Nathan beamed, suddenly, all white teeth and eyes like stainless steel.
‘What?’
‘Amelia Piper, calling me coach.’
‘Keep being nice to me and I might sit with you at lunch sometime.’
We chatted for a few more minutes about nothing much, Nathan only going home once it was clear the shockwaves of the past half hour had settled, leaving me with about enough strength to drag myself upstairs, brush my teeth and crawl into bed. Maybe other women would feel ashamed to wake up in last night’s clothes, face a smeary mess and hair smelling of Prosecco, but as a one-time-only thing, partying past midnight was a whole step up on the Programme. I showered, wolfed down a mountain of tea and toast and spent the next six hours in full-on information-processing mode. Trying to spend more time focusing on the fact that Nathan knew who I was, rather than replaying over and over again that I was captivating, he was in awe, first major crush. That, combined with AS SOON AS YOU OPENED YOUR EYES, I WAS SEVENTEEN AGAIN, equalled feelings that didn’t only break Nathan’s rules, they stomped them into smithereens.
40
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Three
One side effect of being mentally imprisoned within your own house for over two years is an acute case of talking to minibeasts, television characters, inanimate objects and, inevitably, myself. Another, I realised the week before Christmas, is an ability to stretch a modest income from one payday to the next. On top of my usual outgoings – rent, bills, Joey’s mammoth calorie requirements, his membership of various sports clubs and associated equipment costs – I now piled on my own running club fees, the additions to my wardrobe and shoe-rack, plus multiple orders of pancakes, fancy coffees and more variations than I’d have thought possible of eggs and avocado. Add on drinks at the Christmas party and my night out with Nathan and by the time I finished the Programme, complete with full-on outside life, Amelia Piper would be reduced to selling her story to the likes of Moira Vanderbeek to avoid plummeting into the washed-up-celebrity bankruptcy cliché.
I clicked shut my online bank statement, booted out a horrible thought about Sean and child support, then listened again to a saved voice message from my employer, Grant Winlock, who ran the bid company I worked for.
As one of the most productive and long-standing bid writers at Winlock Tenders, I had been offered the position of senior bid writer several times. One of the current three senior writers was retiring in the New Year. The job was mine if I wanted it. Oh, and providing I could attend an informal interview to demonstrate my ability to present myself to major corporate clients as a non-gibbering wreck in the flesh.
It would be a significant pay rise. Enough to pay for a whole lot of power breakfasts to fuel my meteoric rise as a business professional.
I had no doubt that I could talk the talk as a senior bid writer. I had managed more than a few conference calls and video meetings without embarrassing myself (apart from the time I knocked my laptop, revealing my ratty old pyjama bottoms to the director of a flashy PR company). But could I walk the walk? Bus the bus? Catch the train to meetings with high-level management staff, march into boardrooms wearing a swanky suit and swing my laptop bag onto the conference table as if I belonged there?
I had until the end of January to decide whether or not asking Sean for financial help was preferable to a nice promotion.
I opened the front door and stared at the December grey until a gust of wind caught my hair, sending a shudder through my bones. I whipped the door closed. Swore. Counted to twenty, focused on my breathing, opened the door again and then shut it, this time at what I hoped comprised a normal, unhurried, well-balanced person’s speed. One day soon I would step out there into the midday sun.
One day.
Soon.
I emailed my boss and told him I would think about it over Christmas.
41
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Six
It was the best and the worst day of the year: 21 December, the shortest day. I snuck in an extra-long run, enjoyed a full pot of tea at the café and even ambled home afterwards. By half-past four I was out again, calling in at the bakery, the newsagents and the library, on a glorious, glittering roll. I strode home, dumped my bags on the kitchen table, waved off Joey for the school Christmas party and whizzed back out to meet Mel at the chapel near the square to watch Tiff and Taylor perform in a deliciously dimly lit carol service.
Check me out –whizzing.
Singing.
Popping back to Mel’s afterwards for chilli-smothered nachos and the noisiest game of charades ever.
Walking home.
I had smashed the winter solstice. But tucked up in bed later, blissfully opening one of my new library books, I realised with a start that the shortest day meant tomorrow my confinement would start lengthening again.
Where would I be in six months’ time, on the summer solstice?
Cowering inside until ten every night?
Pretending that I was fine sitting in my own garden, rather than trapped like an animal in their zoo enclosure?
