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

by Colleen Coleman

  Mark grabs the tuft of his beard in his fist, his other hand running over his forehead. ‘I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, Christopher, I really do. And from those skydive photos, Lily, it’s clear you’re busting your back trying to make a great feature and capture those new readers, but this is a different league. It isn’t just physically hard, it’s mentally hard. I’m not sold on this idea.’

  Christopher listens patiently to everything Mark says before speaking. ‘Okay, I hear you.’ He stands from the table, flips over a new piece of chart paper and begins explaining with shapes and words and arrows and numbers in black felt-tip. ‘The reason I’m pitching this to you all is this; a lot of research has been done about the generation now in their twenties and thirties who are more connected globally but have fewer daily interactions at a local level. Headlines suggest loneliness and depression are running at record levels, even among groups that appear by other measures to be outwardly successful.’ He trades his black marker for a red one, draws a big zero and continues. ‘A recent paper characterises this generation as “nones”, on the basis that when asked to tick boxes about political or religious or other social organisations or clubs to which they belong, “none” is the box many check.’ He marks a big ‘x’ in the middle of the flipchart. ‘Yet the human need for community, for belonging, has not gone away. People still aspire to feel part of something bigger than themselves. And the question arises – how do we address that need in new ways?’ He trades markers again and draws a big green question mark.

  I take a sip of water and wait. I want to hear more. Because I relate to everything he’s saying. I am a ‘none’. Looking around the table, I suspect we all are, but nobody is going to admit it and Christopher is on the brink of losing them.

  Mark coughs into his fist. Amy picks at the turquoise jewels stuck onto her acrylic nails. Jasmine and Dylan are having eye-sex. Christopher needs some back-up.

  I press both my hands down on the table. ‘No wonder no one else has covered it; it looks absolutely terrifying! But it’s for that very reason that we need to go for it. We have our foot in the door with this new readership. Look at the Escapades deal we got off the back of the last feature and it hasn’t even run yet! Who knows where this could lead us next. I’m in. I think it is exactly what we need.’

  Jasmine peels her eyes away from Dylan and looks up at me. ‘Good on you, Lily. I like that we’re doing new stuff. I like that we’re trying to stand out and be different and that we’re not just doing the same stuff every other small-town paper is doing. It’s exciting.’

  I clap my hands together. ‘Exactly! That is progress, right there. We’re moving in the right direction, we are the right people in the right place at the right time. So, let’s hear this idea out, let’s give it a chance.’

  Each of the team straightens up in their seats and looks back towards the flipchart. Amy starts making notes, the rest follow suit.

  Christopher fixes his glasses, flashes me a smile and continues. ‘One of the things that people, especially young people, increasingly gather around is the idea of well-being. They have seen the junk food and workaholic lives of their parents’ generations and many of them rebel against it. The trend towards fitness and health has grown consistently over the last decade. We’re spending more time thinking about how we can live happier, healthier lives. We look for dramatic experiences that might enhance them. That’s why the Hell Raiser event in Newbridge this weekend is already nearly sold out. This demographic of Newbridge wants this. And we want them.’

  There’s silence around the table. Only this morning I told Christopher that I trusted him to come up with my new task and I’m convinced by his pitch. I’m fascinated by his grasp and insights on people and society and our place in the world. But even if I want to do this, for me, for the paper, for him, I actually don’t know if I can, physically. I can’t just strap myself to the back of an expert on this one and let the equipment do the work. I will have to do this thing myself. And no matter how keen I am, I won’t have a pair of bulging biceps ready in time.

  Dylan holds up his iPad and starts a slideshow of images from the website’s gallery. It doesn’t look like a running track, that’s for sure. It looks like an industrial obstacle course in the middle of a field. Completely different from anything I’ve ever seen before. But just as Christopher said, there do seem to be all shapes and sizes of people, and they all seem to be grinning and laughing and having the time of their lives while sliding down mud tracks.

  Amy clears her throat. ‘What about being fit enough? Like, aren’t there people training for his kind of thing for months?’

  Christopher sits back down at the table. ‘Six-packs and zero body fat are great for some, but they are not a Hell Raiser requirement. Fitness can only get you so far, this is really about mental endurance. Remember, it’s a challenge not a race. I’ve seen musclemen get intimidated by the ice swim and I’ve seen groups of friends push each other over the wall by their butt cheeks. It’s what you make it.’

  Dylan passes his iPad around. ‘Me and Jasmine are already signed up. We got free tickets because they’re using the field by Jasmine’s dad’s house. The organisers are cool, I’m sure they’d sort you out if you told them you’re going to write it up in the paper. They’d be thrilled with the publicity.’

  ‘So you two are definitely going to do it? No chickening out?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? It’s more Jasmine’s thing but I want to do it with her, be around to help her if she gets stuck.’ A wry smile dances on his lips. ‘Or vice versa.’

  Jasmine winks at him and blows him a kiss. ‘Oh my god, I have just had the best idea. Why don’t we do this as a team? That way Lily can still do her feature and we can get behind her. Amy, you’re up for that right?’

  Amy bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes lighting up. ‘How much FUN would that be, all of us in it together. Yes! Team Gazette!’ She turns to me. ‘Can we? Say yes. Yes, yes, yes!’

  I turn to Mark. ‘What do you think?’

  He stretches back in his chair, elbows high above his head. ‘Only seventy five per cent of entrants finish.’

  Christopher holds his hands up in the air. ‘Only a quarter don’t. And teams always finish. No man left behind is a powerful motivator.’

  ‘Or woman!’ Amy adds, puffing out her chest whilst trying to flex her non-existent muscles.

  Mark strokes his beard again. ‘I have to say it was one of the most positive events that I’ve been to. It’s friendly. People help each other out and it truly takes teamwork to get through the obstacles. Especially tough challenges like running the Half-Pipe to Hell. It’s practically impossible to do without catching someone’s hand and being hauled up.’

  I think Christopher has managed to change Mark’s mind. I think he’s changed my mind.

  Mark swings forward on his chair and a cheeky grin appears on his face. ‘And that beer at the end. There’s nothing like it and that was when I was just a volunteer! Imagine the satisfaction if you’ve just put your body through miles of mud and you’re aching all over, nothing could possibly top the first sip of ice-cold beer at the finish line. Forget the sports massages and back patting that follows a marathon. If there’s one thing Hell Raisers know how to do, it’s how to have a well-earned drink at the end. There’s an idea – maybe I could chase down the local breweries for some ad space?’

  Dylan rubs his hands together. ‘Genius. Get the craft beer guys on board. They might even drop in some courtesy crates of pale ale to keep us hydrated.’

  Mark wipes his lips. ‘Now you’re talking. Okay, Hell Raisers, I’m in. Hands up who else?’

  And, one by one, all hands around the table are raised high.

  Even mine.

  Twelve

  There must be a full moon or some other bizarre cosmic behaviour on the horizon because the freakiest thing has just happened. My mother has texted me.

  Well done on your skydive! Just read your article this m
orning on my phone! The photos are amazing, you look so happy, my baby doll. Ah to kiss that face! Missing you too much. Recording all day, so can’t chat. Wish me luck. New producer is evil. No taste. Too many ideas. Indecisive then bullish. I’ve got her down for Oppositional Defiance Disorder. I say white. She says blue. Wish she’d take a skydive without a parachute. Love you love you love you xx

  See? Freaky.

  Then Christopher arrives at my desk and draws a box of chocolates from behind his back.

  ‘It’s official. Head Office have had their 11 a.m. progress meeting and I’m just off a call from McArthur herself. She’s asked me to pass on her congratulations.’ He hands me the box of very posh handmade chocolates. ‘Cliché, I know, but you’re the creative one, right? I noticed your little chocolate stash, so thought you might like them. They’re my personal favourite.’

  ‘Thank you! That’s too kind.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Come on, then. Don’t leave me hanging. Hit me with some numbers. Was it good enough? We really need a five per cent reader increase this week. I mean, five per cent would be awesome, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. In the first week that’s probably too ambitious, right?’ I know I’m jabbering on. It’s a nervous habit. So I stop and pause and take a really deep breath. Trying to silence the teeming chatter in my mind. If I hear anything less than five per cent, I know I’m going to be devastated, despite McArthur’s congratulations. And these chocolates.

  I cross my fingers. And stare him down.

  ‘Please say five per cent. I have been praying for five per cent.’

  He laughs and clears his throat. ‘Brace yourself. The Newbridge Gazette hit… 3,200 new readers this week. Sales up nine per cent. Escapades have signed up for another ad run, doubling the usual weekly profit from commercial sales alone.’

  ‘Nine per cent? That is AMAZING!’

  ‘And your feature was shared, liked and retweeted two hundred and eighty-two times within hours of going live. That’s a great start, Lily. You should be really proud of yourself.’ He hands me his phone. ‘Have a look at some of the comments people have written on the main site.’

  I forgot that people could or would comment. I guess that’s the big difference between traditional print press and our new online version: readers can feed back instantly – good or bad.

  I swallow before I look. I actually don’t think I could take it if there were some nasty comments in there.

  But it’s like Christopher has read my mind; he nudges me gently. ‘Seriously, take a look. Nothing but good stuff, I promise.’

  I take the phone from him and lean against the edge of the desk, scrolling through the twenty or so comments from names I don’t recognise; these are real readers, not encouraging boosts from Jasmine or Dylan.

  i read this over and over & really love it sooo much. thanx for sharing your experience with us <3. I live across from the centre but was always too chicken, booking now! #bucketlist

  * * *

  Goin skydiving next week and this article helped me a lot. I’m terrified of heights but my best friend is getting married and this is what she wants to do with her wedding party. Was going to bail, but now I’m going for it. Thanks! #motivated #feelthefearanddoitanyway

  * * *

  I plan to read this 2 more times before I jump this Saturday for charity… DAAAAAMN, I hope I don’t forget you Lily!!! #skydiveforbreastcancer

  I just can’t believe it. I wrote this article and people have read it and it’s moved them enough to write back to me! Just when I thought I couldn’t love my job at the Gazette any more, this whole new avenue has opened up; a connection to strangers, colleagues, the wider community. It’s so much more than I’ve ever felt before. So much more than I ever expected. After withdrawing into my own little world for the past few years, it’s as if I’m waking up from a long, deep sleep. And it’s glorious. I’m overwhelmed that people are reaching out and taking notice. They don’t think it’s weird or mad or bad. They like it and that makes my heart feel ready to fly straight out of my chest.

  Christopher has already opened the chocolates and offers me one. ‘Jasmine told me that she popped in to the hairdresser just now to make an appointment and she overheard them discussing the skydive piece. Asking each other what they would put on their bucket list. She said it was the first time she wasn’t embarrassed telling strangers that she worked at the Gazette. Well done, Lily, looks like Buckley’s Bucket List is doing its job. And some.’

  ‘The skydive was your idea. And the tagline, and the photos, so thank you, Christopher. What a team, eh? We’ll break the news when everyone’s back in the office after lunch. I can’t wait to see their faces. This is the best news this paper has had in a long time.’

  I high-five Christopher and pop a heart-shaped chocolate into my mouth. And then bam. What is happening in my mouth eclipses every other sense in my whole body. This is, literally, sensational. My brain can’t focus on anything else except the silken chocolate on my tongue. It makes me stop breathing, it’s so good. I perch it still on my tongue as if it’s hot, I don’t want to waste one second of this little chocolate bomb, covered in finely chopped hazelnuts and really smooth dark Belgian chocolate. I let it melt ever so slightly until creamy caramel oozes from its centre. Christopher stands in silence as I savour and finally swallow this cocoa gold, making little noises of appreciation along the way. I lean against my desk once it’s all over, giving myself a moment to recompose.

  ‘I thought I was addicted to chocolate, but that was before I tried that. How am I supposed go back to a standard whole nut bar now?’

  He hands me the box. ‘They’re yours, so no need for standard stash for a while. If you pace yourself.’

  Hmm. Those chocolates have zero chance of survival in my office. They won’t see next publication day.

  His phone rings out in his pocket and he excuses himself to take the call.

  I close my office door, pull down the blinds, kick off my heels and pop one more chocolate in my mouth.

  And I breathe out a deep, throaty, exhausted yowl of relief.

  Week one and we’re on track for success. Everything is going well so far: the team, the new direction, Christopher – and the sales are picking up. We’ve got three weeks left to make up the numbers and bring us to twenty-two per cent. Then we’re home free, just as McArthur promised. I’ll tell Mary; she’s a one-woman media machine. By tomorrow morning everyone in Newbridge will know that the Gazette is back with a vengeance.

  Now all I’ve got to do is drag myself through Hell Raiser.

  Thirteen

  I am standing in a wet, wind-swept field, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near Jasmine’s dad’s farmhouse, with 854 other rain-drenched lunatics. There’s no other word for people who would give up their perfectly quiet and cosy weekends lounging around the house to do this. It’s not normal behaviour. Certainly not at this time of the morning. In this weather. The misty hills stand in front of us, nothing but fog and a few cows behind us. A random scattering of concrete barricades and old broken farm equipment makes the place look post-apocalyptic, like some evil overlord has bombed the crap out of the Newbridge countryside and all that remains are bits of rope and wire, dirty water ponds and industrial skips. What a mad idea. Place a few bits of wood and ragged netting among well-watered mounds of muck and the crazy people of the nation will come flocking.

  It is freezing and I’m shivering already. I’ve not eaten, and I can see my breath in the air, it’s so cold. I’m dressed in our Gazette team kit of black leggings and red rash tops. My hands are blueish white and waxy, despite rubbing them together with enough friction to start a small fire. I remind myself that all I’ve done so far is make it here on time. Which admittedly is more than can be said for the rest of the team. I can’t see anyone, anywhere. Have they come to their senses and decided that they’ve got better things to do with their weekends? Did they end up in a lock-in at The Black Boar last night? If so, they’ve got no chance of making it h
ere. I can hardly blame them, after all they’ve probably got much more going on with their lives than me. But it would have been nice to do this together. Though really I’m the Editor in Chief, this is my job, my bucket list, and I’m the only one who can do this, so I might as well go through with it. If nothing else, I’ve got that beer at the finish line to look forward to. That’s of course assuming I make it to the finish line.

  I register with an official whose neck is wider than his skull. Again, I find myself signing a waiver to say that I’m cool with destroying my quality of life for the sake of a few good photos.

  To be honest, getting up at 5 a.m. and standing around waiting on my own is hellish enough. It’s like a dystopian film set, and I feel like some weirdo mutant extra, not sure why I’m really here because I certainly don’t belong. I shuffle on the spot, hoping someone will tell me it’s much easier than it looks and all will be well. Oh, and a bacon sandwich and a hot milky coffee, two sugars would be nice.

  As I look around and take it all in, I can properly appreciate how heavily filtered those glossy leaflets were that Christopher brought in for us. This isn’t an adult obstacle course with some cute little devils and a ‘hell’ theme of fire and pitch forks. This is a real-life shitshow. In every sense of the word. There aren’t even any food stalls. Actually, I can’t see any Portaloos either. But I see ambulances. Lots of ambulances. Great.

  I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. Not because it’s sunny – it’s dark and wet and windy – but because I want to hide my horror and lack of enthusiasm for this and just hide generally. Mark was right on this one, if it was up to me, I’d definitely be with the quarter that don’t finish. Probably because without an article to write, I wouldn’t have started in the first place.