How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  I wondered about asking Mel and Dani to come with me, but I didn’t want them to see me so vulnerable. This still felt too deep to involve them. I considered Cee-Cee, even Sean, but their presence would probably only make things worse. Plus, I didn’t trust them not to tell Joey about it afterwards.

  So instead I wittered, and wavered, and hoped and prayed that Nathan would return to the Larks, or bump into me in the street sometime, or message me to ask how things were going and by the way did I fancy going swimming sometime.

  Then, on the Saturday of the Gladiators trials, Moira Vanderbeek released her follow-up article on what happened to Amelia Piper. And what happened, according to Moira – and it was in a national newspaper, so it must be true – was that Amelia Piper had reconciled with the man who seduced her as a teenager and persuaded her to throw away both her, her family’s and the nations hopes and dreams.

  Ooh, she was good. Only a smattering of lies, mostly carefully phrased facts wrapped up in insinuation and speculation. How I had been living as a recluse for the past hundred years, relying on my old coach to look after me and Joey (those quotes from Cee-Cee had better be made up). Overweight, out of work, depressed and alone, unable to get over my broken heart. And then, like a knight in a shiny black car, Sean had swooped in.

  How romantic! Like a true-life fairy tale! Sean had sold his company (sold his company!! For four and a half million dollars!!) and returned to rescue me from my despair and reunite the family. There were photos of him arriving at our house on Christmas Day, arms laden with gifts, the three of us out for Chicken Thursday, snapped at probably the only instant that Sean and I were looking at each other and laughing. Sat at the gala together. What a saint Sean was, for giving up his business and home to risk it all for the love of an unpredictable, mentally unstable oddball with nothing to offer.

  And I clearly was, as demonstrated by the photograph of me, in a swimsuit that is the very definition of skimpy, standing in a shop being spoken to by a police officer. Apparently this ‘episode’ had caused such a ruckus that Sporting Warehouse required evacuation in the middle of the sale, with the store closed for several hours while the police persuaded me to get dressed.

  But would Sean stand by me now, given that the Brooksby Leisure Centre manager could neither confirm nor deny that I had been caught engaging in an explicit sexual act in the public changing room, WITH MY SON’S COACH?

  It was also well known in the Brooksby Bridge Club that I had a fetish for spying on couples through their bedroom windows. The quote from Audrey’s old fart of a boyfriend was brutal.

  And then, to top it off, Moira Vanderbeek finished the article by pondering as to whether Sean could prevent my erratic and illegal behaviour from sabotaging Joey’s swimming future, in particular his trials with the Gladiators.

  I’d had some low days, but this had to be one of the darkest.

  Joey and I spent the morning mostly in stunned silence. He’d read the article and listened to my explanation with a mix of shock, disgust and anger, but had paused on the photograph of me and his dad, and I had caught the glimmer of hope in his eye.

  By lunchtime, an hour before he needed to leave, we decided.

  ‘I don’t think I should go.’

  My heart was breaking. This had been the shining gold medal at the end of all the effort and the pain and the sweat, blood and tears.

  Joey nodded, his face pale and grim.

  ‘There’ll probably be journalists there. And even the other swimmers, the Gladiators coaches, we don’t want their attention to be on me. Let alone poor Nathan. You go, hold your head high, do what you do best and make yourself proud.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum. I’ll be fine with Dad and Nathan. Once I’m in the water, it won’t make a difference who’s there. If you came, I’d just worry about you panicking.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ The thought that after everything, Joey still had to worry about me was yet another twist of the knife now lodged in my liver.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t stop it being totally horrendous for you to have those things said about your family.’

  He shrugged, trying to find a smile. ‘Hey, at least everyone knows my mum’s a world champion swimmer now. It wasn’t easy, keeping that to myself. And my friends know the truth. The squad know Nathan wouldn’t… do that. So they’ll probably know the rest of it is bogus, too.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay going today? We can ask them to postpone, they’d understand, given the circumstances.’ All my instinct as a mother was to keep Joey here, with me, safe and protected. To shield him from the media circus that once almost destroyed me. It was only swimming. Surely it wasn’t worth all this.

  I was about to insist that Joey stayed at home, and then he spoke again:

  ‘If I don’t go, that bitch’ll’ve won. And they’ll be able to say that you have sabotaged my career, after all. It’ll be fine. I’m not losing to anyone today. Least of all her.’

  And I realised, this wasn’t only swimming. It was also months of determination and effort, and saying no to parties and lie-ins and junk food. It was choosing a goal, following a dream, and sticking to it, no matter what. It was the chance to shine at the thing he excelled at, pushing himself to be more than he should be, giving his all. It was one of the best feelings in the whole damn world. And after all the crap he’d dealt with, who was I to deny him that?

  So, I did not insist. I ignored my better judgement for the sake of an improbable dream, and I let him go.

  And it was not fine. Not even close.

  The trials started at two. Sean called me at three-thirty.

  When someone starts a phone call with a breathless, ‘Now there’s no need to panic but,’ there is only one reasonable response to that. Panic. So, I could barely hear his garbled explanation through the thunder roaring in my head. This I had understood by the time he rang off: Joey had hit his head in the pool, the paramedics were with him, they were leaving for the hospital now.

  I was in my car and halfway down the street before I noticed that I was still in my chequered pyjama bottoms and Joey’s old rugby hoodie.

  I was halfway to Nottingham before I realised that I didn’t know how to get to the hospital. Frantic, sobbing, muttering like a mad woman, I found myself stuck in the clog of city-centre traffic, lost in the one-way system and nearly out of my mind by the time Sean called me to say they’d arrived. Only holding hysteria at bay with the sheer determination to get to my son, I clicked onto speakerphone and allowed Sean to guide me to the Queen’s Medical Centre, his calm voice a lighthouse in my frenzied storm.

  I don’t even remember parking or finding my way to the accident and emergency department. I only remember running, lungs clamouring, until I stopped in the middle of one corridor and, in a loud voice, told the anxiety dragging at my limbs and exploding in my brain to stop!

  ‘Enough! My son needs me, and I will not turn up like this. I will be calm, and rational, and strong. Joey said we’re not being beaten today, so you might as well eff off.’

  As I took a deep breath and prepared to start running again, a nearby woman put her hands over a little girl’s ears.

  ‘What? I said eff! I don’t swear in front of children!’

  By the look on her face, that didn’t seem to help. Maybe she’d read the newspaper that morning. Quite frankly, I didn’t have the time to care.

  After patiently informing me, multiple times, that, no, I couldn’t see my son right now, a nurse ushered me into the private family room. Sean leapt to his feet and pulled me into his arms. I leant into his solid chest and took a brief, lovely moment to steady myself before drawing away.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  Sean visibly juddered. We sat down on adjoining chairs and gripped each other’s hands.

  ‘It was his second swim. He must have misjudged the dive and hit his head on the bottom. I don’t know how. He’s done that same dive thousands of tim
es before.’

  ‘He was distracted.’ I closed my eyes, trying to make the room stop lurching. ‘I shouldn’t have let him go. The trials were pressure enough, but then that article. I knew he ought to postpone. That something would happen. But I gave in to that same old pressure, winning is everything. It’s not everything! Not even close! If this is what it takes to win, then I’m happy being a loser. Oh, Joey, this is all my fault. I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry…’

  Eventually, when Sean had stroked my back and handed me a tissue and unstuck a clump of hair from the half-dried snot on my face, fetched me a cup of disgusting, lukewarm tea and tucked me up against his chest, the nurse returned and gave us what she called an update.

  Joey had undergone a CT scan. They were waiting to move him to a ward for observation. The scan results would tell them how best to proceed.

  ‘I want to see him.’

  The nurse briskly looked me up and down, her curled-up lip expressing precisely what she thought about my attire. ‘Once he’s settled someone will come and fetch you.’

  ‘Why can’t I see him now?’ I stopped myself from adding, ‘I really don’t think he’ll care about me being in my pyjamas!’

  ‘He’s not conscious, so there really wouldn’t be any point.’

  I scrabbled upright, arms flailing. ‘Are you serious? Were you ever once a child? Did it make a difference to know your mother had sat with you when your life was in mortal danger, refusing to leave your side? Can you say, with one hundred per cent certainty, that he won’t hear my voice, or feel my hand holding his? Do you think there might be some point, for me, to know that if my son dies, I was with him?’

  ‘Ms Piper, the chance that Joseph will die is negligible at this stage. Please calm yourself down. It won’t help Joseph if we have an… incident. Mr Mansfield, this hospital trust has a zero-tolerance policy regarding physical or verbal abuse towards NHS staff.’

  ‘Excuse me? How was that abusive? How is this an incident? How do you know our names? You’ve read that article, haven’t you? And now you won’t let me see Joey because you think I’m a raving madwoman. Oh my goodness, Sean, tell her it’s lies. Tell her I’m not some out-of-control, unstable… I’ve never abused anyone in my whole life.’

  ‘Like I said, someone will fetch you once he’s ready.’ The nurse left.

  ‘This is a nightmare.’ I was aghast, beyond distraught. ‘I thought things were bad when I ran off with you, but this is actually worse. Moira Vanderbeek has made things even worse.’

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’ Sean’s voice was gentle, but firm. He tilted me back so that his arm was around me and kissed the top of my head. ‘This time, you have good friends, and Joey, to get you through it, not just an arrogant, brainless idiot who flakes at the first sign of trouble.’

  I blew out a long sigh.

  ‘You did flake.’

  ‘I did. And you… did the opposite of flaking, whatever that is.’

  ‘Clump?’

  ‘Okay, that could work. You clumped. Or how about you stuck it out. Raised a son, alone, starting with nothing. Provided for him, loved him, gave him a childhood full of extraordinary memories. He told me all about the indoor camping and the circus school. And it’s not a fluke that he’s incredible. The swimming might be genetic, and I take full credit for that awesome hair, but his humungous heart, his beautiful soul, his uncannily wise head. A huge clump of that has got to be down to amazing parenting. If you can do that, you can do anything. You can certainly get through whatever news tonight will bring us. Both of you can.’

  ‘Well, it helps you being here. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re no longer a brainless idiot flake.’ I bumped his thigh with my fist.

  ‘It was arrogant brainless idiot flake.’

  ‘I know.’

  When the door opened sometime later, jolting me from a restless doze, I assumed it was Sean, back from hunting down something more robust to eat than the measly offerings of the vending machine.

  But, no. Nathan.

  ‘I’m so sorry it took this long for me to get here, some of the club members watching were really upset, and I wanted to make sure they were all okay.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to come.’ My voice sounded flat, numb. In reality, I wanted to fling myself into his arms and burrow down in there, but I knew Nathan didn’t want that. Even before I’d made a national mockery of him in the so-called news.

  ‘Of course I came.’ He screwed up his face in anguish. ‘Is it okay if I come in? Is there any news?’

  ‘Not really.’ I moved Sean’s jacket off the seat next to me, making a space.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let him swim.’ He came in the room but remained standing, running a hand through his hair in agitation. The space between us felt like torture. All at once, holding that safe, strong hand seemed like the only thing that would get me through this.

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘I’m his coach,’ he replied, voice cracking.

  ‘I’m his mother.’ Please come closer.

  ‘How can I help? What do you need?’

  You can pretend to be my friend again, until this is all over. Forget that one, stupid mistake and be my friend again.

  ‘I think you’ve probably done enough,’ Sean replied. He quickly dropped a pack of sandwiches on the battered coffee table and went to stand beside me, one arm on my shoulder. ‘This room is family only, buddy. If you don’t mind.’

  Nathan gave one small, tight nod and left.

  If I’d had the strength, I might have asked Sean to call him back. But, in a way, it was easier not having him here, since seeing him felt like a chisel in my heart, splitting it open to reveal the longing, the ache, the pointless, wretched love within.

  57

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day One Hundred and Eighty-Five

  A few minutes past midnight, the doctor informed us that the scan results were clear. I collapsed into Sean’s shoulder, the rush of relief rendering my bones to water. The doctor looked faintly perturbed when I asked when we could see Joey, having assumed we’d seen him hours ago, but I was more concerned about getting to him now than causing a fuss about prejudiced nursing staff, so I simply grabbed my bag and followed him up to the ward.

  Joey looked horrific. Pale green with purple shadows under dazed eyes. I ignored the wires and all the monitoring equipment, pushed aside my devastation and leant forwards to stroke his hair off his brow.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hnnn.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Did they say yes?’ His words were slow and barely comprehensible. ‘I got a PB in the freestyle.’

  ‘They said that they hope you’re resting up, not worrying about trials, and focusing on getting better.’

  My heart nearly shattered all over again with relief. I knew that brains were funny old organs, that Joey needed to be observed carefully because things could look fine and then suddenly not be, but oh my goodness. He was still Joey. I blotted my tears on his sheet and patted and stroked and kissed and fussed and did everything a thirteen-year-old boy does not want his mother to do, especially on a busy ward, and I didn’t stop until the nurse came and shooed us out.

  Sean and I stood in the corridor, elated, exhausted, too many other emotions to untangle. And I guessed – I hoped – it was for that reason only that after clinging to each other for a long time, laughing and crying and sniffing in a most undignified way, when we pulled back, Sean’s face only an inch above mine, he bent down, closed the gap between us and kissed me.

  And while I didn’t quite kiss him back, I didn’t move away, either. Instead, choosing to linger in the memory of a thousand kisses, when Sean’s touch was safety and sunshine and freedom and anticipation. The sweet, sharp passion of first love.

  I could yield to this. To a man who wanted me. To the family my son longed for. To security, and romance, and someone to have my back and rub my feet at the end of a bad day. Someone who lov
ed Joey almost as much as I did, who could share in the fears and the joys of parenting, and in doing so lighten the load a little. I could laugh with Sean, even learn to cry with him. Maybe to trust him again, with time.

  The temptation to take the path of least resistance was a powerful one. It felt so good to be held. So comforting to be with someone who I knew, and understood, and didn’t have to second-guess all the time.

  But when I pushed the past aside, ignored the tenuous promise of a happy-ever-after future, and forced myself to concentrate on the now, on Sean Mansfield’s lips on mine, his hot hands against the small of my back, a strand of his hair tickling my forehead, what I actually felt was:

  Not a lot.

  So I stood back, far enough away so that Sean’s hands eventually broke contact. I coerced my skittering gaze to meet his soft-focus smile and gooey eyes.

  ‘Wow,’ he breathed.

  I swallowed, decisively, and straightened out my hoodie. ‘No. Not wow. That was not okay. Especially now.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’ Sean had the gall to look confused.

  ‘Don’t ever try anything like that again.’

  Drained of courage and bravado – and after the day I’d had, who could blame me – I turned and ran, clattering down three flights of stairs rather than wait for a lift. As I hurried into the near-deserted main reception, trying to remember which car park I’d used, someone called my name.

  Skidding to a stop, I saw Cee-Cee coming towards me.

  ‘Come on, the car’s this way.’

  ‘I brought my own car,’ I managed to stammer.

  ‘I’ll drop you back in the morning, you can pick it up then.’

  ‘Cee-Cee…’

  ‘There are times to be independent and times to accept help from someone who cares. When you’ve had a total stinker of a day, that’s one of those times.’

  She strode off through the automatic doors, and, aware that Sean might appear at any moment, for want of no better option, I followed her.