For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Mum, it’s fine. I want to do it.’

  ‘No! You? Never! I don’t buy that for one second! You’re being a pushover, letting them bully you into this. Skydiving is not your bag. I know you, remember? I know you better than you know yourself. And I know that you would never want to do this of your own accord.’

  I need to show her she’s wrong. That I’m much stronger than she credits me to be. And if that means skydiving, then so be it.

  ‘Mother, I’m a grown woman. I’m fully capable of standing up for myself. I’m the editor and I want the paper to succeed, so if this is what it takes, then I’m doing it. Of my own accord.’

  ‘Well, you better start looking for a new job, because, baby, I really can’t see you pulling this one off. It took forever to peel you off that rock-climbing wall. And you were only about four feet off the ground.’

  ‘Yes, but I was only about four foot tall!’ I remind her.

  ‘Sweetheart, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think it’s a delayed post-traumatic stress reaction to being so hurt and betrayed by Adam? It could be, you know.’

  ‘Mum, don’t. It’s not. That happened a lifetime ago,’ I tell her, rubbing my head and feeling a mother of a migraine coming on.

  ‘Three years is not a lifetime. And that’s a major trauma, the rejection, the humiliation, the betrayal, the fallout could take time to surface. Shall I ask Maxwell to have a word? I can see him pulling up right now, hold the line, I’ll call him. MAXWELL!! Darling!! Come quick, it’s my daughter! She’s having a crisis!’

  I start to scroll through photos she’s sent me, a few nice, arty headshots to begin with and then her and Maxwell by the lakeside smiling (and semi-clothed, thank God), her and Maxwell enjoying a wine on the balcony, the Californian sunset in the background, Maxwell adjusting her mike as she prepares for a show, just like I used to do. Maxwell has no hair on the top of his head but a long, thin, silver braid that hangs down his back. His skin looks like a worn dark-brown leather belt. From these pictures, he never stops smiling. A big, toothy, gleaming white smile. He looks like he could be Hulk Hogan’s long-lost vegan brother. I shudder at a full-length shot of him posing, legs spread, arms akimbo in his cut-offs. I think he cut off too much.

  My head is starting to throb. I’ve had enough of my mother now. And I certainly don’t want to hear Maxwell’s long-distance assessment.

  ‘Mum, I’ve got to go okay. I’ll call you next week. Love you.’

  ‘Don’t do it. Leave that paper and move over here with me. Be my PA,’ she calls down the phone.

  ‘I’ll let you know. Enjoy the new apartment, Mum, give my best wishes to Maxwell too.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll pay your full fare, how’s that? I’ll even give you a day off every week.’

  I close the call and lift the phone right up to my face to peer at the last photograph. One I think she’s sent me by mistake: a cluster of rocks stacked up against the blazing orange sunset waiting to be hurled into a ditch. I zoom in on one of the largest rocks in the pile. In black felt-tip, in my mother’s hand, written out in big, capital letters, is my name.

  I zoom in further to double-check. But there it is, no mistake – LILY

  I wrote the words of all my burdens and regrets on rocks and then slung them away.

  Well, no holding back there. It’s crystal clear in fat black letters.

  I am a burden. I am one of my mum’s great regrets.

  I’m surprised to see it, of course, but I suppose I can’t claim to be shocked by it. I always knew I was a mistake. An accident. My mother had me as a schoolgirl to some guy she wouldn’t speak of. As a baby, I held my mother back from her dreams and as a growing girl it became abundantly clear that I wasn’t the go-getting, fun-loving, creative daughter she’d hoped for.

  So, she thinks she knows me better than I know myself? She thinks I’m just a dead weight that drags her down and trips her up?

  Well, I’ll show her.

  I rummage in my jeans pocket and pull out Christopher’s number. My hand is quivering and I’ve broken out into a cold sweat that’s part fury and part hangover. But I’m determined. I can’t leave things as they are. I need a catalyst. I need to act now.

  ‘Hi, it’s me, Lily, I hope this is a good time?’

  ‘Yes of course! Everything okay?’ he answers immediately, which makes me feel better, even a little happy, as though he has been waiting for my call. Which I know is ridiculous, of course.

  ‘Everything is great,’ I lie, surprising myself with the control in my voice. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking. Let’s go with the skydive.’

  ‘But I thought you were scared?’

  ‘Not as scared as us screwing up our first feature, so let’s just go for it.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure, because last night you seemed very much against the idea and I don’t want to push you if you’re not one hundred per cent.’

  I can’t help but blush at his kindness, giving me the chance to pass once again. I can safely say to my mother or anyone else who cares to know that Christopher is certainly not making me do this. Every decision from now on is all mine.

  ‘I am sure, I promise. Less thinking on this the better. I’m decided.’

  There. It’s done.

  Buckley’s Bucket List or Lily’s Fuck-it List Item No.1: Skydive – shorthand for me shitting my pants at 10,000 feet and showing my mother that she knows nothing about me or what I’m capable of doing.

  Bring it on.

  Seven

  ‘Okay, so let’s just dive in, shall we? Who wants to start?’ It is Monday morning and my newly invigorated team are all gathered in the meeting room ready to brainstorm ideas to get this newspaper back on track.

  Amy begins, ‘The chef from the golf course wants to print his sticky toffee pudding recipe, even though I told him we did that dessert last month, but he’s insisting. What do I do?’

  Then the rest of the team start to bubble over, firing requests like machine-gun bullets.

  ‘For the fashion and style feature on designer wellingtons for the folk festival, do you want all size models?’ asks Jasmine.

  Mark then pipes up again. ‘Also, I was thinking it would be good to do a piece on juice cleanses. Pre-wedding season, everyone’s on a diet and all the celebs are doing them and they have amazing powers of rejuvenisation. So, my idea is that I get a juice cleanse and then we can, like, measure my toxins…’

  ‘The local council say we can’t have an interview with the mayor until two weeks after the election campaign starts. What do we do?’ asks Amy.

  ‘I’m just looking through my piece on psychic animals, would you prefer a parakeet or an iguana?’ Jasmine adds in quickly before I get a chance to answer anybody around the table.

  ‘Oh! Breaking news, people! Just in from a very reliable source, a great story out of Newbridge East about a retirement account scandal! Who can we send?’ asks Dylan. ‘We’ve got to move quick.’

  ‘Whoa, guys, slow down! I’m sorry, I can’t keep up with what any of you are saying!’ says Christopher, giving up on taking notes and throwing his pen into the middle of the table.

  Right, Christopher is probably used to a lot less chaos in his London office so it’s time to bring some order in here before he loses the will to live.

  ‘Okay, tell the golf chef if he wants to make sticky toffee, it better have a twist, because the readers will write in and tell us we’re recycling content. Pitch him a fun golf-themed dessert idea – Tee-rimasu, Coconut Golf Balls, Hole in One Donuts. Designer Wellies: Yes, all size models. And all patterns. Press suppliers for a giveaway, win a pair, answers on a postcard, that kind of thing. Toxins? Who said that?’ I ask.

  Mark raises his hand.

  ‘They can’t be measured. And “rejuvenisation” is not a word. Tell the council people that they can’t plug their next clinic in our What’s On column unless we get the mayor within a week of the campaign kick-off – we want to be first, or they are on their own
. Definitely Parakeet. Retirement scandal, that needs you, Dylan.’

  Surveying all faces, everyone seems happy and on board. ‘Great. I’m out for the rest of the day with Christopher for the skydive, so, if you need anything in my absence, Amy’s in charge.’

  I scan the table and see the team all scribbling away, pushing out their chairs and getting ready to work.

  ‘Anything else?’ I ask.

  They all shake their heads. Even Christopher.

  ‘Super, in that case, let’s have a great day.’

  I look out my office window down onto the street below. A very stylish man in a sky blue blazer is standing outside The Black Boar handing out leaflets to everyone who passes, young and old, with a smile and a cheeky glint for every one of them. I’ve never seen him before but I bet I can guess. By Mary’s description, I’d say he’s the new theatre director, out canvassing to attract his new audience. He’s doing a great job; already a small crowd have huddled round him and I can just about hear his laughter above the din of morning traffic.

  ‘Amy?’ I call back into the office. ‘Could you go down to the theatre club and write up a piece about the new director, Julian? They’re going upmarket and doing a Shakespearean play for their next production. Be good to give them a boost and let everyone know that it’s under new direction.’

  ‘Really!’ she squeals. ‘I didn’t even know there was a theatre in Newbridge. I love the theatre. I wanted to be an actress, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, what happened?’ I enquire.

  ‘Nothing. That was the problem!’

  ‘Well, who knows, go down there and see what’s going on. Full artistic licence. You write the piece, take some pictures and we’ll give it a full page.’

  I can’t help but feel a little ashamed that I’ve been working here alongside these people every single day but yet I don’t really know them at all. I have a hunch as to why that is; I guess I didn’t really want them to know me. I didn’t want them to know that I was the girl whose husband-to-be waited till we were standing at the altar to tell me he was in love with my best friend. I didn’t want to be that girl, even though I was. So I stopped asking questions of others so that they’d ask no questions of me.

  Amy tilts her head and squints at me. ‘Seriously? You trust me to run this piece on my own?’

  I pause a moment, recognising the look on her face, the uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘Amy, you are a brilliant reporter. You are personable, intuitive and more talented than we even realise fully just yet. This team needs you! I need you!’

  She raises a shy half-smile. ‘Thanks, Lily. That means so much. Sometimes, if you don’t hear anything good for a while, you question yourself; it’s easy to think that maybe you’re not doing a good job or you’re not up to it.’

  I swing round out of my seat and wrap my arm around her elbow. I know exactly what she means. This is how I’ve felt for the last few years, if I’m being honest with myself, and I know that self-criticism is the hardest criticism of all. It can take a while to build yourself up again. But I’m beginning to, and I want Amy and all my team to feel the same way. When I walked through the doors of the Gazette on my first day, I really hadn’t a clue about reporting. But JJ Oakes made me believe that I could, so I did. And once you believe, then you unleash the best in yourself. And others.

  ‘Amy, I’m promoting you to acting Assistant Editor. Unfortunately, I can’t pay you any more straight away, but I’ll see to it that you get more freedom in the content you want to cover and widen your experience in any area you like – marketing, editing, whichever – so you can build your CV and really develop your skills. It’s high time we give the stars in this place a chance to shine.’

  Amy’s eyes widen and her hands fly up to her mouth. ‘Lily, this is amazing. I won’t let you down.’ It’s clear to anyone that she’s thrilled. And excited. And chomping at the bit to get started.

  A light shower of rain patters on the open window by my desk. I stand to close it, knocking the potted plastic plant as I reach for the handle.

  Amy rushes to pick it up, relieved that the soil is also moulded plastic, so there’s no need to sweep up any mess. ‘That was close.’ She spins on the spot. ‘Do you want me to set it down somewhere else? It’s a bit of a nuisance sat there on your desk, bound to fall again and it blocks your lovely view of the town! You can see right up to the church from here.’

  I could tell her, that once upon a time, that was the whole point.

  But she’s right. It is a nuisance. And actually, the ugly plastic pot plant does block my view. Not only of the church but of everything else down there.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s served its purpose. I’m done with it. You can drop it into the theatre and see if they can use it as a prop if you like.’

  She nods happily and we both stand by the window, watching the droplets of rain land on the glass and enjoying the market scene below, locals and tourists alike, buying bread, walking dogs, sharing umbrellas, waving their hurried hellos as they take shelter under trees and in arched doorways.

  I spot Mary, in her pre-loved red bobbled hat, peering through the opening of the tall red postbox. And it reminds me. Of a public service announcement of great urgency that I’ve neglected to address. I nudge Amy and hold up my finger.

  ‘Oh, and if you don’t mind, there’s one last thing that needs to be done today. Could you ask graphics to make me two signs, both A3, laminated, large, clear, bold print, one reading POST BOX and the other reading DOG POO ONLY.

  She raises her eyebrow at me. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I know. But, trust me, sometimes it’s the smallest changes that can make the biggest impact.’

  And Amen to that.

  Eight

  I got zero seconds of sleep last night, unable to imagine anything going right, imagining all that can go wrong, and praying that they won’t have to scrape my splattered remains off the landing strip. The bits they can find of me that is. My first proper day as Editor in Chief could very well be my last.

  Christopher does not hang around. I truly did not expect to be booked in so soon. I thought we may come to check the place out. To do some research, mull over the idea and then probably ditch it in favour of something else after realising that it is all a bit inconvenient: too much fuss with the paperwork and the planes and the parachutes. And the possibility of paralysis. But I can tell by Christopher’s optimism that this isn’t the case. We’re not heading to the Skyfall centre on a reconnaissance mission. He’s booked it. I’m pencilled in to go up and come down today.

  ‘Lily, are you sure you want to go through with this?’

  I dart Christopher a look. ‘We’re here now, so I think it’s a bit late to back out, don’t you?’

  ‘Not at all! Of course, you can still back out. I’ve done this myself countless times. It’s addictive! Everyone I know feels apprehensive before their first flight and then they love it – every single one. However, if you’re not comfortable, you’ve got to tell me. Nobody – especially me – wants to push you over the edge…’

  ‘Of a plane? That’s exactly what you are doing,’ I snap, feeling rattled but instantly regretting it. ‘Sorry, I’m just mentally preparing myself.’ I try to sound bright and nonchalant, but it’s clear from the way Christopher winces that I do a bad job.

  We avoid eye contact and I pretend to pick at imaginary pieces of lint on my sleeve. I know I said I would do this and that I was one hundred per cent sure, but that was before I actually got here. I was pissed off with my mum and probably still a little drunk and full of hot-headed bullishness. I didn’t really think this through. But now I certainly don’t feel even one per cent sure about this. I’m an idiot. A gobby, impulsive, childish, fear-stricken idiot with no one but myself to blame. What the actual fuck have I gotten myself into?

  I feel like I’m watching from a distance. Like it’s a dream. I can’t believe I’m doing this; I think I’ve shut off the part of my brain that says, Run
! Now! Run for your life. My knees are like jelly and I can feel the last meal I ate flip in my stomach. I nod and breathe and try to imagine that this is happening to somebody else.

  Christopher rubs his neck and motions for one of the instructors to come over. I think he’s also getting increasingly nervous about how this is going to go. I guess I did make it sound like I was ready, I was hoping that if I committed, told myself it was fine, that I’d have time to get used to the idea and be prepared by the time I got here. But now, it’s pretty obvious I’m not.

  A thought shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Maybe this is exactly what Adam thought as the countdown to our wedding day approached. Maybe he also thought he could convince himself to come round, that it would all be good in the end. But that didn’t happen did it? It didn’t work for him, so why on earth would I expect it to work for me?

  Before I have time to dwell any more, a really tall, tanned guy with a hive of blonde dreadlocks woven around his head takes long, sure strides towards us. He introduces himself as John Boy. I don’t know whether that’s his real name or not, but once more I question why I’m putting myself in the hands of a complete stranger. Maybe it’s a skydiver rule. Don’t divulge your real name in case something goes wrong, that way they’ll never trace you. I’m hating this. This feels all wrong. Not to mention stupid.

  ‘You guys, okay? All set for the jump of your life?’ John Boy asks.

  I shake my head and feel behind me for the wall. My head is swimming, I need to sit down.

  ‘How natural is it to be nervous?’ asks Christopher. After a moment’s thought, he adds, ‘Like, this nervous?’

  They both regard me in a foetal heap on the ground. I typed in ‘skydiving fails’ into Google last night. I was hoping ‘no results found’ would come up. It didn’t. There were nearly half a million results. Half a million times when something went wrong. And those are only the ones that have been uploaded. What are the true survival rates? Does anyone really know?