The List That Changed My Life

by Olivia Beirne

  To my annoyance, I feel my spirits dip slightly as the idea of Jack coming today falls out my mind. I shake my head crossly and power forward.

  This isn’t for Jack.

  It’s for Amy.

  *

  I push my legs into the ground and they tremble beneath me.

  I feel as if I have been running for one hundred hours.

  Every part of me is ice-cold, apart from my chest, which burns every time I suck in another intake of breath. The only thing that has kept me going is Amy. I have to get to the finish line. I can’t let her down.

  The run began with all of the runners bobbing forward in unison, but the crowds quickly parted when the real running started. I gave up trying to run with Sally. There was no way I was going to willingly try and keep up with her again.

  Upon reflection, it is simply unreasonable to expect me (a smaller than average sized person) to keep up with Sally (a taller than average sized person who I once caught eating a raw egg and couldn’t see what the big deal was when I almost threw up in the sink).

  Tamal and all of his friends from the hospital overtook me a while ago, and I don’t recognise any of the runners near me.

  I glance over my shoulder and lay my eyes on two women, chatting happily behind me.

  How on earth are they speaking whilst running? It is taking all of my internal strength just to breathe.

  ‘Miss?’

  I jolt in alarm as a lanky, blonde girl springs up next to me, her arms pumping alongside her and her blonde hair flailing in the wind. I smile as I recognise her from the running club. My eyes flit down to her knobbly knees in alarm; she must be freezing.

  ‘Miss Miller?’ the girl says again.

  Oh God. Does she want to talk to me? I don’t think I can! I can’t talk and run this race! But then I can’t ignore a child, can I? That just feels morally wrong.

  ‘Hi,’ I manage. My brain fumbles madly.

  Oh God. What is her name? What is this child’s name? What the bloody hell is this child’s—

  ‘Molly?’ I guess, as the name drops into my mind.

  Thankfully, the girl smiles. Thank God. How on earth did I remember that?

  ‘Nice to see you,’ I add, looking fixedly ahead to indicate that I cannot possibly manage a single word more and that we must now run in silence for the sake of my health.

  ‘I think we’re nearly finished!’ Molly chirps.

  I nod solemnly.

  We’d better be nearly finished. Please let us be nearly finished.

  ‘Where is your boyfriend, miss?’ Molly asks. ‘Why aren’t you running together?’

  My heart jars.

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I say stoutly.

  I see Molly’s brow crease out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I thought he was your boyfriend. Mr Orange.’

  ‘Lemon,’ I correct her, before I can stop myself.

  Molly continues to bound alongside me and I try to focus all my energy on the run as Jack’s face seeps back into my mind.

  Don’t think about Jack. He’s not here. He’s left. He’s not coming back, and that’s a good thing. That’s what you wanted.

  ‘I liked him,’ Molly quips.

  How is this child not out of breath? How is she managing to speak so conversationally? Why is it that everyone seems to be able to manage talking and running, whereas for me I feel as if I can only do it if I’m prepared to sacrifice my own life?

  ‘Did you not like him, miss?’ she probes.

  Why did Amy ever want to work with kids? She must be lying when she says that she misses them. I mean, this is unbearable.

  ‘No,’ I say tightly, ‘I didn’t.’

  And neither should you, I want to add. But I don’t. Don’t open that can of worms.

  ‘Oh,’ Molly shrugs, ‘that’s a shame.’

  I keep my attention focused ahead and I feel a surge of determination as I spot Dad and Amy, at the 9k sign.

  ‘Right,’ I say to Molly, feeling a new burst of energy spiralling up inside me, ‘see you in a bit, Molly.’

  I pat Molly on the arm and pound my feet into the ground, steering my way off the track towards Amy and Dad. Amy looks up at me in alarm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks as I reach her. ‘You’re nearly finished, Georgie, you can’t give up now.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I pant as I reach her.

  Amy opens her mouth to speak, but before she gets the chance I run behind her wheelchair and push her forward. Amy almost falls out of the chair in shock and grabs on to the armrest.

  ‘Georgia!’ she screams, as I charge back on to the track, pushing Amy in front of me. ‘Georgia! What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘We’re doing this together!’ I scream back, as we rejoin the track.

  The wheelchair rocks uncontrollably on the uneven path and I grip the handles determinedly with my icy fingers, a new fire of strength powering up inside me and filling every part of my body with a burst of scorching heat. My legs power into the ground as we storm forward together and Amy screams.

  ‘Georgie!’ she cries. ‘Georgie! Stop! You can’t do this!’

  ‘You always say,’ I shout back, ‘there’s no such thing as can’t!’

  I steer Amy round the bend and my eyes widen as I notice the finish line. We’re almost there, we’ve almost done it. My body burns under the strain of our combined weight and my chest convulses under the pressure.

  ‘We’re a team,’ I manage, using every ounce of energy left in me to force the words out, ‘we do everything together, Amy. Everything I have done has been because of you.’

  I keep my eyes focused on the finish line, thronged with people waving and cheering. We’re almost there.

  ‘We will work this next part out together,’ I yell through the screams.

  My legs hit the ground as we get closer to the crowd of people. My heart is racing and my chest is burning. I look down and notice that Amy has held up her hand; she twists it round and grips mine. I wrap my icy fingers around her gloved hand and power through as we are engulfed by the cheers of people and we burst through the finish line. My hearing is blocked by the wave of cheers that crash around us, and I grip Amy’s chair as my legs crumple beneath me. Amy’s hand tightens around mine and she turns her head to face me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, her face wet, ‘thank you.’

  I squeeze her hand back and notice Tamal appear. His face is flushed, and I feel a wave of emotion at the sight of him. Amy follows my gaze and the grip on my hand loosens as she spots Tamal. He steps towards her, his eyes shining. Slowly, he sinks on to one knee.

  I step backwards as Mum squeals uncontrollably and I hold on to my parents. Amy’s hands fly up to her face in shock. Tamal’s mouth moves, but his words are inaudible over the cries from the runners. Amy’s eyes are locked on to his as if they are the only people in the world. Eventually, she nods and Tamal dives forward and wraps his arms around her. Before I know it, Mum and Dad split apart from me and run towards Amy, wrapping their arms around them both.

  ‘Georgie?’

  I turn my head, suddenly realising my face is wet from tears that have seeped out of the corners of my stinging eyes. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, when my stomach drops.

  ‘Hi, Georgie.’

  It’s Bianca.

  She’s dressed head to toe in black, with a large expensive hat propped on top of her head. Her hair tumbles down her back and her lips are painted a shade of dark red. Her sharp eyes are dusted with glitter and, for once, they are round with worry.

  I blink back at her.

  What is she doing here?

  ‘Bianca,’ I manage, ‘hi.’

  There is a silence as we both stare at each other, and slowly the heat of the adrenaline that has propelled me to the finish line vanishes and I feel the icy wind nipping at the back of my neck.

  ‘I thought you’d left for your honeymoon,’ I hear myself say.


  Bianca’s face doesn’t move. ‘We’re leaving in an hour.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Bianca’s eyes are flitting between my face and the school field, and she is opening and closing her mouth as if she’s lost the ability to speak. Bianca is always so composed, I have never seen her like this.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she says eventually. ‘The run seems to be a huge success.’

  I hold up my chin as I feel a rush of pride flood over me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘I donated,’ she adds quickly, ‘via the page. Sally showed me the link.’

  I nod, my body tensing with dislike.

  Good old Sally.

  ‘And,’ Bianca continues, ‘the branding looks very good. The design is superb.’

  I stare back at her. To my annoyance I feel a wave of pleasure at her comments.

  What does she want?

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again. I hear Amy laugh loudly and I turn my head. ‘If you don’t mind, I need to go. So I’ll—’

  ‘Georgie!’ Bianca cries, stepping forward as I turn to leave. ‘Georgie, wait.’

  I turn to face her and feel the icy chill creeping down my back and gripping on to my clammy skin.

  ‘I want to apologise to you,’ she says, ‘for the way I treated you. Jack explained to me what happened. Your designs are really good. I think the client would have liked them.’

  I blink back at her.

  She’s apologising?

  ‘I’m sorry I reacted the way I did,’ she finishes.

  I look back at her blankly. Her face is twitching and her eyes are wide circles, deeply shadowed with worry. To my surprise, I feel a pang of sympathy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, lost for words. I look back over my shoulder and catch Amy’s eye; she beckons me over. I look back to Bianca. ‘I really need to—’

  ‘And,’ Bianca interrupts quickly, ‘and I want you to come back and work for me. If you’d like to.’

  I stare back at her, stumped. My stomach flips.

  She’s offering me my job back? My old life?

  I look into Bianca’s face, and then pull my eyes back to Amy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate you coming here and apologising, but I can’t come back.’

  ‘Is it the pay?’ Bianca blurts desperately. ‘We can up your pay.’

  I try to control my mouth dropping open in shock. She’s offering me a pay rise?

  ‘Sorry, Bianca,’ I say, looking back over towards Amy, ‘but there are some things that are more important than money. Thank you for coming—’ I reach forward and touch her arm. ‘I really appreciate it. Make sure you enter the raffle!’ I add, as I run back towards Amy and leave Bianca, standing alone, flummoxed.

  I reach Amy and she flings her left hand in front of my face. I grab her hand and stare at the sparkling ring.

  ‘Look!’ she cries, her eyes streaming. ‘Look!’

  I throw my head back and laugh, my fingers curling around Amy’s hand. My heart feels as if it could burst.

  ‘I know,’ I manage, ‘I’m so happy.’

  Amy squeezes my hand and cranes her head around me. ‘Who was that you were speaking to?’

  I look back over and see Bianca tapping at her phone.

  ‘Bianca,’ I say. ‘She offered me my old job back.’

  Amy gasps. ‘Wow!’ she cries. ‘Georgie!’

  ‘I said no,’ I say quickly. ‘I turned it down.’

  Amy blinks at me, her face astounded.

  ‘Well,’ she says eventually, ‘what are you going to do now?’

  I shrug, feeling a wave of hysteria crash over me.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I laugh. ‘Whatever you want to do.’

  ‘Georgia?’

  I tear my eyes away from Amy as Mum bustles over with three women.

  ‘Georgia,’ Mum says again, ‘this is Joanna from the MS Society. She’d like to speak with you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Georgie’s List

  Have a vindaloo on Brick Lane.

  Take a Salsa class.

  Do a skydive.

  Go on a Tinder date.

  Cycle around Hyde Park.

  Run 10k.

  Make the perfect Victoria sponge.

  Go skinny-dipping in the sea.

  Try skateboarding at Southbank.

  Show Bianca your designs!

  I drop three sticks of butter into my mixing bowl with a thud.

  Right. Butter measured correctly. Tick.

  My eyes scan down the recipe, staring back up at me from Amy’s iPad. I can do this. I will do this. My birthday is tomorrow, and I will not be defeated by a bloody cake of all things.

  I mean, it’s a cake! It has to be easy. Surely, that’s where the expression ‘piece of cake’ comes from?

  Hmmm. Why don’t I ever use that expression? Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. They say, dress for the job you want. Maybe it’s also, speak for the job you want? Maybe if I used the expression all the time then I would actually be a terrific baker.

  Well, from now on I shall endeavour to slip that expression into any conversation I can. Perhaps I will do so tomorrow! Maybe this cake will be the making of me, and I am secretly an incredible baker. I shall buy a polka-dot apron and a Cath Kidston purse and a big chef’s hat.

  Although, Mary Berry doesn’t wear a chef’s hat, does she? I don’t want to look silly.

  Okay, forget the chef’s hat.

  Then tomorrow, I will lay my perfect cake on the table and everybody will gasp in amazement. They will turn to me in shock and cry, ‘How did you do it?’ and I will say, ‘Oh this? It was a piece of cake!’

  And then everybody will laugh and I will become such a baking sensation that it will be my catchphrase.

  My eyes scan the recipe. Right, add the sugar.

  I pick up the bag of sugar and tip the contents out experimentally.

  The run was three days ago now, and we’re just about getting back to normal. I can almost sit down without groaning like a pre-menstrual pig, so that’s something. The event was bigger than I could ever have imagined. We raised over £30,000.

  Just thinking about this causes my insides to squirm in delight.

  £30,000!

  Everyone loved it too! A story was run in the local paper, and people were donating online whilst listening to the radio. People started asking me if we were going to organise another run. I didn’t know what to say.

  Then, if that wasn’t mad enough, me and Amy were approached by the head of the MS Society. She asked the same question. Then she asked how we’d feel about running their events. I tried to argue that I didn’t know anything about organising events, but the people around me proved me wrong pretty quickly.

  Cream together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy.

  I scowl at the recipe. Pale and fluffy sounds like an anaemic duckling, not a cake mixture. I push my spoon against the bowl obediently and feel a zing of satisfaction as the ingredients blend together.

  I still don’t know why Amy put this on the list. For starters, she can easily make a cake. I’ve seen her do it! Nothing about her MS restricts her from baking.

  Right, I think that’s enough ‘creaming’. My eyes flit down to the recipe.

  Beat in the eggs.

  I pick up the eggs and crack them into the bowl; they gloop in and sink into the mixture as I pick up the whisk.

  Amy and Tamal are out collecting the wedding rings. Finally, for the first time since Amy’s diagnosis, she seems to be happy. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happier.

  The whisk spins impressively and I watch as the ingredients ricochet against each other.

  Fold in the flour.

  I put the whisk down and look over at the large bag of flour, slumped over in the corner. I pick it up with both hands.

  Natalie was devastated when I told her I wasn’t going to come back to Lemons. I even think Sally was upset too. I really think that—


  WOOMPH!

  I jump as the bag of flour flops over into the bowl and a great white cloud puffs in front of my eyes. I blink madly as the flour clings on to my eyelashes and attempts to suck the moisture from my exposed eyeballs.

  Argh! How the hell did that happen?

  I drop the bag of flour crossly and wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing flour into my hair. I tip the flour into the mixing bowl aggressively and flick the whisk back on.

  Urgh. Stupid flour. It was all going so well! Why can’t I cook a bloody cake? What the hell is wrong with me?

  I chuck the mixture into the baking tray and shove it into the oven.

  Stupid cake. Stupid Amy. Why can’t I do it? Why can’t I do anything?

  I slump down on to the kitchen floor and hang my head in my hands, feeling a familiar emotion creep up inside me.

  I am happy. I keep telling myself that: I am happy. The event was a huge success. We raised an enormous amount of money for an important cause. I was offered a job out of it, doing something that really matters. I am happy. I am.

  My head lolls in my hands as the back of my throat burns.

  I’m happy that Amy is happy. That is the most important thing. I am happy for her. I am happy that she is engaged, and that she has found love. But it also reminds me that I haven’t, and I’m not even close.

  I tried signing back up to Tinder and going through the swipes, but it’s just not the same. I connected with Jack, really connected with him. Or I thought I did.

  I look up as I hear the thump of post hitting the doormat. I screw up my eyes and take a deep breath that rattles through my slumped body.

  Come on now. You have plenty to be thankful for. The future is really exciting. You are going into the new year with Amy by your side, doing something really important. You should be happy. You are happy.

  I pull myself to my feet and walk towards the post.

  I am happy.

  I turn back towards the kitchen. Obviously, I never get any post as I don’t actually live here.