How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  I ran until I reached home, my miserable, bitter, whining anxiety snapping at my heels the whole way.

  I rewarded myself with bacon and maple syrup on my pancakes that day. Men who couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves could go and run right off the top of a cliff, for all I cared. They didn’t know anything about me, or how I’d got there.

  The day my home became my prison would be forever scarred onto my soul. Things had been getting progressively worse for the previous few years. Some ups, like getting my job as a bid writer through an old friend of Cee-Cee’s, eventually saving enough money to move Joey and me out of her house and into a place of our own. Lots of downs: continuing to be estranged from my parents, growing increasingly isolated as anxiety dominated my decisions, struggling to make ends meet while juggling a job and a small child, continuing to depend on Cee-Cee as my self-esteem rotted.

  It was all too easy to accept Cee-Cee’s offers to organise things, or take Joey to school. She’d never settled back properly into coaching once I’d left the squad, grumbling about ‘all talk and not enough talent’, but I suspected the truth was that my career ending had hit her hard, seriously damaging her reputation and rattling her confidence. And so when she slipped into early retirement, we ended up propping each other up with our mutual guilt – while I had ruined her only chance at training an Olympic champion, along with her future career, I knew she blamed herself for pushing me too hard, and losing sight of the girl behind the ultimate goal, resulting in my current anxiety issues.

  So, her way of making it up to me was by accompanying me out and about more and more. Most people assumed she was my mum, and Cee-Cee didn’t bother to correct them. She had no family of her own to speak of, and so in a weird way that was sort of what she’d become. Every eighteen months or so, I’d have a go at clawing back some independence, knowing that most adult daughters don’t need their mothers to come along to a routine dental appointment. Unnerved at how difficult I was starting to find it to do things alone, I would tell Cee-Cee we’d get the bus instead of accepting a lift. I’d have a feeble attempt at making my own decisions. Wonder if I could actually go about making a new friend or two somehow.

  Then dawned the fateful Day of Doom.

  I’d managed our current Cee-Cee holiday for five days. A record. It’d been tough, I’d nearly cracked more than once, but, like any addiction, I was praying things would get easier the longer we held out. Until something as simple as running out of tampons – an easy-breezy hop and a skip to the shops for most people (especially the women on those old tampon adverts; they’d whizz there on a skateboard, or hang glide to the square or something). To me, it felt, mentally, like a trek up Mount Everest. For a moment, I considered asking my ten-year-old son to go to the supermarket and buy feminine hygiene products. And then I had a brief flash, like a light bulb switching on, of just how low I’d sunk to even have that thought.

  I threw on an old jumper and hurried to the shops. Joey was at football club, but the shop was packed with mums and children, teenagers in hoodies swarming around the snacks, pushchairs blocking half the aisles. My panic levels began to rise, adrenaline pulsing through my bloodstream in time with my pounding heart. I started to shake, felt the nausea slosh around in my stomach. Head down, I pushed past a cluster of kids, my aim to grab what I needed and get out of there.

  It was as I reached for the blue packet that I heard it.

  ‘It is. It’s her.’

  ‘Nah, can’t be. What’d she be doing here?’

  ‘She’s buying incontinence pads! That’s so hilarious.’

  ‘Shhhh! It’s not her.’

  ‘It is! She just looks different cos she’s got so fat.’

  ‘Man. That’s so tragic. And those clothes. What happened to all her money?’

  ‘Well, it obviously didn’t go on a hairdresser.’

  ‘Just goes to show. What goes around comes around. She flaked out, and now she’s an ugly cow who pees her pants.’

  ‘Hey, take a photo. We could sell it!’

  The floor of the shop bucked beneath me like an agitated bull as I turned and frantically headed for the exit. Lurching towards the door, I bumped against more people, all of whom had become a blur. My head clanged, drowning out any other sounds.

  Including the sound of the two women who’d been slagging me off reporting me to the manager. And the sound of him ordering me to stop, not to exit the shop.

  Even if I had heard, I don’t think I could have turned around.

  Until a grip on my shoulder forced me to a halt, dragged me back into the supermarket as onlookers gaped and gawped and gossiped and giggled.

  Cee-Cee fetched me from the manager’s office an hour later. She knew his sister, had been a loyal customer for years. Her concise explanation about my previous mental breakdown was enough for them to let the matter drop.

  And while I may have suffered no formal punishment for my crime of stealing a box of sanitary products, the actual punishment had been two years, three months’ imprisonment. My jailer, agoraphobia. Her deputy, panic attacks.

  But not any more. I was currently rocking my parole.

  13

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day Twenty-Seven

  The following Wednesday, Joey’s swim coach called to ask if he could drop Joey home after training that evening and talk to me about the Gladiators trial. A man in the house!?! I squeezed into my least awful pair of jeans (slightly less squeezy than last time I put them on) and faffed about with my hair for an embarrassing amount of time. Make-up? Did I have any left anywhere? While for all Mr Gallagher knew, I wore make-up every day, Joey hadn’t seen me dolled up in years. He might – might – be tactful enough not to blurt out a comment, but he’d notice. And I’d notice Joey noticing. I dabbed a blob of concealer under each eye and left it at that.

  Feeling almost on the spectrum of respectable parent, I had positioned myself in a studious, professional, capable manner at my desk when they arrived.

  ‘Hey, Joey. How was training?’ I adjusted my smile to extra-normal and got up to greet them.

  The smile went AWOL.

  ‘Mum, this is Coach Gallagher,’ Joey said.

  ‘Nathan.’ Coach Gallagher, otherwise known as hand-holding-but-also-patronising-man-who-haunts-my-dreams added, ‘Nice to see you again.’

  Should have gone for full face of make-up. At least some foundation to hide my flush.

  ‘Amy. Um. Hi.’ I stood there, for the life of me unable to remember the protocol for this. And by ‘this’, I mean interaction with a human being.

  ‘I’ll make a drink,’ Joey said, rolling his eyes. ‘Go and sit down and I’ll bring it through. Do you want tea, Coach?’

  ‘Just a glass of water, thanks.’

  ‘Mum? Tea?’

  ‘Right. Yes. Good idea.’

  After a few more seconds, I managed to get my nervous system back in gear and led Nathan into the living room. We stood there for a moment, fidgeting, until deciding it was probably best to sit down.

  ‘How’s the running going?’ he asked, after a few seconds had limped by.

  ‘Okay.’ Knowing I was appearing rude, which probably wouldn’t help Joey in the long run, I tried to force my eyes over to at least his general direction.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said.’ He pulled his hat off, revealing mid-brown, mussed-up hair with streaks of natural highlights. ‘I didn’t mean anything… personal.’

  I flapped my hand in what was supposed to be a dismissive gesture but ended up more like a drunken chicken impression. ‘It’s fine. Sore subject, that’s all. I’m sorry I ran off.’

  ‘Which time?’

  Uummmm…

  Nathan raised his eyebrows, but his mouth quirked up, managing to dissolve a smidgen of the tension.

  So, yes, when I’d spied him running up ahead a couple more times, once with a group in matching sky-blue T-shirts, I may have bolted in the opposite direction. On Saturday, I�
�d possibly dodged him a total of four times, diving off the path into the undergrowth once or twice. It was almost as if he was following me. Except that would be impossible, given that an elderly slug would end up overtaking me.

  Fortunately, before it became too obvious that I had absolutely no answer to that, Joey came in with the drinks.

  ‘Have you decided anything?’ he asked, stretching out across the carpet on his elbows.

  ‘Not yet.’ I picked up my mug, carefully, praying my nervous hands wouldn’t drop it. ‘I watched a video of Joey’s race, from the county meet,’ I said to a spot on the wall behind Nathan’s head.

  Nathan leant forwards. ‘Joey’s an extremely talented athlete. He’s probably the best I’ve seen in ten years of coaching. At Brooksby, his only competition is against himself. I think he deserves a shot at the Gladiators.’ He shifted focus to Joey. ‘If you’re up for the challenge, and the hard work that’ll follow, I’d really like to help you get there.’

  ‘I’m happy for him to do the trial. The problem is what happens if he passes. We don’t have a car. There’s no way he can get to early morning training and be back in time for school, and if he’s trekking over there on the bus six nights a week, I’m worried about how that’ll impact everything else.’

  ‘They’re starting training sessions in Greasby once the pool’s reopened. It’s, I don’t know, maybe April, or the beginning of May?’

  ‘It opens on Easter Monday. The last weekend in April.’ My liver did a tiny quiver and I tried not to think about the glossy invitation.

  ‘That’s, what, a fifteen-minute bus ride? If the trial can be postponed ’til April, then Joey can up his training at Brooksby in the meantime. I’d be really happy to do some extra sessions, give him a feel for what it’s like training every day, at that level. I’ve not coached anyone for nationals before, but I’ve spent quite a bit of time with the Loughborough Uni squad. What do you think, Joey?’

  Joey sat up, resting his arms on crossed legs. ‘I sort of want to get it done as soon as I can. I’ll be years behind most of the squad already. But if I can get more training in and get in the best shape possible when I join, that’s good.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know how else we’d work it,’ I said. ‘Even if someone gave you a lift every day, you’d not manage it. They won’t tolerate two minutes late for training because the traffic was bad.’

  He mused on this for a while. ‘And by April it’ll be easier for you to come. You’ll be smashing the Programme.’

  ‘The Programme?’ Nathan asked, completely overstepping into none of his business.

  ‘I’m working on my agoraphobia,’ I muttered, before Joey could mention the actual title.

  ‘Ah, okay. Is running part of the Programme?’

  ‘Are we done talking about me?’ Joey asked, standing up and stretching until his fingers brushed the ceiling. ‘Great. See you, Coach. Oh, and awesome. Thanks.’

  They did some male fist-bump thing and Joey left. As in, left me and Nathan, the incredibly fit-looking guy who suddenly seemed to take up half of my living room, alone, together. In a previous life, I’d been conditioned to appreciate tall people with broad shoulders who loved swimming, but now I had no idea how to converse politely with a stranger in my house.

  ‘Were you following me?’

  Hello, Amy?!? THAT’S what you decide to blurt?!?

  Nathan shuffled on the chair, picked up his glass and put it down again. ‘Um, I’d prefer to call it keeping an eye on you.’

  What?! He was following me? I gaped, unsure how to respond.

  ‘I feel nervous seeing women running alone. Someone I know got attacked a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh my goodness. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Was she okay? I mean, as okay as you can be, after…’

  ‘She’s in a wheelchair.’ Nathan shrugged. ‘Had a rough couple of years, but she’s doing really well now. Married Chris, the guy who runs the café in the square?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. I don’t know him…’

  ‘Right. Yes. Of course. Sorry.’

  Please don’t apologise for momentarily forgetting I’m a social freak.

  ‘So, now you’ve taken it upon yourself to stalk random women about the woods to keep them safe?’ I smiled, to show I got it.

  ‘Precisely. I stalk the one random woman I’ve seen who’s either crazy or audacious enough to run alone, in the dark, through the middle of nowhere. Anyone else joins my club.’ He handed me a sky-blue flyer he’d pulled out of his tracksuit top.

  ‘The Larkabouts?’

  ‘An early morning running club. This time of year, we head out in the dark, so you should be fine.’

  I scanned the leaflet. Wednesdays and Sundays, they met at Brooksby Leisure Centre at 6 a.m. A group of muddy women, arms around each other, grinned triumphantly at me.

  ‘They’re a really friendly, supportive group. You should come along, give it a go.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll think about it.’ I wasn’t lying. I would definitely think about making sure my runs didn’t coincide with the Larkabouts. Staggering through the woods in my hideous leggings and ratty hoodie, thighs wobbling and chest jiggling, sweat dripping, heaving for breath and flinching at imaginary danger was bad enough on my own. Throw in introductions, small talk about my non-existent life – or even worse, my significant past life – flailing around miles behind the rest, soon becoming the comedy member of the group. Yuk. No thanks.

  ‘Great. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.’ Nathan’s soft grey eyes crinkled up in a smile.

  Now that comment was almost enough to make me change my mind. Or sprint hell for leather in the opposite direction. I couldn’t decide which. I did wonder, after our slightly awkward goodbye, how many of the Larkabouts had suddenly found an interest in early morning running once they’d seen the head of the flock.

  For some reason, after entertaining a man in my house, I decided to have a clear-out of my kitchen cupboards. Joey came down later, looking for supper, and enthusiastically joined in dumping anything that Cee-Cee called ‘low-grade fuel’, which basically meant all processed, sugary, trans-fatty, scrumptious food. We set aside anything non-perishable for the local food bank and dumped the rest.

  ‘What’s the deal with the pool at Greasby?’ Joey asked, as he chucked a multi-pack of midget gems into the food-bank bag. ‘You went all twitchy when Nathan mentioned it.’

  ‘Coach Gallagher.’

  ‘He said to call him Nathan! And you knew the date it opens again. Why would you know that?’

  ‘He invited me to call him Nathan, not you. And I know the date because of this.’ I tossed a dried-up packet of pepperoni in the bin and fetched the invitation out of my desk.

  Joey took it from me, reading with interest.

  ‘They’ve invited you to the grand reopening of the leisure centre? That’s pretty cool!’

  I waited for him to read a bit further.

  ‘WHAT!? The AMELIA PIPER SWIMMING CENTRE!’ He stared at the card, mouth hanging open. ‘They want you to give a speech and present the prize for a sporting event to be confirmed at a later date! Why didn’t you tell me? This is unbelievable!’

  ‘Weeellll…’

  ‘No. Mum. You have to go. You are going, aren’t you? Is this why you’ve started the Programme?’ He grabbed onto both my shoulders. ‘Mum, you can’t not go! This is like, so cool. Promise you’ll go! You have to promise.’

  ‘I’ve not said I won’t do it.’

  ‘Muu-uu-uum! You won a gold medal!’ He stepped back, waving his arms about. ‘You deserve this. It could be, like, your big comeback after disappearing for all these years. And you’ll do a killer speech and I bet the Gladiators will be there and everyone will know you’re not a weirdo recluse woman, you’re an awesome gold medallist. You won’t have to hide any more.’ Tucking one hand under each of my armpits, he lifted me up onto my tiptoes until our faces nearly touched. ‘You have to go. They’re naming a pool after you. That’s an
amazing honour,’ he said in a voice like he was the adult, and I a truculent child.

  ‘I know. I’m thinking about it, honestly,’ I mumbled, as he dropped me back down.

  ‘And imagine how embarrassing it’ll be if you don’t show up. You’ll never be able to reveal your true identity then.’

  ‘I’m not hiding my true identity, I just don’t want to advertise it. And I don’t want you judged on who your mum is.’

  ‘Yeah. I get that, I don’t want any favourable treatment because of you, either.’ He absent-mindedly opened one of the ‘reject’ crisp packets and shovelled a handful in his mouth.

  Oh, Joey. I wasn’t worried about the swimming world treating him better if they knew who his mother was…

  But he had a point, that things might be worse for him – and me – in the long run if I didn’t show. It was a mystery why they’d decided to name a pool after me. Granted, I went to school in the village next to Greasby, which makes me the most successful sportswoman in the local area. But, still. Community buildings don’t get named after someone who turned out to be a national scandal. At least, they shouldn’t.

  I’d had hideous nightmares about me shuffling in, all my muscle turned to blubber. My hair self-cut, wearing an online outfit that, like most things you can’t try before you buy, neither fit nor flattered. The courageous woman hiding deep down inside me knew that size, appearance, split ends, don’t make a person, or determine their worth or success. But I was ashamed, not of my looks (okay, not only of my looks), but of the truth they represented: that the swimmer who never gave up had given up. On herself, on life, on having any purpose. I hadn’t just let myself go physically, but emotionally, spiritually. I had literally let myself disappear into nothingness.