In my capacity as a professional writer, I had cobbled together a passable speech. It wasn’t quite ‘I have a dream’, but seeing as most people would be too busy ogling for signs of my mental disintegration rather than actually listening, it would do.
* * *
The day before, Easter Sunday, Mel persuaded me to go along to a sunrise church service at a local farm. It had been a gloriously hot weekend, and even at that hour, the air was rich with the promise of spring sunshine, heady with the scent of blossom from the trees above, and the dewy grass beneath. We sang along with the nesting birds, about life, and hope, and all things new. About power, and courage, and victory won. Words that came back to me like a long-forgotten native language.
I thought about how far I had come, in two-hundred and twenty-seven days. HowmuchI had done. My life had become unrecognisable. I’d dared to hope the Programme might bring me greater freedom. I’d never imagined it would give me friends.
So why had I stopped?
Because it got hard? Every damn step had been gut-grindingly hard. Opening the door for eleven point two five seconds had been my personal best, at one point.
Because my coach wasn’t there to hold my hand any more? I was supposed to be finally living as an adult, not a victim, no longer expecting other people to sort out my problems for me. Accepting help and support, yes, but taking responsibility for myself. If I couldn’t do this without Nathan, there was no point in doing it at all.
Oh, for goodness’ sake! Of course I would go to the triathlon. I would smile, shake hands, cut the ribbon with a stupid pair of giant scissors, give my so-so speech and hand out the trophy to my old team, the Larkabouts.
It was time.
63
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Eight – The Final Challenge
The morning of the triathlon, with Joey at his dad’s, I was woken up by my usual trespassers letting themselves into the kitchen. Waiting until the smell of coffee, eggs and nervous excitement wafted into my bedroom, I pulled on a hoodie and my old leggings and went to face them.
‘Come on, Ames, get yerself a proper competitor’s brekkie!’ Mel beamed, beneath blue and white face paint and blue plaits.
‘Only I’m not competing.’
‘Well, you never know.’
Too frazzled to argue, I ate my brekkie, changed into a smartish new dress and faffed about with my hair until Dani frogmarched me to her car.
‘Dani, is that my swimsuit in your bag?’
Dani shrugged, the essence of nonchalance. ‘In case of emergency. Selena might have eaten too many Easter eggs and need a bigger size.’
* * *
The swimming centre was abuzz already, a good hour before the race began. Pop-up food stalls selling healthy snacks and their own versions of a competitor’s breakfast lined one edge of the sports field, with two more sides full of stands advertising virtually every sports club and fitness class in the county. Kommando Kim was leading a mass warm-up in the middle of it all, browbeating members of the public, from toddlers to pensioners, into joining in, using her delightful combination of intimidation and verbal abuse. I’d seen children in tears, and some of the parents were in an even worse state than their kids.
Not quite holding Mel or Dani’s hands, but finding enough comfort and support in their company all the same, I tried to walk tall and keep my breathing steady as we made our way through the crowd. We found the rest of the Larks clucking and preening their blue and white feathers near the outdoor tennis court. To my enormous relief, Audrey was there. She offered me a small smile and a nod.
With Nathan nowhere to be seen, Marjory took over as captain and filled us in. ‘There are five teams competing – a men’s football team, men’s cycling club, a mixed athletics club and a team from the county council leisure department, plus us. No swimming club team, so that’s where we’re most likely to have the advantage. I suggest we aim to come out of the first leg with as big a lead as possible.’
‘What?’ Isobel screwed her face up. ‘I think a more realistic aim would be to not come last. We’re the only all-women team, that football team are all under thirty and have you seen the thighs on the cycling club?’
‘Uh, hello?’ Bronwyn retorted. ‘Firstly, way to have a winning attitude. Secondly, being an all-women team is not a disadvantage, what we might lack in brute strength, we make up for with grit, guts and girl power. Thirdly, Olympic champion, world champion!’
‘Uh, I’m not actually competing,’ I said, horrified that everyone didn’t already know, despite chickening out of telling them myself.
‘Yeah, whatever. My mistake.’ Bronwyn winked, most unsubtly, and a coil of suspicion tightened round my spine.
‘Right, any questions?’ Marjory asked. ‘All hydrated, carb loaded and warmed up?’
They all were.
‘Right, let’s head over to the pool.’
