by Beth Moran
‘I’m encouraging him to go for his dream. Helping him believe in himself.’
‘No. You aren’t. You’re making it appear as though you will love him more and be more proud of him if he’s a successful swimmer. And right now, his biggest dream is to have his father think he’s a son worth having. He will do anything to earn your approval, and you’re convincing him that’s conditional on him fulfilling this preposterous ideal.’
Sean went grey. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.
‘And what makes me really angry. What I’m particularly baffled about, is that you saw what the power of parental pressure did to me. You hated the whole culture of competitiveness and expectations and giving up everything just to be able to splash through some water a tenth of a second faster than anyone else.’
‘I think we’ve established that at twenty-one I was a total arse.’
‘You hated swimming, Sean. You never once saw me in the pool. Never experienced the thrill and the beauty of watching the human body pushed to the limits of its power, the glory of someone giving their all.’
‘I saw you swim. And it was all that and more. Breathtaking. You were magnificent. But you had no one looking out for you. They all saw you as a gold medal, not a person. That will never happen to Joey. With our support, he can do it the right way.’
‘You saw me swim?’
‘You were so focused, you’d never have spotted me.’ He pulled a wry smile. ‘I, on the other hand, could not take my eyes off you.’
A vague memory of something Cee-Cee had said at Christmas floated to the surface. ‘Did you talk to Cee-Cee?’
He ducked his head, tried to look contrite. ‘Yeah. A couple of times. I wanted her to understand how you were struggling. See if I could convince her to back off a bit, or at least talk to you about it. I was young, stupid and smitten enough to think that an Olympic coach would take advice from a business studies student. I didn’t want you to have to miss the Olympics. I just didn’t think it was worth your soul.’
‘Right. For the record, everything I said about Joey still stands. I am still extremely annoyed about it. But, well, thanks for trying. Talking to Cee-Cee is one thing. Going back for seconds is pretty impressive. I retrospectively appreciate you doing that.’
‘You’re very welcome. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scars.’
Oh, damn your charming, oh so soft and caring blue eyes, Sean Mansfield. You are not going to get the better of me this time.
49
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Forty-Three
That Sunday, Sean drove Joey and me to a gala in Loughborough. A TV advert family: mum and dad in the front, son in the back, unspoken issues jammed in all over the place. Internally, my anxiety pranced about, twirling all the horrible memories and unresolved emotions like a feather boa. On the outside, I was bringing my A game. My back-from-the-dead, undisputed-superior-parent-on-every-count game.
Walking into the spectator area was like a smack in the face with a flipper. It was like the energy dial of the training sessions cranked up to max, with a flickering montage of memories in time to the buzz.
I clutched at the edge of Sean’s jacket, interrupting his move towards the last two empty seats on the front row.
‘Not here.’
‘It’s the best view!’ He glanced back at me, briefly, then stopped and took a proper look. ‘Right. Up there?’
I nodded, mute, clinging onto the jacket until we’d shuffled along the second to back row into the far corner. It wasn’t a warm, strong, comforting hand, but it kept me upright.
‘Better?’ Sean asked, brow creasing.
‘I just need a minute.’ Or ten.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head onto my chest. Once my breathing had steadied, I gradually allowed the echo of competitors’ voices and the warm-up splashes to sink in, recalibrating to the muggy, chlorine-drenched atmosphere of my native home. I was gearing up to add sight to the sounds and smells, when a whistle blast sent me reeling again.
Come on now, Amy. You can do this. One eye at a time if you have to.
Snapping both of them open, I firmly scanned the panorama, like a hunter sweeping the horizon. Kids in swimming costumes, goggles perched on their heads like bug eyes. Towels, tracksuited coaches, everything shimmering with light bouncing off the water.
I quickly found Joey with the rest of his team, his face fierce with concentration as he passed his water bottle from one hand to the other. I know I’m biased, but he was like a prince among plebs, half a head higher than the others, even sitting down. The breadth of his shoulders and long, taut limbs made it obvious who was the one to beat.
I held on to the surge of pride, mentally pinning it to my jumper as a reminder that this was not about me. It was Joey’s time, his story, his future. His choice.
And, oh my goodness, he certainly made the most of it.
‘Is it completely different, being a spectator?’ Sean asked, after we’d watched Joey take another first place, slicing through the water with stunning power and grace. ‘Or are the emotions the same?’
‘I was too focused to feel this nervous when it was me. It’s definitely different having no control over the outcome. But internal self-criticism was like a playlist on repeat. I never took enough time to enjoy the victories.’
Who cares that I won every race – was it by enough? Was it my best time? Had I got the angle of the turn perfect? Could I have pushed my muscles that one-hundredth of a second harder?
‘With Joey, it’s all good. Nerve-wracking, but good.’
And being there, being able to witness it first-hand? That was beyond amazing.
Sean leant closer. ‘Imagine how nervous you’d be if you were a different kid’s parent.’
‘Nervous, or resigned to hoping for a silver?’
We grinned at each other, bumping elbows before making a joint embarrassing mum/dad wave to Joey, taking his place with his team. He acknowledged a fist-bump from Ben, ducking his head to speak to a girl before engaging in a brief jokey jostle as he sat down. I thought he hadn’t seen us, or at least had decided to ignore our manic gestures, for which I couldn’t have blamed him. But then he looked up into the spectator seats, pressed one hand to where his beautiful heart beat behind his still-dripping chest, and nodded, his smile so gentle I could just about find it through my tears.
I don’t remember anyone having a conversation about it, but Sean ended up joining us for dinner, sitting round the table with ‘healthy’ home-made pizza and salad. Joey replayed the day while we ate, Sean tiptoeing on the edge of encouragement, constantly glancing at me to check whether he’d crossed the line.
The evening felt… okay. Over the past few weeks, I’d been gradually replacing the horrible mix of memories about Sean with the man who was here now. I didn’t trust him an inch – he was still the person who’d abandoned me – but he was trying, and Joey loved having him around.
At least, he did until suddenly remembering he had homework to finish, coincidentally the moment he’d made us all a coffee. As if doing homework on a Saturday evening, following a competition, was something he’d EVER done before.
‘You might as well stay and finish your drink, though, Dad. Maybe Mum’ll show you my baby photos or something.’
He galloped upstairs before either of us had time to cry, ‘set-up!’
With no better idea of how to push through the resulting awkwardness, I dug the photo album out. Before we knew it, two hours had gone by. Sean had wanted to know everything, carefully examining each captured moment as if it was a prehistoric butterfly specimen.
‘I missed out on so much,’ Sean could barely speak. He swiped his face with one jumper cuff, not wanting to drip tears on the pictures.
I nodded, no words of consolation to offer.
‘Will I ever be able to make it up to him?’ He shook his head. ‘Part of me wants to stop feeling so damn guilty all the time, because it’
ll spoil what we have now, but the other part… how dare I forgive myself for this?’
And without planning it, or meaning to, I let another chunk of anger and bitterness crumble away. For who was I to judge not being there for Joey, not sharing the parties and the holidays and the competitions with him? At least Sean was an ocean away. I was right here, and I simply hadn’t found the guts to face them.
It was an ugly truth, one that had anyone else even hinted at, I’d have thrown them out the window, but if Sean Mansfield and I had one thing in common, it was that we had both abandoned our child.
Would we ever be able to make it up to him?
Only time would tell, I guess.
But I have to confess, when Sean gently and gingerly hugged me goodbye, I wondered for the splittiest of seconds whether one way to make things up to Joey was to consider very carefully whether or not I could live with some more of those hugs.
I know. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, either.
50
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Forty-Six
Another email from the delightful Moira Vanderbeek. So charming! Such flattery!! So many exclamation marks needed to describe how thrilled she was that I would be at the grand opening!!! She was very much hoping to meet me (!), and to snatch a morsel of my time to ask a couple of questions (!!), snippets the wider community would be dying to hear (!!!). Any chance of a teensy interview before then, to boost the PoolPal campaign? A couple of photos with her enchanting photographer, Howard, to give the article some pop, draw the right kind of attention?
Ugh.
Or, as Moira would say:
Ugh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about the mantra of my mother for the five years she was my self-appointed PR agent: no publicity is bad publicity, but good publicity is where you control the publicity. Not the snappiest of catchphrases, but I remembered and pondered the wisdom of it all the same.
By the evening, I had made up some interview questions, answered them and pressed send. Moira could cobble together a decent-sized article from Amelia Piper’s enthusiastic yet diplomatic responses about making sport accessible for all, including Tate. I sprinkled the interview with some shocking statistics and, after a quick chat with Mel, attached a couple of photos.
I also strongly hinted about a more personal exclusive after the triathlon, as long as I was happy with her ‘journalistic integrity’ up until then. Once I’d made a speech and swam ten lengths in front of a crowd of gawping strangers, she could ask for my bra size and I’d happily chuck in my knickers, too – pose for the enchanting Howard, if she really wanted, give her the scoop on the truth about Athens, and maybe a short, sanitised version of where I’ve been since.
There. One teensy interview, sorted.
And, I prayed, some peace for now.
51
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Fifty-Five
A few days after Moira Vanderbeek’s article appeared in a national trash-paper, Mel and Dani did their usual Saturday morning trick of breaking and entering. Only this time it was a Friday, and they hadn’t brought breakfast.
‘No way I’m eatin’ until after,’ Mel said, barrelling into my kitchen as I hastily saved the care home brochure I’d been editing on my laptop. ‘Not that I care what people think, it’s for me kids, don’t want to embarrass them more than usual.’
‘Um, I hardly dare ask this, but after what?’
‘After the try-on.’
‘But the triathlon is weeks away.’ I was even more confused than normal at what on earth Mel was talking about.
‘The try-on, not triathlon,’ Dani added, taking a swig from her travel mug. ‘Which may end up nearly as exhaustingly energy-sucking as the race itself, but for very different reasons.’
‘What’s a try-on?’ I know I’d been out of action for a few years, but I remained bamboozled.
‘We’re getting kitted out for the triathlon.’
‘What? But it’s still ten weeks away.’ Ten weeks, twenty runs, a couple of hundred high-protein, low-carb meals and possible face transplant away.
‘Yeah, but Selena wants us all matchin’, to present, like, a united brand. And there’s a sale in Sporting Warehouse on some trackies and that, in the Lark colours. We need to get in there before it goes.’
‘Can’t I just order them online?’
‘Well, where’s the fun in that? Never mind team bondin’. Nathan’d be well grieved if he thought you missed the try-on.’
‘Never mind the fact everyone wants to thank you for your noble sacrifice,’ Dani said. ‘The picture of you by the bus was tragic, but it worked, the JustGiving page has gone nuts.’
As used to being used by gossip journalists as I had once been, as prepared as I was to have my name and associated nonsense in harsh black and white, after seeing my interview answers squeezed in amongst an overblown, sensationalised recap of my ‘Olympic shame!’ and a whole other page of wild speculations, complete with six old photos of me, looking everything from ‘Proud Champion!’ to ‘National treasure pushed to the brink!’ I had dry-heaved up the idea of the breakfast, lunch and dinner I hadn’t been able to force down for the rest of the day. But as the JustGiving donations had risen, so my perspective had corrected itself and my stomach settled.
If people wanted to read, and then actually pay attention to, tabloid drivel with zero new information and minimal hard facts, that was up to them. To my astounded relief, when I thought long and hard about it, I concluded that their opinion meant nothing to me, especially not compared to that of my friends, my son and my coach. They were proud of what I had achieved in the past few months, and for the first time in forever, I was proud of myself, too. And that made me even prouder. I had come so far that what should have been a disaster felt like a triumph, and this was the ultimate win.
I decided this made me just about invincible.
I remembered that feeling. It was flippin’ awesome.
‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’
Sporting Warehouse was on a new retail park just off the nearest motorway junction. I had hoped that on a Friday morning, the Larks might be the only people there, which turned out to be an underestimation of the draw of cut-price athleisure wear. As we prepared to squeeze our way into the fray, Selena popped out of it like some freakish newborn shopping baby, arms loaded with bags.
‘Is it finished?’ I managed to squeak, already preparing to make an about-turn and hightail it back to somewhere with an average population of less than three per square metre.
‘Hardly. These are personal items, nothing to do with the triathlon. Everyone’s manning the swimwear section, far right. You’d best get a move on!’
With Dani tugging my hand in front, and Mel shoving me from behind, we jostled and elbowed our way to where the rest of the Larks formed a human barrier, preventing anyone else from getting near to a rack of sky-blue clothing. Selena had already managed to deposit her bags and slink back through the crowd and currently stood inside the barrier, holding up four fragments of Lycra.
‘About time! I’ll take this one.’ She threw the tiniest scrap over her shoulder. ‘Mel. Amy.’
Mel took hold of one proffered swimming costume, for it appeared that’s what they were supposed to be. ‘Are you chuffin’ kiddin’ me?’ she retorted, attempting to stretch it over her solid midriff. ‘You goin’ ter tell us where the rest of it’s hiding?’
‘What do you want, Mel, a wet suit? Victoriana flannel bathers?’
‘I want a cossie that covers more than one bum cheek. Life for my seventeen-year-old is ’ard enough without his mates seeing ’is mum’s boob pop out mid-front crawl.’
‘Are you sure that’s the right size?’ Dani asked. ‘I mean, I’m all for being loud and proud of what God gave you, but that’s pushing the legal boundary of indecent exposure.’
‘Nah, it’s the right size. Just the wrong style,’ Mel huf
fed.
I took mine and checked it. ‘This is actually two sizes too big for me.’
‘Ouch,’ Bronwyn winced on my behalf.
‘Well, it’s all they had left. At least both bum cheeks will be covered,’ Selena snapped.
‘Why can’t I try that one?’ I pointed at the remaining costume in her hand.
‘This is Audrey’s!’
Bronwyn broke the human barrier to grab the label. ‘A size twelve? Are you joking?’
‘I’m a size twelve.’ By the triathlon I might be, anyway.
‘And Audrey is most definitely, a) not here, and b) not anywhere close to a size twelve.’
Bronwyn grabbed hold of one strap and started to pull. Selena dug in, leaning back like a waterskier, both hands gripping the plastic coat hanger.
‘Get lost, Bronwyn, you haven’t even got the balls to wear a costume, in case your overly controlling, borderline abusive, probable pimp plus drug dealer, scary boyfriend actually figures out how to tell the time and bothers to turn uuuuuuuuuAAAAAAAPPPP!’
‘How dare you insinuate he’s stupid!’ Bronwyn yelled, letting go of the strap so that Selena pinged back into a male mannequin holding a surfboard. The mannequin stiffly toppled over, his surfboard shooting into the end of a long queue of women waiting for the changing room and sending them tumbling. Those nearer the front of the queue, oblivious as to what was causing the crush, began to scream, sending panic rippling like a Mexican wave out across the store. Others began pushing and shoving to get to the entrance, knocking over displays and yanking armfuls of clothes off the racks as they went.
