‘What? Why?’
‘Because there’s enough gossip goes on in this village without people discovering that the once celebrated Amelia Piper is now an overweight, scaredy-cat recluse living in a tiny little house in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Mum, you’re ill, not a scaredy-cat recluse.’
‘I know that. But thank you.’
‘You could do with losing a bit of weight though.’
‘Sorry, what was that? “I volunteer to do all the washing up and tidy the kitchen, after bringing my beautiful mother a cup of tea”? Aw, thanks Joey, you’re the best!’
In the end, he washed up and I tidied the kitchen, answering more questions about my glory days, while avoiding mentioning the terrible ones that came after, laughing about the antics his friends had got up to in science that day. Team Piper. I felt the tension in my neck and shoulders soften and clutched tightly to the spark of hope that dared to believe we would be okay without our coach.
Stop Being a Loser Plan/Programme
Day Three/One
The next morning, after Joey had loped off to school, I sat and stared at the box containing the girl I once was until I found the nerve to have another go. After rescanning the notes I’d printed off the agoraphobia websites, I tried the back door this time. Opening out onto the enclosed garden, I reminded myself it was still part of my property – safe, secure, private. I stared defiantly at a point on the floor, as instructed, and attempted to lock my frenzied thoughts in neutral. Then, phone held ready, one millimetre at a time, I pushed down the handle and pulled the door towards me.
I made it about three inches. Slowly, slowly, I forced my eyes up to the crack in the door. Belligerently took in the narrow strip of the world outside – grass, still short from where Joey had mowed it the week before. The brown fence behind it, blue sky above. A thrush hopped into view, before cocking its head and moving on. I strained above the hammer of my heart to hear the distant sound of the traffic, a neighbour calling to a friend in the street. Dug deep, deep down to the long-buried grit that had won a FINA World Championships gold medal and held on to the door for dear life until I could squash the panic back behind my stomach. I opened up my lungs and found I could just about breathe. I even counted to ten, resisting the mounting pressure until, like a flood, the panic burst out again.
I clicked my phone, slammed the door, span around and collapsed on the mat, whimpering like an animal.
I glanced at the phone. ‘Eleven point two five seconds. A personal best,’ I gasped.
And yes, while the time to beat had been zero point zero zero seconds, it was a start. And doing what it took to beat my personal best was something I could be extraordinarily stubborn about.
I opened a new note app on my phone and tapped in the time and date.
This was it, day one. Watch out world, here I come!
It all seemed so obvious now. If there was one thing I knew how to do it was follow a training programme. I knew how to override stress and tiredness and intimidating opponents and do what had to be done. So, the Stop-Being-A-Loser-Plan had become a Stop-Being-A-Loser-Programme. Simples. I’d be cavorting around town in no time. I just needed a strong cup of tea and a good lie-down first.
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Two
Cee-Cee managed to stay away for three days. On the Saturday after I’d told her to get lost, Joey answered the front door, and she stalked in carrying several bags of groceries and sporting a nonchalant tilt to her head.
‘Thought you’d be running low on a few things.’ She opened the fridge door to find it packed.
‘I did an internet shop.’
‘Oh. Well. No need for that.’ She creased her brow, disapproving and perturbed.
‘Maybe not, but I did it anyway.’ I turned away, closing my eyes and silently counting to ten through gritted teeth.
‘Risky business. Online shopping. A stranger fingering your fruit. Palming the old veg off on you. Replacing organic granola with chocolate puffs of air as a substitute. And what a waste of a delivery fee.’
I ignored her, adding a grating of parmesan to the risotto I’d cooked.
‘What am I meant to do with all this then?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, Cee-Cee. Return it. Eat it yourself. Donate it to the food bank.’ I nodded at Joey to set the table.
‘Rather ungrateful!’
‘I’ve told you, it’s time I did my own shopping. Now, seeing as you’re already here, are you staying for dinner?’
