Ugh.
Or, as Moira would say:
Ugh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about the mantra of my mother for the five years she was my self-appointed PR agent: no publicity is bad publicity, but good publicity is where you control the publicity. Not the snappiest of catchphrases, but I remembered and pondered the wisdom of it all the same.
By the evening, I had made up some interview questions, answered them and pressed send. Moira could cobble together a decent-sized article from Amelia Piper’s enthusiastic yet diplomatic responses about making sport accessible for all, including Tate. I sprinkled the interview with some shocking statistics and, after a quick chat with Mel, attached a couple of photos.
I also strongly hinted about a more personal exclusive after the triathlon, as long as I was happy with her ‘journalistic integrity’ up until then. Once I’d made a speech and swam ten lengths in front of a crowd of gawping strangers, she could ask for my bra size and I’d happily chuck in my knickers, too – pose for the enchanting Howard, if she really wanted, give her the scoop on the truth about Athens, and maybe a short, sanitised version of where I’ve been since.
There. Oneteensyinterview, sorted.
And, I prayed, some peace for now.
51
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Fifty-Five
A few days after Moira Vanderbeek’s article appeared in a national trash-paper, Mel and Dani did their usual Saturday morning trick of breaking and entering. Only this time it was a Friday, and they hadn’t brought breakfast.
‘No way I’m eatin’ until after,’ Mel said, barrelling into my kitchen as I hastily saved the care home brochure I’d been editing on my laptop. ‘Not that I care what people think, it’s for me kids, don’t want to embarrass them more than usual.’
‘Um, I hardly dare ask this, but after what?’
‘After the try-on.’
‘But the triathlon is weeks away.’ I was even more confused than normal at what on earth Mel was talking about.
‘Thetry-on,not triathlon,’Dani added, taking a swig from her travel mug. ‘Which may end up nearly as exhaustingly energy-sucking as the race itself, but for very different reasons.’
‘What’s a try-on?’ I know I’d been out of action for a few years, but I remained bamboozled.
‘We’re getting kitted out for the triathlon.’
‘What? But it’s still ten weeks away.’ Ten weeks, twenty runs, a couple of hundred high-protein, low-carb meals and possible face transplant away.
‘Yeah, but Selena wants us all matchin’, to present, like, a united brand. And there’s a sale in Sporting Warehouse on some trackies and that, in the Lark colours. We need to get in there before it goes.’
‘Can’t I just order them online?’
‘Well, where’s the fun in that? Never mind team bondin’. Nathan’d be well grieved if he thought you missed the try-on.’
‘Never mind the fact everyone wants to thank you for your noble sacrifice,’ Dani said. ‘The picture of you by the bus was tragic, but it worked, the JustGiving page has gone nuts.’
As used to being used by gossip journalists as I had once been, as prepared as I was to have my name and associated nonsense in harsh black and white, after seeing my interview answers squeezed in amongst an overblown, sensationalised recap of my ‘Olympic shame!’ and a whole other page of wild speculations, complete with six old photos of me, looking everything from ‘Proud Champion!’ to ‘National treasure pushed to the brink!’ I had dry-heaved up the idea of the breakfast, lunch and dinner I hadn’t been able to force down for the rest of the day. But as the JustGiving donations had risen, so my perspective had corrected itself and my stomach settled.
If people wanted to read, and then actually pay attention to, tabloid drivel with zero new information and minimal hard facts, that was up to them. To my astounded relief, when I thought long and hard about it, I concluded that their opinion meant nothing to me, especially not compared to that of my friends, my son and my coach. They were proud of what I had achieved in the past few months, and for the first time in forever, I was proud of myself, too. And that made me even prouder. I had come so far that what should have been a disaster felt like a triumph, and this was the ultimate win.
I decided this made me just about invincible.
I remembered that feeling. It was flippin’ awesome.
‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’
* * *
