‘No.’ Sean spoke softly. ‘I meanstay.’
Something about his voice made me look up. ‘You mean… stay the night?’
His eyes shone as a smile began to creep across his mouth.
I stared harder. ‘What? What did you mean then?Longer?’
The smile broke into a grin.
‘It’s going to be bad enough when I plod in fifth or something as it is, but I need to at least look like I’ve tried.’
Sean sat up quickly, taking both my hands in his. ‘If you can’t win a medal, why put yourself through that? The pressure of the build-up, the disappointment, having to answer stupid, obvious questions live on TV. Cee-Cee and your parents acting like you’ve letthemdown. Let the squad down. The whole country! This is your life. You’re the one who’s made all the sacrifices, put in all the work… just because you wanted it before, doesn’t mean you have to go through with it now.’
‘Ten years, Sean. I’ve got two weeks left. I can’t throw all that away.’
‘You were a kid then. You’re a woman now. Dreams change. People grow up, want different things.’ He stopped smiling. ‘Don’t you? Isn’tthiswhat you want?’
‘Yes. But it can wait a few weeks, can’t it? If I bomb the Games, then I’ll have the perfect excuse to retire…’
‘But why go at all? Right now, this situation is making no one happy. Going to Athens and coming in last won’t make it any better.’
I had to admit there was some truth in his words. Although I still cared enough to feel riled at the suggestion I’d come last, it would be an understatement to say that all was not well behind the bright smiles and clichéd sound bites of Team Amelia. While doing my best to alleviate suspicion by turning up on time and nodding my head in the right places, my heart had left the pool and firmly set up home in Sean’s grotty student digs. And this, along with the guilt, the embarrassment, of my slipping times, the arguments, the scrutiny, the strain of constantly lying, the pressure of supposedly carrying the hopes of a nation (who, looking back I can see mostly weren’t all that bothered), feeling like a total fake: all this combined into a swirling cauldron of resentment and anger and hurt that only found peace inside this house, in this person’s arms.
I was buckling. Drowning. Heading for certain doom.
Could I really just walk away? Justnot go?
Okay, I’d given ten years to this. One goal, one hope, one dream. But did that mean I had to go through with it for the sake of it? For everyone else’s sake?
It took another week of agonising. The lack of sleep and monstrous inner turmoil didn’t exactly help my training times. One day, a local news reporter was waiting outside the pool for my comment on a local man who had got a life-size tattoo of me wearing an Olympic gold medal on his back. I blurted something about how amazing it was to have such fantastic support, then barely managed to make it back inside before dissolving into tears.
I was eighteen years old. I had no one to talk to about this except for a business student I’d known for three months, who was more than a little biased. While I dithered and panicked, ranted and cried, as everything I’d known, the person I thought I was, began to crumble, he planned a future for us that sounded idyllic.
In the end, I didn’t walk away because of anything as selfish as my own happiness, or anything as pathetic as a teenage infatuation. It had become a choice between getting on a plane to Athens, or keeping my sanity. It was the only way to protect my mind and body from full-on implosion, to save my poor, tender self from a force I was not equipped to handle.
Would I have been okay, had I not got on that bus and met Sean? Would I have made it through all the pressure and the intense build-up intact, and brought home the gold? Or at least the pride in knowing I gave it my all? Would I have gone on to have a glittering career, smashed it at Beijing, even London? Ended up a sports pundit, appearing onStrictly Come Dancingor gone on to train the next British champion?
With the benefit of hindsight and maturity, I can safely say I haven’t a clue.
What I do know is that I wouldn’t have Joey.
So it’s no contest, obviously.
* * *
I gave Joey the PG version: pressure got to me, lap times started to drop, fell in love, ran away.
Not my proudest moment, telling my son that I bunked off the Olympic Games at the last minute. Cee-Cee missed the plane waiting for me to show up. My parents reported me missing to the police. Thanks to all the recent cringey publicity stunts, the press went bonkers: had I been murdered by a rival, kidnapped for ransom money, held hostage by a crazed fan? One of my commercial sponsors offered a ridiculous reward for news of any sightings, adding to the frenzy.
Hiding away in Sean’s family’s holiday cottage in Devon, it was five days before I realised what was going on.
Unable to face calling Cee-Cee in my current state, I made a hideous, horrendous, heart-breaking phone call to my parents.
In response, my mum and dad, or should I say my manager and agent, wrote and published a book, filed a lawsuit and publicly disowned me, their daughter.
They never spoke to me again.
* * *
