on.
On the evenings I could spare the time I watched Joey train. Cee-Cee came along a couple of times, and of course Sean was still here, waving off any questions about how long he was staying and how his company was surviving without him with some vague mumblings about expanding Mansfield Recruitment into the UK. For reasons I didn’t think about too hard, sitting with Sean offered a sort of protective back-up, someone to chat to if I felt anxious, or needed to pretend to ignore any unsettling looks or whispers (my burgeoning rational self knew there weren’t any of these, but the paranoid section of my brain had been ruling the roost too long and still struggled with her enforced abdication). I had asked – begged – the Larks to keep my secret for now, on the basis that if I got asked not to compete, it might create negative publicity for the campaign. Plus, they wanted me swimming because they now reckoned they actually had a chance of coming first, and it seemed as though I wasn’t the only one who could grow fixated with winning.
But as I perched poolside, looking so much more like my younger self (back straight, chin up, hair brushed), I knew it wouldn’t take much for someone to realise who Joey Piper’s mum was.
Still, I kept going. The worst that could happen was utter humiliation, a panic attack that felt akin to dying and a barrage of nastiness. I had faced all that before and it turned out I survived.
This evening, Joey had asked me to come to Chicken Thursday, and having come up with no decent excuse, here I was.
‘Hey, Champ!’ Sean greeted us from their ‘usual table’. How lovely, and not at all galling, that it was now usual for my son to spend time with his previously completely absent father. ‘Amy, you look lovely.’
‘No need to sound surprised.’ I was wearing the dress I’d bought for the wine and cheese evening, a decision which I’m sure had nothing to do with Nathan’s politeness with me since the last challenge, and how that contrasted with Sean’s eager openness. I probably looked overdressed, but after slouching around in slobwear for years, I had some catching up to do.
‘I’m not surprised you look lovely. I mean, I always think you look lovely. I just haven’t seen you in a dress before. It really suits you.’
‘Okay.’ I couldn’t deny the flush of pleasure that swept behind my initial prickle of irritation.
As the evening carried on, Sean continued to be nice and charming and nothing but positive. Occasionally managing to chat about school and my job in between all the swimming talk.
Sean continued to call Joey ‘Champ’, his whole face lighting up as he raved about the previous gala and the forthcoming trials, egging Joey on with improbable scenarios about where the Gladiators might lead
him.
‘It’s probably too late for 2020, but 2024 in Paris? Why not? What an epic story. They’d probably make a blockbuster film about it one day: Amelia Piper’s son, the swimming lessons with her old coach, then the trials offer. Amelia relents and overcomes her phobia to watch her son compete. And even though he’s a couple of years behind, boy, does he have what it takes, he’s all his mother’s son, and this time, she makes sure he does it the right way. Boom. Redemption, glory and that circle of gold. And as a little side plot, the idiot long-lost father shows up, a changed man, willing to do everything to earn forgiveness. We’ll have to wait and see how that works out.’ He winked at me across the table.
I reminded myself that Joey was present, and for that reason and that reason only, I restrained from smashing my plate of chicken Caesar salad over his head. It would have made an interesting scene in the film but probably wasn’t worth upsetting Joey over. Besides, I was hungry.
I gritted my teeth throughout the rest of the meal and waited until Champ had got to training and was in the pool before asking Sean if we could talk upstairs in the viewing area. From the glow in his cheeks, I think he was expecting some demonstration of how the long-lost father subplot was going to conclude. But this wasn’t Hollywood. And things were about to get real.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Um, excuse me?’
‘To be honest, I’ve been amazed at how well things have been working out. How you’ve been reasonable, and considerate, and nice without pushing it.’
‘That sounds like a good thing, but your tone of voice and angry expression are suggesting it isn’t. I’m confused.’
I leant forwards in my chair. ‘I’ll spell it out for you, then. Number one, stop calling Joey “Champ”. Number two, stop filling his head with crazy scenarios about films and gold medals. You’re encouraging him to give up his friends, his freedom, his fun and any chance of a normal future for some ridiculous fantasy which, in reality, would be nothing like you make it out to be.’
