What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story)

by Shaw, O. C

  What goes around comes around

  By

  O.C Shaw

  Text copyright © 2013 O.C Shaw

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue – 8 weeks later

  Chapter 1

  Do you ever have conversations with people where they remark how they seem to have blinked and an hour has flown by, or a week, or a year? This morning I have been having one of those moments, except that I find myself standing in front of my mirror at home, looking at my reflection and realising that somehow eighteen years have gone by. And I can’t for the life of me really tell you much about it – what I was doing, what I achieved, what the hell happened. What I’m most afraid of is that the next time I wake up, another eighteen years will have gone, and I’ll find myself fifty-five years old and feeling like somehow I missed virtually my whole life. So today, this morning, as I stand there looking at myself, I take stock: I decide that I, Lily Lambert, am unremarkable, and not in a good way, at least not in a way I am happy with. As I examine myself and take in my reflection – my short stature, heart-shaped face framed by long, dark, wavy (slightly frizzy) hair, and excessive curves – I figuratively weigh myself (I can’t face the actual scales) and find myself wanting. I have reached the grand age of thirty-seven and awakened to find myself an overweight, married mother of twin boys, and while I know many people would tell me to suck it up and get on with it, that I’m lucky to have so much, something I can’t quite define seems to have clicked inside me. I have an overwhelming sense that it’s now or never if I’m going to make any changes for the better in my life. In truth I’m not even sure if it’s going to be possible. Midlife crisis? I wonder. Maybe. Maybe I’m already too late? It’s a depressing thought. However, when all is said and done, the only question that really remains is: if I’m going to do it, what the hell do I do? How do I start to change?

  Several hours later I find myself walking through the doorway of the local gym for an initial assessment with my newly assigned instructor, Stuart. It would be fair to say my considering joining a gym is entirely out of character, as evidenced by my husband Greg’s derisive sniggering when I told him over the phone why I was going to be late home from work this evening. However, it feels like it’s completely in line with my newfound desire to shake up my world – and frankly, Greg’s disapproval provided clear evidence of that. The only thing I could put this particular flash of inspiration down to was too much time spent listening to the loquacious lady on the morning T.V. before my shift at work. She had a lot to answer for, and not just this mad foray into exercise; I have also attempted numerous new recipes at her behest, lured into thinking it would all be so easy, thanks to the overuse of phrases like ‘all you have to do’ and ‘just’ strategically placed in front of some improbable task. So once again, for a few brief moments this morning, after my epiphany at the mirror, I had really believed her when she said that I could ‘easily make changes to my body and in turn my life’, long enough to pick up the phone and make the appointment for after work. Stupid, really, in retrospect, I think as I walk into the reception area preoccupied by thoughts of the horror to come. In my distracted state, and in line with my innate tendency towards clumsiness, I manage to trip over the mat which lies just inside the doorway and send myself barrelling forward into some poor unsuspecting soul who just happens to be trying to leave the building as I’m arriving. Instead he ends up with my head in his stomach and emitting a loud “ooof” as I knock all the wind out of him, before finally sprawling in an undignified heap on the floor. I flush bright red as I stagger back to my feet in an uncoordinated scramble, whilst one of the instructors comes running towards us.

  “God, James, are you okay?” The object of his concern is still bent double, clearly winded by my unprovoked attack. I’m mortified, mumbling my apologies, as I take in the figure before me, now being supported by the instructor. I can see why my head still hurts, I think, absentmindedly rubbing it while simultaneously taking in the visible outline of his firm abs encased in a plain white t-shirt as the person gradually unrolls and tries to return to an upright position. When I finally see his face, my mouth falls open and goes dry. He’s the very definition of ‘jaw-droppingly gorgeous’; ‘made for T.V.’ / model stuff, sporting dark hair combined with sky blue eyes on top of the finest body you could wish to see. He isn’t a youth, either; he looks about my own age, judging by the small brushes of grey that pepper the hair by his ears, but he wears it well – far better than I do, if his physical shape is anything to go by. Curiously he also seems somehow familiar. All of this flashes through my mind in the moments of his recovery, while the instructor anxiously hovers beside him. Mr Abs must have seen me staring and clocked my reaction to him because by the time my eyes reach back up to his face, he’s returning my stare quite brazenly and making me blush again. On seeing my response, he smirks in a way I find frankly irritating before rolling his eyes and turning to the instructor, saying: “I hope your public liability insurance is all in order?” and casting a meaningful nod back in my direction.

  I flush yet again, God, I hardly ever blush normally, in part because I’m embarrassed but mostly because I’m pissed off that he didn’t have the grace to just leave me to wallow in my humiliation and let me creep away. I mumble final apologies while trying simultaneously to back away from the pair of them:

  “Sorry, I’ll try not to hurt you again. You’ve no need to worry really, I normally only take myself out with my clumsiness”, before muttering another last “sorry” to no one in particular and staggering my way over to the reception desk to book in. I say ‘staggering’ because I manage to catch my bag strap round my legs and nearly trip myself again. I force myself to not look around this time in an effort to retain some last shred of dignity, hoping to God they haven’t been watching, but I swear I hear two sniggers coming from behind me. My humiliation complete, I feel like turning tail and running for home before I even start. But I take a deep breath when I finally reach the desk and determine, as I have come this far, I really need to see it through. Anyway it would have just meant walking past the pair of them again, as they’re still standing by the door talking and casting occasional glances in my direction, which would have just been even more embarrassing. Anyway, surely there couldn’t be any further mishaps to face? It turns out I was wrong.

  My new instructor, Stuart, had to (of course) be the witness to my humiliating entrance debacle. As he walks me to his private room for my initial assessment, I could swear he’s deliberately staying a couple of steps away from me, in case I suddenly try to take him out. He begins to take a medical history, looking amused as I catalogue my history of minor sprains and breaks.

  “I can be a bit clumsy,” I explain a little sheepishly this time. />
  “I can see that,” is all he says, while trying to smother a grin, endeavouring to maintain a professional expression. He asks me questions about where I work, trying to assess my level of daily activity, and when I tell him I work on reception at a doctors’ surgery, he can’t contain himself. He openly laughs, telling me how ‘that must be convenient’, in between sniggers. I want to scowl at him, but in the end I can’t help joining in and laughing too, admitting how it’s something of a standing joke at work. By the end of the interview I realise he is actually just a nice person, despite finding humour in my clumsiness. He even makes the pain of being weighed and measured, and told I am officially overweight (looking far too close to the obese range for my liking), less painful than it might have been because he is so utterly convinced that I can do something to change it. ‘All’ (there’s one of those words again) I needed to do was regularly come to the gym and follow the simple programme he has given me, and the weight is bound to fall off, he assures me. So, despite hating the scrutiny of the fellow gym users, I obediently trot around the gym after him as he demonstrates to me how to use the various pieces of equipment. Some of the others surreptitiously watch my progress, but at least I make it through without any further breakages of me or anything (or anyone) else. Stuart is great, and he reassures me all the time it will be a simple job to make the changes I am after. The cynic inside me tells me he is offering the kind of insincere reassurance of someone who can only profit, now he has my membership fee and direct debit details. He shouldn’t care, I figure, because either way he wins: if I don’t keep up the visits, he still keeps my money, and if I do, then he can lay claim to my miraculous transformation.

  “I’ve seen worse,” he assures me at one point. Clearly he believes this small gift of kindness will make me feel better about myself, but I’m not sure it does, really. I just feel like a clumsy oaf surrounded by beautiful people, like the guy I ran into at the door, I think, remembering those beautiful blue eyes and losing myself for a second in the memory.

  Having said all that, I complete the programme and feel loads better for it, right up until the point that I’m standing in the shower afterwards and catch sight of a twenty-something lovely staring at me through the small gap (where the curtain never quite meets the wall) with an expression of undisguised pity on her face. She’s like my complete polar opposite: tall, blonde, thin, pretty and young. I think I might actually hate her for being so perfect. I can feel the endorphins generated by my gym exertions disappearing down the plughole of the shower along with the shampoo bubbles, unidentified hairs and my confidence as I wither under her scrutiny.

  Body confidence has never really been my thing. Even at my supposed best, during my late teens and early twenties, I had erred towards oversized cardigans and baggy jumpers, combined with jeans in an effort to mask my perceived body inadequacies. I told everyone else at the time it was because I didn’t care about fashion, that I wasn’t shallow, but I’m not sure what I said was entirely the truth. In retrospect I probably just made myself look worse than I needed to, but I’ve never really felt any better over the years, especially after the kids.

  I can feel my shoulders hunching further forward in an effort to hide myself from scrutiny, as I endeavour to speed up the washing and rinsing process and escape into the gloomy anonymity of the changing room. On a positive note, I tell myself, at least she had noticed me – that doesn’t happen every day. These days it feels unusual to be noticed by anyone at all, unless I’m falling over something. Maybe I’m overly sensitive, but it seems as if I’m reaching an age where people look past me, or through me, to something lovelier or more interesting beyond. I know I shouldn’t care so much, that I am being shallow to even be bothered, and I also know my family would never understand how I feel. They think my sole purpose in life is to serve their needs, and (to be fair to them) maybe it is. Maybe I am being selfish. But I have spent the last 18 years not being selfish, I decide.

  I have reasons to be cheerful today, I remind myself; I have worked every part of my body in a way it has frankly not seen since I did gym at school. Well, not even then, given my tendency at the time to find any excuse I could to avoid all forms of exercise. The problem was the less exercise I did, the worse the problem of my weight (and therefore my confidence) became, because my appetite was never an issue. I’m not entirely stupid, as I think some thin people seem to assume fat and overweight people are. I do know the facts about energy in, energy out and the theory of how to keep yourself thin, but overeating and low self-esteem are a vicious cycle I can’t seem to escape. I was constantly told when I was younger that I was ‘chubby’ or had ‘such a pretty face’, much to my horror, but I have always considered myself too far gone to feel strong enough to do anything about it. Until now. So anyway, here I am, years later, trying to put right what is possibly beyond saving, as a first step to making changes in my life. For now, though, it is time to return to the real world and Greg, so I pick up my bag with a sigh and make my way out towards the car.

  Chapter 2

  Greg and I first met at university, when I was barely nineteen. He had been my first (and only) real boyfriend – an ‘older’ guy of twenty-four who had totally dazzled me. He was tall and thin, with the kind of disregard for fashion and physical appearance that had called to my emotionally scarred self-image. To be honest, with the way I felt about myself after the horror of school, I expected it would be unlikely anyone would like me, let alone find me in any way attractive. It meant that I was pathetically grateful for any attention from the opposite sex. Greg was doing a fine art degree, but he was one of those people who just seemed to know something about everything – a worldly intellectual to my naive eyes who could run rings round me in any argument and made me feel in awe of his greater wisdom. It felt like I fell in love the moment I saw him, hardly daring to believe that someone so magnificent could want anything to do with me, even as a friend. In the end I gave my virginity to him and was happy to do so, despite the fact that, in retrospect, the experience left much to be desired. It certainly bore no relation to the toe-curlingly delightful experiences I had read about in the romance novels I had devoured throughout my adolescence.

  I remember a lot of fumbling and pushing, followed by a harder push, until he finally gained the entrance he sought, and I distinctly remember being shocked that it had really hurt me at first; I suppose I wasn’t entirely ready, especially with it being my first time and all, but his lust quickly took over and made him oblivious to my responses, or lack of them. He had started moving quickly in and out of me anyway, caught up in his own rhythm. The initial discomfort eased slightly as my body had caught up. And I recall it had started to generate some nice feelings inside of me, so that I was starting to think I might like it, when he had quite suddenly groaned and collapsed on top of me, crushing me slightly as he lay there panting for a few moments, before swiftly pulling out, rolling over onto the bed beside me and falling asleep virtually instantly.

  I was left lying there trying to get a handle on my scattered emotions. On the one hand I remember I felt joy at the loss of my virginity finally, while on the other, a part of me registered that the experience had been completely underwhelming, and somehow even at that stage I couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t meant to be slightly more to it.

  On reflection, and with the twenty-twenty hindsight of a much older (and wiser?) woman, the speed with which I moved in to share a room with him, taking on the role of his washer woman, cleaner, cook and lover should have set off some alarm bells. My best friend at college, Emma, did try to warn me many times, but to be honest I thought I was completely in love by that stage, and therefore blind to any flaws in my new boyfriend. I was happy when he grudgingly let it be known that we were together. I put up with any derogatory comments he made about me when we were with friends, despite Emma telling me in anxious tones that I shouldn’t, that he was too controlling, that I was losing my own identity. To be fair to him, at times he could
be a model boyfriend – mostly when we were alone. He ‘rewarded’ me with sex every night, although it always followed a similar routine to that first time, no real foreplay, just functional sex until he came; but despite my lack of sexual fulfilment from the physical relationship, just the fact it was me he wanted to have sex with every night was enough to see me through.

  The first fly in the ointment – and it was a massive, bluebottle-sized fly – had come several months into our relationship when Greg had pointed out that I was getting ‘even fatter’. We had been out with our main group of friends at the time, and he had made the comment as I had eased back into my seat after having bought a round of drinks for everyone, narrowly avoiding dropping the tray of full glasses as I squeezed back round the table. The comment had hurt a lot, especially seeing Greg laughing along with all the others. I laughed it off, saying it was probably contentment, but something about the remark had niggled, and not just the cruelty coming from someone who supposedly cared about me, made so very publicly about an issue he knew I was sensitive about. I was certain I wasn’t eating more; despite a bit more alcohol in my life compared to my pre-university days, there really wasn’t any reason for me to be putting on weight – and yet I knew subconsciously I was. Only that morning I had changed into a skirt with an elastic waist because my jeans hadn’t fit me. It was the following day, while bemoaning the unfairness of my life, and more particularly my weight, to Emma that she tentatively asked if there could be any other reasons for my weight gain. An emergency rush to the chemist, followed by two pregnancy tests, and the reason was depressingly clear – the rate of colour change on the little stick was indisputable. I was pregnant. Worse was to come when, following a trip to the GP, and then the antenatal clinic, I was found to be almost twenty weeks gone – with twins.

  I remember Greg had flipped his lid when I told him. I had never before seen him so incredibly angry. “You stupid bitch,” he had yelled, “how the hell did you let that happen?”