‘I will. Thank you.’ The frown deepened.
‘Then let’s change the subject.’ I talked a big talk, all cool and calm and collected, standing up to the woman who’d domineered me for so long. Pretending that asking her to give the key back didn’t mean I meant to cut off all contact altogether. But, oh my goodness, as Cee-Cee and Joey chatted about the football season, his history project, how the heck she’d never mentioned the tiny matter of his mother being a world champion swimmer, my hands shook so hard, I could barely scoop rice onto my fork.
* * *
At eighteen years old, my life consisted of three things: swim, sleep, show-up-and-smile. The Athens Olympics were fast approaching, and I was the only hope the UK had of a woman winning a swimming gold medal since 1960. My manager and agent (once known as my parents, before being infected with the fame bug) were treating the run-up to the Games like an American presidential campaign, doing whatever they could to stir up media interest in between training sessions. I’d chopped ribbons with giant scissors, rabbited away on radio phone-ins and even fumbled my way through a couple of television appearances.
Cee-Cee was not impressed. I had become a puppet, my coach tugging on one arm, my parents-slash-entourage greedily pulling the other. Following orders, cringing beneath the verbal bullets whizzing between the opposing factions of Team Piper, the weight of expectation grew with every feature article, every jealous look from my squad. I was lost, emotionally exhausted, utterly strung out and desperate for some time to myself. If I still existed underneath all that pressure.
So, when I stepped out into the May sunshine following a particularly brutal early morning session where Cee-Cee had used callipers to show the team my microscopic gain in body fat, instead of heading for the waiting taxi, I turned in the opposite direction.
A shiny, happy, turquoise bus was pulling up to the nearby stop, and before I could think about the consequences, I hopped on.
‘Where to, duck?’ The driver shut the doors with a hiss.
‘End of the line, please.’
‘Two quid.’
‘Ah. Right.’ My ridiculous, micromanaged lifestyle meant I’d not even considered the need for money. After an awkward pause, I made a weak pretence at searching my tracksuit pockets for non-existent change.
‘Ain’t got all day. D’ya wanna ticket or not?’
‘Um…’
‘Come on, mate.’ A guy called out from a few rows back. ‘You can give a free ride to a future Olympic champion.’
‘Eh?’ The driver swivelled back to glower at the man, probably only a year or two older than me, who winked at me from beneath artfully mussed up blond hair.
‘It’s Amelia Piper? The swimmer?’ He fixed dancing blue eyes on mine as he spoke.
‘I don’t give a toss if it’s the bloody Queen. The fare’s two quid. Otherwise, the pavement’s that way.’
The doors hissed back open. Dropping my gaze, I wondered how far my manager was prepared to take the ‘any publicity is good publicity’ theory, and whether that included being thrown off a bus.
‘Here.’ A hand brushed my wrist, and I turned to see the man holding out a paper ticket, his face creased in a smile. ‘To the end of the line.’
Mumbling my thanks, I slunk into a seat near the back, but he came and sat down next to me.
‘So, Amelia Piper, what’s waiting for you at the end of the line?’
I’d grown used to strangers acting as though they knew me, expecting autographs and photos as their right, and had grown wary of people overstepping. But even if this guy hadn’t just saved me, his smiling eyes and soft voice made me want to answer.
‘I don’t care, as long as it’s not a big rectangle of water, or another load of questions about how it feels to have the nation’s hopes riding on my shoulders.’
‘How about an ice cream and a wander up to the castle?’
‘What?’
He leant over a little closer, dropping his voice even further. ‘I meant with me, if that wasn’t clear.’
‘I don’t usually wander about with strange men.’
His smile widened to a grin, and, honestly, every muscle I’d been hammering into solid rock melted like butter.
‘Sean Mansfield. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amelia Piper.’
Oh boy. If I was still capable of rational thought, I might have realised that what was waiting at the end of this particular line was a whole lot of trouble…
