I leant forwards in my chair. ‘I’ll spell it out for you, then. Number one, stop calling Joey “Champ”. Number two, stop filling his head with crazy scenarios about films and gold medals. You’re encouraging him to give up his friends, his freedom, his fun and any chance of a normal future for some ridiculous fantasy which, in reality, would be nothing like you make it out to be.’
‘I’m encouraging him to go for his dream. Helping him believe in himself.’
‘No. You aren’t. You’re making it appear as though you will love him more and be more proud of him if he’s a successful swimmer. And right now, his biggest dream is to have his father think he’s a son worth having. He will do anything to earn your approval, and you’re convincing him that’s conditional on him fulfilling this preposterous ideal.’
Sean went grey. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.
‘And what makes me really angry. What I’m particularly baffled about, is that you saw what the power of parental pressure did to me. You hated the whole culture of competitiveness and expectations and giving up everything just to be able to splash through some water a tenth of a second faster than anyone else.’
‘I think we’ve established that at twenty-one I was a total arse.’
‘You hated swimming, Sean. You never once saw me in the pool. Never experienced the thrill and the beauty of watching the human body pushed to the limits of its power, the glory of someone giving their all.’
‘I saw you swim. And it was all that and more. Breathtaking. You were magnificent. But you had no one looking out for you. They all saw you as a gold medal, not a person. That will never happen to Joey. With our support, he can do it the right way.’
‘You saw me swim?’
‘You were so focused, you’d never have spotted me.’ He pulled a wry smile. ‘I, on the other hand, could not take my eyes off you.’
A vague memory of something Cee-Cee had said at Christmas floated to the surface. ‘Did you talk to Cee-Cee?’
He ducked his head, tried to look contrite. ‘Yeah. A couple of times. I wanted her to understand how you were struggling. See if I could convince her to back off a bit, or at least talk to you about it. I was young, stupid and smitten enough to think that an Olympic coach would take advice from a business studies student. I didn’t want you to have to miss the Olympics. I just didn’t think it was worth your soul.’
‘Right. For the record, everything I said about Joey still stands. I am still extremely annoyed about it. But, well, thanks for trying. Talking to Cee-Cee is one thing. Going back for seconds is pretty impressive. I retrospectively appreciate you doing that.’
‘You’re very welcome. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scars.’
Oh, damn your charming, oh so soft and caring blue eyes, Sean Mansfield. You are not going to get the better of me this time.
49
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Forty-Three
That Sunday, Sean drove Joey and me to a gala in Loughborough. A TV advert family: mum and dad in the front, son in the back, unspoken issues jammed in all over the place. Internally, my anxiety pranced about, twirling all the horrible memories and unresolved emotions like a feather boa. On the outside, I was bringing my A game. My back-from-the-dead, undisputed-superior-parent-on-every-count game.
Walking into the spectator area was like a smack in the face with a flipper. It was like the energy dial of the training sessions cranked up to max, with a flickering montage of memories in time to the buzz.
I clutched at the edge of Sean’s jacket, interrupting his move towards the last two empty seats on the front row.
‘Not here.’
‘It’s the best view!’ He glanced back at me, briefly, then stopped and took a proper look. ‘Right. Up there?’
I nodded, mute, clinging onto the jacket until we’d shuffled along the second to back row into the far corner. It wasn’t a warm, strong, comforting hand, but it kept me upright.
‘Better?’ Sean asked, brow creasing.
‘I just need a minute.’ Or ten.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head onto my chest. Once my breathing had steadied, I gradually allowed the echo of competitors’ voices and the warm-up splashes to sink in, recalibrating to the muggy, chlorine-drenched atmosphere of my native home. I was gearing up to add sight to the sounds and smells, when a whistle blast sent me reeling again.
Come on now, Amy. You can do this. One eye at a time if you have to.
Snapping both of them open, I firmly scanned the panorama, like a hunter sweeping the horizon. Kids in swimming costumes, goggles perched on their heads like bug eyes. Towels, tracksuited coaches, everything shimmering with light bouncing off the water.
I quickly found Joey with the rest of his team, his face fierce with concentration as he passed his water bottle from one hand to the other. I know I’m biased, but he was like a prince among plebs, half a head higher than the others, even sitting down. The breadth of his shoulders and long, taut limbs made it obvious who was the one to beat.
