by Lynsey James
I don’t have time to worry about it too much, though. I have bigger fish to fry; namely, choosing an outfit for my trip to the pub.
*
As anyone who’s ever had problems with their weight will testify, picking an outfit is an absolute minefield. Finding something you feel comfortable in that also flatters you is near impossible, and usually involves a meltdown or two.
For me, tonight is no exception.
There’s a pile of discarded clothes on my floor, each item ruled out either for being too clingy or too frumpy. There’s just one dress left to try: if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to walk into the Bell and Candle wearing my tiger-print onesie. Stepping away from my full-length mirror, I lift the dress out of the wardrobe. It’s a rich, deep red with little white hearts on the front.
‘I’m counting on you,’ I say as I slip it off the hanger. ‘So, don’t let me down.’
I’m not quite sure whether I’m referring to the dress or myself. My heart rate quickens and a cold sweat sweeps over me as I pull it on. The material is stretchy and doesn’t feel very forgiving. Horrid images of what I might look like flash before me: awkwardly stuffed sausage immediately springs to mind. As I pull it into place, I can see the material is stretched over my chest. Goodness knows what the rest of it must be like.
It’s time to go over to the mirror to appraise myself. As the Pussycat Dolls would say, I hate this part right here. To mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to see, I close my eyes before taking a sidestep to the mirror. This may all sound overly dramatic and shallow – there are, after all, more important things than looking good for a night out – but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. This is about much more than just looking nice in a dress.
I start the countdown in my head, keeping my eyes tightly screwed shut.
Four, three, two, one…
I take a deep breath and open my eyes, preparing to face the reflection staring back at me. An all-too-familiar feeling of panic and dread envelops me, spreading bad thoughts to every corner of my brain and bringing tears to my eyes.
I look awful. Everyone’s going to laugh at me.
My eyes scan down my body; everything I hate about it seems to be magnified, there for all to see in super-high definition. My stomach is bulging against the dress’s red cotton material, my hips are awkward and lumpy, and my legs look like tree trunks. The little voices in my head, the ones I know so well, which are telling me I look hideous, turn from tiny whispers to bellowing roars. I pull at the dress, trying to make it sit better or feel more comfortable.
It doesn’t work.
For a moment, I consider climbing into my tiger-print onesie and throwing myself under my duvet. Horrible dark thoughts are closing in like storm clouds and it’d be all too easy to let them win. I’ve let that happen so many times before.
Not this time, however.
I fiercely wipe the tears from my eyes, take a deep breath to calm myself down, and go back to the pile of clothes. There has to be something I can wear among the debris. I can feel something propelling me forward, determined to silence the negative voices at the back of my mind. I’m not giving in to my own worst thoughts this time. Whether it’s the idea of a new bucket list spurring me on or something different altogether, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m going to find an outfit if it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Four
I can’t quite remember the point where something as fun as a night out turned into an epic battle of wills between me and my own brain. However, through sheer will and determination, I make it to the Bell and Candle to meet Emma. My outfit of choice is a pair of smart, wide-legged black trousers and a white chiffon top. I’ve left my hair natural and curly and kept my make-up simple yet stylish. I feel good right up until it’s time to enter the pub. I pause briefly at the door while I get myself together. Walking into a crowded room is always nerve-wracking; even more so when you feel everyone’s eyes are on you, passing judgement on every aspect they can see.
‘Come on, Cleo, you can do this,’ I whisper to myself.
I place my hand on the door, push it open and walk in. The snug little room is, as usual, teeming with locals who are hunched over their pints or chatting to friends. The pub is the centre of social activity in Silverdale; everyone likes to pop in for a glass of wine or a plate of its delicious steak and ale pie.
I spot Emma at the back of the pub. She’s managed to snag one of the comfy – and hugely coveted – booths and, from what I can see, she’s already got a round of drinks in. I make my way through the crowd as carefully as possible, trying not to bang into anyone or spill any pints. Fortunately, I reach Emma’s booth unscathed.
‘How’d you manage to land one of these?’ I ask with a grin as I manoeuvre myself into the booth.
There’s a brief moment of panic as it looks like I’m going to get stuck halfway, but luckily it doesn’t happen. I try not to make my relief too obvious as I pick up the vodka and lemonade in front of me.
‘I fluttered my eyelashes at the bloke behind the bar, and he said it was all mine,’ she replies with a chuckle. ‘You look great, by the way. I love your outfit.’
I look down at it and shake my head. ‘Oh, this? I just found it at the back of my wardrobe! Does it look OK?’
‘It looks fab,’ she assures me. She looks down at her burgundy lace dress. ‘I wish I’d worn trousers and a nice top, to be honest. This dress is doing my head in.’
She stands up and steps out of the booth to adjust it. Needless to say, she looks absolutely fantastic. The colour complements her creamy skin beautifully, and her chestnut hair is falling in Hollywood-starlet waves round her shoulders. She looks so comfortable in her own skin. Finally happy with how the dress is sitting, she shuffles back into the booth.
‘You’ll never guess what I found today,’ I say, ‘Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List!’
Saying the words out loud to someone else makes my insides do backflips. If anyone will support me in wanting to create a new one, it’s my best friend.
Emma’s eyes widen. ‘Wow, there’s a blast from the past! Where’d you find it?’
‘In this old shoebox,’ I reply. ‘I haven’t seen it for years! Apparently, I wanted to be a world-famous dancer, swim with dolphins and move to New York. After the accident, I… I kind of gave up on everything.’
She sighs and reaches across to pat my hand. ‘Do you ever think about the accident?’
A lump rises in my throat and I blink back tears. ‘Sometimes. Not as much as I used to. I don’t even really remember that much, to be honest. It felt like everything went on hold after it, though, since I couldn’t dance. I just kind of gave up because my dream was over. But not any more. I want things to change, Emma, and I’m going to start by making a whole new bucket list!’
A bright, beaming grin crosses my best friend’s face. ‘That sounds brilliant, Cleo! What sort of stuff are you going to put on your new list?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I admit. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all day and I’m pretty excited to get started! The more daring the better, I reckon. Maybe I’ll end up sky-diving or swimming with sharks? Who knows? It just feels like it’s time to start dreaming again.’
Emma reaches over and pats my hand. ‘That’s awesome to hear. I know you like how things are right now with your job at the bakery and everything, but it’s great you’re starting to think bigger. You could take over the world if you wanted to, Cleo Jones.’
I feel my cheeks begin to heat up. Emma and I have always been each other’s biggest supporters; we’ve even nicknamed ourselves Team Cheerleader.
‘Oh, I meant to ask,’ I say, suddenly remembering our conversation from earlier, ‘what was that invite you were talking about earlier?’
Emma frowns and cocks her head to one side. ‘What are you on about?’
‘The one you mentioned at Carb Counters. Now who’s in Cloud Cuckoo Land, eh?’ I remind her. ‘You asked me if I’d had it too,
remember?’
A look of recognition dawns on her face and she smacks her palm against the table. ‘Oh God, that’s right! I forgot all about that. I was checking my emails the other day and this box popped up inviting me to our ten-year school reunion! Did you get one too?’
My hearts sinks a little. A school reunion is about on a par with a trip to the gym for me: utter torture.
‘Not sure,’ I say, with what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. ‘I haven’t checked my emails today.’
Emma takes a sip of her gin and tonic, then puts it down as she remembers something. ‘Oh, and you’ll never guess who’s organising it: Amanda Best!’
Emma’s last two words send a shiver of dread down my spine. I haven’t heard the name Amanda Best for a while, and I’d hoped never to hear it again.
‘Oh!’ I try not to let my unease seep into my voice. ‘That’s great. God, I can’t believe it’s been ten years since we left school, can you?’
Emma smiles kindly and pats my hand. ‘You know you don’t have to pretend to be excited, don’t you? I can read you like a book! School wasn’t the easiest time for you, was it?’
No, it wasn’t, I want to say, and that was largely thanks to Amanda Best. Instead, I shake my head and smile. What’s the point in raking over old ground? Plus, I have bigger and better things to focus on now.
‘That was ten years ago,’ I say, picking up my drink. ‘I’m over it.’
If my best friend isn’t convinced, she doesn’t show it. She raises her glass and smiles. ‘Good, I’ll drink to that! Now, let’s see if we can find ourselves some hunky blokes in here tonight, eh?’
I chuckle as I down the last of my drink. ‘Emma, it’s the Bell and Candle! I don’t think there’s a guy in here under the age of fifty tonight.’
‘You never know until you try! Who knows, your dream guy could be sat a few feet away from you right now.’ She gets up and grabs me by the hand, pulling me from our secluded little corner of the pub to the main bar area.
Within seconds, Emma’s hopes of a manhunt are dashed. As I predicted, there are a few clusters of old men enjoying a convivial pint, some middle-aged women and a couple of people I recognise from Carb Counters. There are no hunky blokes for Emma to get her hands on, that’s for sure. I can’t pretend I’m not pleased; when it comes to guys, I’m usually left chatting about the weather with some bloke whose friend is interested in Emma.
‘See, I told you there wouldn’t be anyone. Now why don’t we head back to the booth before someone else nabs it?’ I suggest.
Just as we’re about to go back the way we came, the door swings open and Scott – or Mr Gym Gear, as I named him earlier – walks in with a small group of men trailing behind him. He sees me, lifts a hand and smiles. I do a clumsy sort of wave and can only imagine how ridiculous my attempt at a smile looks.
Emma nudges me. ‘And just who is that? He’s definitely under fifty, Cleo!’
I shake my head and shrug, as though guys who look like Scott walk into the Bell and Candle every day.
‘Oh, he’s just a bloke. You know… a bloke.’
That’s not enough for Emma, however. ‘Oh yeah, and how does this guy who’s “just a bloke” know you?’
‘He doesn’t!’
She frowns. ‘But he waved at—’
I grab her by the hand and drag her back to the booth, which, as luck would have it, no one has nicked yet. The last thing I need is Emma mounting a full-scale assault on poor, unsuspecting Scott.
‘He’s just a bloke I met at the gym today, that’s all,’ I say when I’m sure we’re out of earshot. ‘He helped me when I got my feet stuck on the rowing machine. Nothing else to it, I’m afraid.’
Emma arches her eyebrows and folds her arms. ‘Well, well, well, Miss Jones, you are full of surprises! Why don’t you go over and chat to him? Before you dragged me over here, I saw him heading towards the bar.’
I roll my eyes and grin. ‘Oh yeah, he’s really going to want to talk to the absolute lemon he had to rescue today, isn’t he? He’s just here for a quiet drink, so let’s leave him alone, eh?’
It’s too late now; Emma is in full-on fantasy mode. ‘I can see it now; we’re at your wedding and at the point of the speech where I tell everyone how you first met…’
‘So I’m getting married now?’ I chuckle. ‘Dear God, I only met him today! Now, I’ll buy another round of drinks if you promise we can change the subject when I get back. How does that sound?’
I lift the empty glasses and wave them tantalisingly at her. If I know Emma as well as I think I do, she won’t be able to resist the lure of a gin and tonic.
She purses her lips, pretending to seriously mull my offer over. ‘Hmm, OK, you’ve got yourself a deal!’
I mosey on over to the bar, hoping there isn’t too much of a queue and that Scott’s nominated one of his mates to get the first round in. I cringe as I remember saluting him then running off earlier today. Not exactly the elegant, graceful impression I’d have liked to create.
Sure enough, there he is, leaning on the sticky bar top as he waits to be served. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair and strokes his stubble as though he’s in deep thought about something. For a second, I consider approaching him and saying hello, but change my mind and stand at the opposite end of the bar. I might’ve been brave enough to start thinking about dreaming again, but talking to a guy I made a fool of myself in front of is stretching things a bit.
I feel Scott’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back. He’s probably recalling my embarrassing rowing-machine incident today and laughing to himself.
Except he’s not laughing, and he’s walking over to me.
Shit, shit, shit.
Be cool, Cleo, and think before you speak!
‘Well, hello again!’ He leans one elbow on the bar and looks at me with an amused expression. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you without your rowing machine and sparkly trainers.’
I try to hide a smile, but totally fail. ‘Here I am, in my natural surroundings!’ I gesture around us to the cosy little pub. ‘At least I can’t get stuck on any exercise equipment here. So um… who are you here with?’
So far so good, I say to myself, at least I haven’t said anything stupid yet.
‘That bunch of nutters over there.’ Scott points to where the group of guys he walked in with are sitting. One of them has a Post-It stuck to his forehead. ‘We’re here for my mate Chris’s birthday. He’s the one with the Post-It stuck to him because we’re playing “Who Am I?” Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to know who Olaf from Frozen is!’ He pauses for a second and narrows his eyes at me. ‘Hang on a minute. I’ve just remembered you didn’t even tell me your name earlier! All I know you as is Rowing Machine Girl and I think we should change that, don’t you?’
I chuckle and feel my cheeks begin to burn. ‘I’m sorry, you caught me at a bad moment earlier,’ I reply. ‘I promise I don’t usually run off before telling someone my name. I-it’s Cleo.’
I risk a glance at him and smile. To my surprise, he returns it and I feel my stomach do a world-class backflip. I can’t help feeling a little surprised at myself; for the first time in years, I’ve put myself out there and actually interacted with a guy who, it has to be said, is quite good-looking. The barman comes over and, after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, I place my drinks order first.
‘As in Cleopatra?’ Scott raises his eyebrows and smiles when the barman leaves. ‘Like the nineties girl band?’
I laugh so hard that a snort comes out. Oh, very attractive, Cleo.
‘I usually get the Egyptian queen, but yeah, the girl band too! Cleopatra comin’ atcha.’
‘We’re gonna blow the roof, gonna blow it.’ His singing voice – along with his knowledge of nineties pop-song lyrics – is surprisingly good.
‘And there was me thinking you were going to break out ‘Especially for You’. Being called Scott Robinson, it’s kind of expected,’ I shoot back.
‘
Touché.’
The barman brings over my drinks and turns his attention to Scott. As he’s ordering, I watch him and begin to notice things about him. The way his eyes crease as he smiles, the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and furrows his brow as he tries to remember what flavour of crisps to ask for. My heart rate quickens a little and I can feel my palms begin to sweat.
What the hell is wrong with me?!
Scott senses me looking at him and meets my gaze with a smile as he waits for his drinks. My breath catches in my chest and, as I go to say something, a loud hiccup escapes from my mouth instead.
‘I-I should probably go,’ I say with a weak chuckle, before any more strange sounds can slip out. ‘Have a good night!’
I do a clumsy little wave, spin on my heel and start to walk away. My cheeks begin to burn as I replay the awful hiccup in my mind. Doesn’t exactly scream “elegant and sophisticated”, does it? Then again, I can’t seem to be graceful around Scott, no matter how hard I try.
A voice behind me makes me stop in my tracks. ‘Wait a minute!’
I turn round to see Scott coming to a halt in front of me. The barman pokes his head round the corner, his brow furrowed with confusion.
‘You want these pints or not, mate?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec…’ Scott flashes a thumbs-up in the barman’s direction and turns back to me. ‘Will I, um… Will I see you in the gym again any time soon?’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘I’m not sure about that! I think I’m a bit of a liability when it comes to gym equipment, don’t you?’
‘I prefer to think of it as you keeping things interesting,’ he replies. ‘I’d had a pretty quiet day before you got stuck.’
The unexpected compliment catches me off-guard and for a moment, I’m worried I might hiccup again.
Luckily it comes to nothing. ‘Well, I’m glad I could help! I’ll come back soon, once I’ve recovered from my rowing machine-related trauma.’