How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  Alarms began to go off as frantic shoppers poured out through the double doors with their unpaid for purchases, unwilling to risk losing a twenty-quid Nike hoodie, even if it cost them their freedom.

  Two men, hearing the hullabaloo, came sprinting out of the changing rooms in a pair of speedos and a ski suit respectively. Five seconds later, a woman hopped out after them, both legs jammed into one half of a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

  The security guards and staff piled out to apprehend the looters, and within less than two minutes, the Larks were standing in their circle protecting the remaining sky-blue sportswear from an empty shop.

  I might have been the only person there relieved to have caused a public stampede.

  Bronwyn swore, even as she pulled a wide-eyed Selena to her feet. ‘Sorry, Selena. You all right?’

  Selena straightened her jacket, shaking her hair off her forehead. ‘Are you kidding?’ She nodded her chin at the remains of the mannequin behind her. ‘He’s the most animated man to have his arms around me in ages!’

  ‘Well, ladies,’ Marjory lifted up a pair of blue cycling shorts. ‘Now we’ve made a bit of space, shall we get shopping before the police arrive?’

  And so, somehow, in the jumble of Larks herding into the deserted changing rooms, I found Dani and Mel stuffing me into a two sizes too big swimming costume.

  It was like slipping into my second skin, muscle memory pinging the straps up without me even thinking about it. But at the same time, the memories of another life, another me, reverberated through my head, sending it spinning. I tilted my head away from the mirror and focused on a clump off fluff on the floor while I went through my anti-freak-out exercises: Breathe, count, focus. I kept at it until the past receded, taking the panic with it.

  ‘Once upon a time, top sportswear designers begged me to wear their labels.’ I half laughed, half sobbed, as Dani handed me a tissue to blot my tears and blow my nose, while Mel hitched up the sagging straps to preserve my nipples’ dignity.

  ‘Well, you have to demonstrate in the flesh, as it were, or Selena won’t surrender the other one,’ Dani said, ushering me out of the cubicle and into the main changing area. ‘Selena! Take a look at this!’

  Selena stepped out of her cubicle as if she was used to parading her toned muscles in a tiny patch of fabric trying to impersonate swimwear. ‘Ooh. Maybe a spray tan before the big day, Amy? You look like a woman who’s not seen the sun in years.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Selena,’ Bronwyn groaned. ‘Just cos Amy’s the star of the day. Like, literally. Try and be less obvious about your rampant jealousy, why don’t you?’

  ‘Forget a spray tan, maybe a costume that doesn’t resemble a plastic bag?’ Mel barked, planted with her feet apart, hands on hips like a compressed Wonder Woman in her correctly fitting, still eye-wateringly tiny, swimsuit. ‘Hand over the size twelve, or else our best, most high-profile member of the team will compete in non-branded colours. And how will that affect hashtag GetPiperaPoolPal?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mystery Woman One chimed in. ‘If you want Nathan’s eyes off Ames and onto you, sticking her in a cossie that gapes so bad it shows her hoohaa isn’t the way to go about it.’

  I didn’t know whether to be more concerned that she thought we’d reached nickname territory, or that a woman whose name I didn’t know had seen my hoohaa. Or that she called it a hoohaa. Either way, my hoohaa and I were going straight back into the cubicle.

  ‘Fine!’ The smaller costume flew over the top of the cubicle door and draped itself over my face. I wondered if I could keep it there for a few days. ‘But, for the record, I don’t give a crap if Nathan’s or any other eyes are on me. I took a day off work to try to help by finding some decent team outfits that won’t break the bank and create a fun, bonding moment for us all and for pity’s sake, how hard can it frigging well be to remember THREE WORDS IN ORDER!’ Despite the increase in volume, Selena’s voice began to fade into the distance as she must have stomped away. ‘It’s HASHTAG POOLCHUFFINGPALFORPIPER!’

  ‘That’s five words, then, innit?’ someone said.

  ‘Hold these, I’ll go after her,’ Bronwyn said, leaving the only sound in the changing room a few awkward shuffles and coughs.

  ‘Come on, then, Amy,’ Dani tapped on my cubicle door. ‘You’d better try it on at least, after all that.’

  So, I did. And with everything else going on I barely had space in my head to feel bothered about it the second time. And, aware that resistance was futile, I stepped out and showed them all what it looked like, too. I mean, I was going to be in front of a whole lot more people before long, might as well get back in practice.

  ‘How is it?’ Marjory asked, as I gazed at the woman in the mirror, nipples and hoohaa both decently covered. ‘Is this the return of Amelia Piper?’

  ‘Amelia Piper plus about three stone of baggage?’ I shook my head. ‘No. This isn’t the old me. I’ll never go back to being her again.’

  There were a few mumbles of protest from the women behind, all kitted out in their sky-blue running and cycling gear.

  ‘Oh, no, that’s fine. I don’t want to go back. Amelia Piper was stressed and miserable and confused and… lost. She couldn’t stay true to who she was because she didn’t have a clue who that was.’ I backed up and put my arm around Mel, who’d added a pink swim cap and a pair of orange armbands to her outfit. ‘Amelia Piper was lonely. She gave up because she didn’t have a squad cheering her on when it really mattered.’

  ‘What about Amy, then? What about now?’ Dani asked.

  ‘Amy Piper is brave, and beautiful and doesn’t give a crap about all this,’ I gave a couple of my flabbiest bits a slap, ‘because this is the weight of experience, and wisdom, and a splendid amount of yummy breakfasts with her squad. Amy Piper knows what a real champion is made of, and that right now she’s looking at one. A crowded shop, in the middle of the day, half-dressed? She’s taken on her ultimate foe and kicked its sorry ass. Moira Vanderbeek might write a bitchy article about how Amelia Piper has let herself go, ended up a no one in nowhere doing nothing. Add a load of carefully non-photoshopped photos with arrows pointing at cellulite and stretch marks and saggy bits. Screw her! I’m not ashamed of my battle scars. I earnt them and no one but me knows how hard I fought or what it cost me.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ my new, true, sky-blue squad cheered. They cheered even harder as I stuffed my clothes in a bag and strutted out of the changing room still in my swimwear, ‘I think I’ll just go on and wear this baby all the way home!’

  ‘Um. Excuse me, madam. We’d like to have a word.’

  ‘Oh! Right! Yes! Would it be okay if I put a few more clothes on first, Officer?’

  ‘I think that would be a good idea.’

  52

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day One Hundred and Sixty-One

  It had been a mixed week. Propelled by the victory in Sporting Warehouse, I had done a phone-in interview with BBC Radio Nottingham – all very pleasant and focused on the campaign. On Monday, I had attended a far more significant interview, having driven to a small industrial estate in Nottingham and clicked right on up in my mustard heels to the office of Winlock Tenders. Grant Winlock, who had last seen me in person about three years ago, offered me a seat, a giant hug, a home-made coconut cookie to go along with my coffee and a promotion, effective immediately. I had even invited Cee-Cee for dinner again, and only got so annoyed I wanted to stab her with my fork twice.

  On the downside, I had spent the week being haunted.

  Haunted by an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, sky-blue… swimsuit.

  I had two options when it came to my big comeback:

  Plan A was to pretend it wasn’t really happening, get as fit as I could from running with the Larks, spend the rest of the time buried in senior bid writing, turn up on the day and dive straight into my first swim in fourteen years.

  Plan B was too scary to think about right then.

  But that swimsuit kept wh
ispering to me. It chased me through my dreams. It fed me one dread-inducing scenario after another. What if I panicked, belly-flopped, choked, threw up in the pool, ended up having to be rescued by the lifeguard? I could cope with the inevitable national humiliation – after all, I’d faced worse. But could Joey? Should he have to, only a few weeks after the Gladiators trial? And what about the race? The Larks were counting on me. The campaign was counting on me.

  Swimming came to me as naturally as breathing. I knew that, even after such a long time, I could manage a respectable time compared to most. But I wasn’t most. And with a bit of training I could do the girls proud. Give the crowd something to feel good about, and hopefully take more notice when I gave my little speech about the PoolPal.

  And, more to the point, until I knew for a fact that I could get back in the water without having a coronary, that foul beast I called my anxiety would remain in my head, lording it over me while wearing an even more miniature sky-blue swimsuit.

  So. Here I was. Bag packed. Heart thumping. Off to the Brooksby Leisure Centre public swim.

  With a spontaneous detour to enlist my support network on the way.

  Nathan couldn’t have looked more surprised when he opened the door and found me standing there. Since New Year’s Day we’d seen each other at training, and Joey’s events, but while things had been friendly, it was clear I had been firmly placed back in the client-zone. Maybe after an entire day out, Nathan figured I didn’t need his help any more. But I still had a major hurdle to overcome, and he was the best man for the job. Which was of course the only reason I was here. It had nothing to do with how much I’d thought about him, wondered if we’d be friends again, missed him…

  ‘Amy. Hi. Had we… planned something?’

  ‘No. I kind of made up my mind and had to go and do it right then. Only halfway there I realised I could really do with some support. Just in case.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you busy? I mean, I could come back another time. We’ve weeks to go. I just, well, it’s been a momentous few days. I’m on a sort of roll, and the swimsuit keeps taunting me. I’ve started this massive project for a technology company. It’s my first one as a senior writer, and instead of writing a brilliant bid, all I can think about is whether or not I’m going to mess it all up on the day and let everyone down, when I was the one who volunteered to swim and started this whole campaign for little Tate, and they’ve really got their hopes up, like everyone’s counting on me, and it’s been a long time, but some weird and not good memories about people all counting on me winning a race have resurrected themselves like memory zombies and while I know it’s hardly the same, a local triathlon compared to the Olympics, it seems to matter more, when it means so much to Mel and Tate. And this’ll be the first time Joey’s seen me swim, so I want him to be proud of me and the least I can do after everything, so many times of not being there and letting him down, is to make him proud. And, well…’ I managed to stop and take a juddery breath. ‘I think he’s going to be disappointed if I don’t win.’

  Nathan glanced behind him, then back.

  ‘I really need to know if I can win.’

  He ran one hand through his hair, brow furrowed.

  ‘I at least have to try.’

  ‘Nate?’

  Oh crap. Crap!

  A woman’s voice, from inside the house.

  A woman. Inside Nathan’s house.

  A woman who now slithered into view, caressing a glass of wine, deep red to match her pouting lips. My brain did a lightning quick comparison of her slinky charcoal jumpsuit with plunging neckline, her trendy black bob, ridiculously toned arms, versus my faded jeans and yellow hoodie, hair blown every which way from the winter wind.

  I lost.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ She smiled then, ruining my automatic categorisation of a beautiful, sophisticated woman with perfect make-up as a snooty bitch.

  ‘Uh. Yes,’ Nathan and I both answered at the same time, which made things seem even more awkward.

  ‘Amy’s… a client.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I’m a client. I, um, needed a bit of advice about the next stage of my programme. It’s fine, sorry. I shouldn’t have come. What are phones for, after all! Anyway, I’m so sorry to have interrupted you. I’ll go. Sorry.’ I attempted to force my lumbering limbs into an about turn.

  ‘No, wait. One second.’ Nathan closed the door partially shut, with me outside it. I couldn’t make out his soft murmurings, but his guest had no such qualms.

  ‘What about clients never coming to a trainer’s house? The rule about not telling them where you live?’

  Ugh. This was hideous.

  ‘She doesn’t seem it to me.’

  Oh, great. She thought I was some infatuated stalker. Wait – was I an infatuated stalker?

  ‘…turning up here, on Valentine’s Day? That’s a little creepy, don’t you think? At the least it’s an unacceptable invasion of your privacy.’

  VALENTINE’S DAY! Why the Jiminy Cricket hadn’t somebody told me?! I’d not been anywhere all week except for the interview, and running with the Larks. I’d been too busy not writing a bid to even watch Joey train…

  It was a little creepy! I had unacceptably invaded Nathan’s privacy! I was now proceeding to get myself the heck out of there! As soon as some blood left my inflamed cheeks and made its way to my feet so they could work again!

  ‘You need to be very clear about professional boundaries… You’re going to do what?’

  All of a sudden, months of running proved itself extremely useful. My feet finally remembered how to move, and before I could even consider what Nathan was going to do, I was halfway down the street.

  Three minutes later, to my utter mortification, he caught up with me.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

  ‘How… are you… not… even out… of breath?’

  ‘I train hard and take care of my body. Come on, we can cut through this twitchel.’

  I stopped. ‘Nathan, what are you talking about? Why are you here? You have a date. It’s Valentine’s Day. This whole thing is embarrassing enough without you chasing after me.’

  ‘You seriously think I’m going to miss seeing Amelia Piper back in the water, for the first time? And even if it wasn’t you, I’m your coach. This is huge. I’m not going to leave you to do it alone.’ He smiled. ‘Believe it or not, I kind of want the Larks to win that triathlon. I’m banking on you helping us to grind the competition into the brand new, all-weather running track dust.’

  ‘But what about your date?’ As much as I wanted Nathan to have wanted to ditch that gorgeous woman for me, I didn’t want Nathan to be the kind of man who would dump his date – on any day of the year. Let alone this one.

  He twitched his shoulders as if shrugging off an unwelcome arm. ‘It wasn’t a date. Kim’s a colleague. It was supposed to be a business meeting.’

  I squinted, dubiously, and Nathan straightened his shoulders, assuming the Robo-Coach pose in response to my cynicism.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was Valentine’s Day. Or that Valentine’s Day meant a business meeting would automatically be construed as a date.’

  ‘Right. But given that it was, shouldn’t you get back to it?’

  ‘I don’t date colleagues.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  He started heading down the twitchel, leaving me no choice but to join him if I wanted to hear the answer to my question.

  ‘I don’t date colleagues who, after acting like they were really keen to help, turn up with a bottle of wine and can’t even be bothered to discuss business.’

  Who do you date? Do you complete a spreadsheet for potential candidates in advance? I wanted to ask. But didn’t. Who Nathan dated was none of my business. But, oh, picturing that woman and her wine glass, sidling up to Nathan as if she belonged there, I was shocked by the onslaught of emotions. On the plus side, the jealousy, indignation and longing all swirling together in an ugly and unw
elcome cocktail did help take my mind off where we were headed and what I was about to do.

  By the time we reached the pool, I had forty minutes before the public swim ended. I threw a fiver at the receptionist, raced into the empty changing room and whipped my jeans and hoodie off to reveal the swimsuit underneath, head tipped down the whole time. Stuffing my belongings into a locker, I hurtled towards the doorway leading to the pool. Come on, Amy, you’ve got this.

  I hadn’t got it. As though hitting an invisible wall, I bounced back into the changing room.

  Ten minutes later, Nathan found me hunched on the changing room bench, too dazed and despairing to even cry.

  He held out a hand. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t. All those people.’

  ‘There are six other people in the pool, Amy. Minding their own business, completing their laps.’

  One of those people now entered the changing room, stopping in surprise when she saw Nathan crouching in front of me. The woman, probably in her mid-fifties, frowned. ‘Excuse me, but these are female changing rooms. I mean, I’m the last person to prejudge, or make an assumption, but you are a man, who identifies as male? Aren’t you? Mr Gallagher?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I, well… we’ll just…’ Nathan, face burning crimson, pulled me up and tugged me into the mother and baby changing cubicle.

  ‘I don’t think that’s allowed either!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘My dear, are you in need of assistance? Shall I call the lifeguard?’

  ‘No. I’m fine, thank you,’ I squeezed out through my scrunched-up face and clenched teeth.

  ‘Well, really. If you’re both in there together of your own volition, then I’ll definitely call the lifeguard. Have you no shame? Hanky-panky in the changing rooms is against the Leisure Centre Code of Conduct.’

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ Nathan called back, dropping my hand. ‘She was having a panic attack and I’m her trainer. Section four, subsection three point seven of the Brooksby Leisure Centre Code of Conduct clearly states that if a female lifeguard is not on duty, a male employee can enter the female changing rooms to attend to a female in need of medical assistance.’