25
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Six
Sunday, I was jolted awake at eight-thirty by the doorbell. After a moment’s consideration, I decided the best course of action was to bury my head under the pillow and go back to sleep.
The doorbell rang again, a few seconds later. Followed by a knock and, to my indignation, what sounded like a vigorous rattle of the handle. Huffing and chuntering, yet baffled enough to investigate, I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pyjamas and cautiously descended the stairs.
I saw a head-high blueberry cloud through the shadow of the glass, a much taller, darker blob beside it.
‘Amy? You in?’ Two hands poked the letter box open, and an upside-down mouth somehow managed to speak into the gap, less than a foot above the ground. ‘It’s Mel and Dani. From the Larks.’
Well, yes, I had figured that one out, thanks, Mel. Could I sneak back upstairs and pretend I was out? Ignore them, with a who cares if I’m in or not, it’s eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and I’m having a lie-in for once…
Did I want to do that? The boulder of self-pity I was dragging around with me voted yes, make them go away. Why should I have to face strong warrior women who rocked at life, who met troubles and suffering and just waded right on through? I was a crappy mess, and I didn’t need that being rubbed in my puffy face on my day off.
But before I had a chance to self-sabotage the situation, the front door popped open and Mel strode through.
‘What?’ I garbled.
‘Amy! There you are.’ Mel grinned at me from the bottom of my stairs. ‘We weren’t sure if that flashy car outside meant you had company. But seeing them pyjamas, I’m assuming it’s a no. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’
Excuse me?
They bustled down the tiny hall into the kitchen, Dani calling, ‘Are you up to eggs? Or we’ve got raisin toast. I brought a selection of pastries too. Nathan said not to get granola, so it’s all the unhealthy stuff.’
‘I…’
‘Goodness, it’s nippy in here. I’ll get the fire on.’
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, tried to slap a bit of life back into my face and endeavoured to remember if this was actually my house.
Once I’d established that, yes, this was my home, and no, I hadn’t invited Mel and or Dani into it, I forged confidently into the breach to get some answers.
‘Nathan said you ain’t been well. You’re a single mum without a Gordon, or a Jordan, or a mum around,’ Mel shrugged, spatula in hand, as if it was obvious. ‘So, we stocked up at the Cup after running and ’ere we are.’
‘Most people wait to be invited in.’
‘Oh. Honey,’ Dani laughed. ‘We are not most people.’
‘How did you open the door?’
Mel winked, giving the spatula a wave. ‘We’ve been around, picked up some skills.’
So once again, Joey woke to find these self-appointed aunties in his kitchen, one of them cracking eggs, the other ironing school shirts, despite my protestations that, a) Joey could iron his own shirts and, b) I was fine and really didn’t need their help.
‘Joey should be saving his strength for the gala,’ Dani tutted. ‘And he will be exhausted when he comes home.’
‘And, no offence, but you need someone’s help. Might as well be ours,’ Mel added, sliding an enormous omelette onto a plate for Joey. ‘This kitchen looked worse than the inside of my wheelie bin when we got ’ere.’
I would have been offended at that, but after my three-day slob-fest, it was probably true. And I was simply too tired to bother feeling insulted.
‘Right,’ Mel said, once she’d seen Joey off, ‘we can give yer bathroom a good going-over, change yer bedding and whatnot. Or, we can stick on a film, ’ave a good laugh, a good cry and eat the rest of them pastries. See if that ’as you a bit more like yerself.’
At that, I decided for us by immediately going for the good cry. Very good, in terms of number of tears, intensity of blubbering, volume of retching sobs and how much better I felt afterwards.
‘I’m terrified thisismyself,’ I’d wheezed. ‘I think I’m doing better. So much better. Like this is the new me. But then I act like an idiot and the old me comes back. What if the old me is the real me, and she’ll always be there, just waiting to spring out again? I can’t get rid of her, and I hate her wimping guts.’
