My conclusion? I was going to keep pressing on, working harder, fighting through and putting one trembling foot in front of the other. I would keep on pounding my way up and down those glorious hills, keep breathing in the fresh, autumn air and not let any journalists, ancient ex-boyfriends or anyone else stop me. This time, it would be different.
* * *
After running away from my Olympic dream, I spent five blissful days in Sean’s family summer home in Devon before the bubble burst. Living on cheese sandwiches, young lust and the sea breeze, we swam, slept, sunbathed and did a whole lot of other things beginning with s.
The mistake we made was venturing out into the local village for ice cream one afternoon, not for one second imagining the media circus currently spearheading the ‘Search for Amelia’, until I spied the headlines in the newspaper.
Sean bought six different papers and we scurried home, our 99s dripping onto the pages as reality sank in.
Calling my parents was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I dialled the number on the cottage landline with trembling hands, my breath frozen in my chest, stammering so badly, I could barely get out an explanation. Their reaction didn’t make things any better. ‘What the hell are you going to do now? No one will ever trust you again. You’ll be bankrupt by the time the sponsors’ lawyers have finished with you.’
Yowch.
Their solution? Get a PR firm on the case, sell some story about an illness, or a mental breakdown, whatever, that wasn’t important, get myself on the next plane to Athens, win the gold, all is forgiven, and there’ll probably be a film deal in it for us to boot.
My stammering counter-offer of a sincere apology for all the time and trouble, a brief explanation of the reasons behind my disappearance, paying the sponsors what I owed them under the contract terms and leaving it at that did not go down well.
I hung up the phone while my mother was mid-screech, hands shaking so hard that I couldn’t place it back in the receiver. Curling up in Sean’s lap, I filled him in on what my parents had said, the weight of my actions starting to sink in.
Sean shook his head in disgust. ‘What they really mean is what the hell aretheygoing to do now. Did they even ask if you were okay, or if you needed any help? Did they stop screaming for one moment and actually listen to what you had to say?’
He was right. But they were still my parents, and I loved them, needed them, and prayed that they would forgive me. That is, until they called me selfish, self-obsessed and ungrateful on breakfast TV. After that, I turned off the television, hired Sean’s brother to act as my solicitor and got a job working in the local café under a fake name.
Six days after my parents publicly disowned me, the paparazzi found us, and the nightmare siege began. When Sean’s parents realised what was happening, they threw us out of the cottage. We holed up in an apartment in Exeter, but for days, every time I left the building I was followed, photographed, bombarded with questions, jostled and hassled and, on one occasion, knocked off the bike I was riding.
Already on the brink of a breakdown, utterly adrift in my isolation and despair, I retreated inside, hunkering down behind drawn curtains. My anxiety flourished, and my utter loathing and fear of journalists grew with it.
Which is why, right then, I would have preferred a crazed pervert to be lurking inside that car, rather than Moira Vanderbeek. I would not be returning her calls.
28
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixty-Nine
Wednesday, to avoid the whirlwind of my own thoughts sucking me into despair, I skidded through the frost to join the Larks again. Mel was at home with her daughter, Tiff, who’d broken her collarbone thanks to two older brothers, a chestnut tree and a game of dare.
Because the pavements were icy, Nathan insisted we stick to a brisk walk until we reached the more sheltered woods. This meant that for the first time I was able to keep up (just about) with Marjory, the oldest member of the group.
We chatted for a while about our respective families, my work as a bid writer and her former job as a PE teacher, making the most of having enough breath to make conversation.
And then Marjory sucked all the air out of my lungs with one horrifying question:
‘Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.’
It took about ten paces before I could shut my anxiety up long enough to formulate a reply. It was a good one:
‘Um. No.’
Marjory kept her eyes straight ahead, arms pumping. ‘I don’t mean from around here. Are you well known?’
C.R.A.P.
I stumbled on a non-icy patch of pavement, arms pinwheeling as erratically as my thoughts. For half a second, I contemplated allowing myself to smack face-first onto the asphalt in order to avoid answering, but Marjory’s super-strong hand caught one elbow while her arm braced my back, righting me.
‘Okay?’ she asked, one eye narrowed.
‘Yes, fine. Must have hit a patch of ice.’
