What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) (3 page)

As I push my key into the front door I can hear the sound of
raised voices coming from inside, and the positive glow I have been feeling dies
a little.  Greg is inside – he must have finished his work in the shed for
the day – and so too is at least one of the boys, judging from what I can
hear.  I prefer it when there’s no one in when I get home; it’s just easier
that way.

“Where have you been?” is the instant call to the sound of
the front door opening.  The gym has pushed my normal routine back by more than
an hour, and Greg’s generally not good with any sort of change in his life or daily
routine – not that it has happened often, to be fair.

“I went to the gym – I told you I was going to.  You
laughed at me, remember?” I remind him as I haul the bags of groceries I had
picked up on my way home onto the side in the kitchen.  The house looks a
wreck, and despite having been there most of the day, Greg has done little
about it, leaving it instead for me to do when I have finished preparing their
meal, despite being the only one who has spent any time that day at paying
work.

“What a joke!” Ethan says snidely as he walks in behind me,
immediately rummaging in the bags to see what I have bought for tea.

“What is this shit?” he asks, pulling out the pasta sauce I
had grabbed quickly from the shelf in the supermarket, knowing it could be
ready quickly and hoping to head off exactly this sort of confrontation.  I can’t
help myself and sigh loudly in a rare outward sign of dissent, and he glances
up at me in surprise.

“It’s dinner,” I say quietly.  “If you don’t like it, then
feel free to go out to the shop, buy yourself something different and cook it.” 
Ethan looks at me like I’ve grown horns suddenly, and even Greg looks up from
the newspaper.

“What’s the matter with you?” Greg growls.

“Nothing.  I’m just saying this is what I’m cooking.  And if
he doesn’t like it, then he’s old enough to do something about it himself.”

“Yeah, well, the stupid little shit managed to lose his job
today, so he can’t afford to go and buy himself diddly squat,” he says
scathingly, casting a disapproving parental stare at Ethan.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Ethan whines, sounding more like eight
than eighteen.

“Whose fault was it, then, if you can’t manage to get your
lazy arse out of bed in time for work?  You’ve already had two warnings about
the same thing,” Greg comments, warming to his theme, having clearly been round
this particular conversational loop several times already, so having
anticipated Ethan’s response.  I reflect inwardly that it is somewhat ironic to
hear Greg criticising others about their work ethic, when he has done precisely
nothing over the last 18 years to support the family income; but I know better
than to make any comment.  Ethan, however, is far less circumspect.

“Oh yeah, that’s rich, coming from you!” I flinch at the
words as Greg jumps instantly to his feet, years of rejection and resentment
blazing in his eyes.

“Who are you, you little shit, to criticise me? You have no
idea about what I have achieved in my work, despite everything I’ve had against
me.  I work hard every single day, and the fact that my work is not fully appreciated
yet is not my fault.  But it will happen, I assure you – one day I will
see my work recognised for its importance, and you will see I was right.”

I roll my eyes before I can help myself, having heard this
same tirade more times over the years than I can possibly count.  Unfortunately
for me, this time Greg catches sight of the expression and his anger ignites
further.  He lashes out at the bag of shopping, sending the sauce bottle
smashing to the floor. “Fuck this,” he snarls, grabbing his coat and keys and slamming
the front door on his way out.  I know he’s going to the pub; he always has in times
of stress.  I also know in my heart that this tirade isn’t over, at least not
where I’m concerned – he’ll be back to punish me later.  I sigh again and
look at Ethan, who is surveying the mess in the kitchen with a disgusted
expression on his face.

“Stupid,” he says to no one in particular before walking
out, as if this is somehow my fault for buying pasta sauce in the first place. 
I sigh again before starting the process of clearing up all the mess, reflecting
that if my life had a soundtrack these days, the signature sound would be one
long sigh.

The noise of my phone beeping with a text from within my bag
distracts me from the mess momentarily, as I am just finishing wiping the last
of the sauce off the floor tiles.  I pause to root around in my bag and find my
phone, which as usual has migrated right to the bottom, before I finally get
the chance to look at the message.  It’s from Emma.  Emma is one of the few
people from college I’m still in contact with, apart from Greg.  Time and again,
she has shown herself to be a true friend to me over the years; helping with
the kids when they were younger every time I felt I had reached a point where I
just couldn’t go on anymore.  The kids called her Aunt Emma when they were
little, and to be honest she has done far more for them than either Greg’s parents
or mine – or Greg, for that matter.  Emma was the only one who ever
thought to take the kids off to the park just so I could have a bath or sleep
for a couple of hours when they were small, after I was at my wits’ end having
been awake all night with one or both of them.

More recently, now that the boys were older and out doing
their own thing, Emma and I have started to enjoy more adult time together again. 
We meet up in the pub regularly on Tuesday evenings for a couple of drinks and
a chance to vent – well, to let me vent, anyway.  Emma’s life had taken a
very different path to my own.  She completely managed to avoid any serious
distractions from boys while she was at university, gaining her law degree and finally
going on to qualify as a solicitor, eventually being taken on by a local
practice which specialised in family law.  I like to think my example of how you
can fuck up your life provided a focus for her and helped her to avoid the
usual distractions life tends to throw at you, enabling her to achieve
everything she wanted to.  She met her husband, a barrister, through work five
years ago, married him, and is now pregnant with their first child which is due
in January.  I really love Emma; she’s like the sister I didn’t have.  She has always
been attractive, the sort of friend who, when you’re with her, makes you feel all
the more aware of your physical failings.  She’s petite, slim, blonde and perky,
and the guys (including Greg) have always just adored her – it seems something
about her size brings out the protective side of most men.  Her husband, Phil, is
gorgeous, and when I first met him she literally had to tell me to close my
mouth because I was gawping at him.  He’s 6 ft 4 and dwarfs her tiny frame, but
he has absolutely doted on her right from the beginning, and now their fairy tale
is complete because they are having their much-wanted baby.  Emma is planning
to take a career break for a while in order to stay at home with the baby, made
possible because Phil earns enough so they can get by on just the one income. It
is all so far removed from my own experiences of love, marriage and parenthood that
I would like to scream about the unfairness of it all occasionally, except that
Emma is my best friend, and she is a good person and deserves to be happy. 
Just
because for some reason fate has decreed I don’t, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t
be glad for my friends, does it?
 

I look down at the text:

C u later at the Anchor?  I’ll be there about 8. E x

I quickly text her back:

Yes – can’t wait

I get back to my clearing up, throwing away all of the
kitchen towels now covered in pasta sauce, before making myself a quick salad
that had originally been planned to accompany my pasta, but now, by necessity,
had to be the whole meal.  I reflect that with my trip to the gym, followed by salad
for tea, the weight will indeed soon be falling off me.

The evening with Emma has been great – the perfect
antidote to my shitty evening at home.  Emma is absolutely delighted to hear
about my trip to the gym, genuinely pleased to know I had been able to do
something for myself for the first time in about... well, 18 years.  She laughs
a lot as I describe my entrance, raising an eyebrow at my description of the
guy I took out.

“Are you blushing, Lil?!” she teases me.  I am.

“It’s just the memory of utter humiliation in a public place
yet again,” I fudge,
but I don’t think it is
.  I keep getting flashes of
that fine body, those eyes... I haven’t had a reaction to a man like that since
I first met Greg.  Unsurprisingly, that night after I get home, my dreams are filled
with people with piercing blue eyes which seem to look straight into my soul.

*********

Emma has been so encouraging about the changes I’m trying to
make that I feel motivated the next day to go to the gym again.  And now after three
weeks of regular gym visits, I’m actually beginning to see the impact on my
body.  It isn’t anything anyone else would notice yet, but I can feel the
slight loosening of the waistband on my jeans, and there’s slightly more muscle
tone all over my body.

As I walk in today, taking my usual care to avoid the mat,
Stuart waves at me like I’m an old friend.  It seems I’m already becoming a
regular, and even the thin people have started to greet me now.  I consider
perhaps I had been wrong about their lack of friendliness in the beginning –
it had nothing to do with what I look like and was more based on the fact they
were as shy as I was, except that in skinny people it seems to come across as
standoffishness, I now realise.  With regular attendance and increased
familiarity, I’m now becoming one of the gym ‘family’, and I’m finding I like
them more than my own family most of the time. I am thinking those warm and
fuzzy thoughts right up until the door to the female changing room is flung
open, when I’m directly in front of it, smashing me on the forehead and
momentarily stunning me so that my knees give way and I crumple to the floor. 
The blonde I had seen on my first visit exits the changing rooms with her bag
slung over her shoulder, casting me a scathing look as she takes in my crumpled
form on the floor.

“Don’t sit there, for God’s sake! People need to be able to
get in and out of the changing room,” she asserts in a tone of voice that
clearly says: “
how can you be so stupid
.”  I’m still too stunned to
respond, and by the time I collect myself enough to consider trying to get to
my feet, let alone informing her she has just nearly knocked me out, she has already
flounced past and out the door.

“Are you okay?” A pair of hands reach under my arms and pull
me to my feet.  For a moment my knees fold as I try to stand, and it is only
the support of my helper which keeps me in place.  Gradually I collect myself enough
to turn and thank my rescuer. 
Of course it had to be
, I think despairingly
as I take in the face and body. It can’t just be any old person; it has to be
the man I’ve been having dreams about since the last time I humiliated myself
in front of him.  I just stand there, looking at him blankly and trying to
fathom what to say until he finally says: “Are you sure you’re okay?” obviously
taking my silence as an indicator of some sort of damage to my brain.  
Not
good
, I think,
I’m coming across as half-witted now
.

“Really, I’m fine.  Thank you for helping me, but I can
manage.”  It sounds ridiculously prim and standoffish even to my own ears.  He
lets go of me, and I instantly miss the feel of his arms upon me.  I watch him
step back and raise an eyebrow while he takes in my appearance before saying:

“Can you?  Really?  All the evidence would seem to indicate
the contrary.  You’re going to have quite a bruise there.” He points at my
forehead.  “I suggest you think about putting some ice on it,” he says before turning
and walking stiffly away into the men’s changing rooms. In retrospect I don’t
think I could have handled the situation worse if I tried, and I regret my
ridiculous response as I watch him disappear again.  With my mind filled with
my latest instalment of hideous embarrassment, I move to finally enter the
changing rooms, when Stuart sees me and calls me over.  I sigh before walking
slowly over, wondering what else could possibly go wrong today.

“Hey, Lily, I was thinking about you today,” he says as I
approach, before peering at me closely and adding, “Have you done something to
your head?”

“You were?” I reply, frankly amazed anyone ever thought
about me when I wasn’t physically in their face.  I choose to ignore the
observation about my latest injury.

“Yeah, we’re putting together a fundraising event for a
family whose five-year-old has been diagnosed with leukaemia, and I thought you
might be just the sort of person who’d like to get involved.  It’s no big deal,
really, just a three peaks type challenge, but with big hills rather than huge
mountains – we thought we’d go up to the Peak District to do it so it’s a
bit more of a challenge, but it won’t be too hard.  I know you’ve got kids, so
I thought you’d be up for it.  The added bonus is that it’s also great exercise.
 And since you’ve been going great guns in here, I thought it might be just
your thing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, taken aback at the thought of
being included in the challenge.  “I’m afraid I’d just hold you back.  I’m not
really fit enough yet.”

“Nonsense, you silly mare,” he laughs, “don’t worry about
that. We already have a real mix of people coming.  Some of them are gym
regulars, but some are the newbies like you.  Pat’s coming, and she’s much less
fit than you are,” he adds.  “We’ll just make sure the group is split so those
who want to go fast can go ahead, and those who don’t can do it at their own
pace.  It’s only over three days, and we’re going to stay in a local house that’s
near the peaks we’re planning to walk, so you’ll even get a little holiday
while you’re at it.  It’ll be perfect.  I’m sure we’ll manage to have a giggle
in the evenings,” he says with a wink which can only be described as naughty. 
I can’t help myself smiling back at him.

“I don’t know,” I hesitate, mentally listing all the reasons
why it would be virtually impossible for me to even think about taking off for
a few days on my own like that.  I start with the most obvious excuse: “I can’t
really justify the cost of getting there; we’re a bit skint at home at the
moment, and I’m spending all my spare cash on gym membership.”  It’s the first
of the many reasons that came to mind, and possibly the most socially
acceptable, while somewhat embarrassing to admit. I can’t imagine telling him
any of the other reasons;
my husband would never let me go away with a load
of other people, let alone blokes
,
or
my husband expects me to be
home so I can cook him his meals
.  Unfortunately for me, Stuart has clearly
anticipated my first excuse and has already prepared a response.

“No, no no, the only thing you need to think about is
putting some money towards food and drink while we’re there; the house is free
because one of the other members owns it as a holiday rental property.  He
knows the guy whose kid is ill and offered it to us free of charge as his
personal contribution.  The place looks amazing, not really a house, more like
a mansion – it sleeps over twenty if we double up in rooms.  It’ll be a
right laugh.  John has offered us a coach from his company, again at no charge,
so it really is just a bit of money for food and drink.  And let’s face it, you’d
need to eat if you were staying at home, so it won’t cost you a lot more.  Oh and
maybe a few quid towards fuel,” he adds as an afterthought.  He knows he has me,
and the smug grin on his face tells me he’s confident I can’t worm my way out.

“Well, I don’t know,” I hedge, “it sounds okay, but let me
speak to Greg and I’ll let you know for sure when I come in again. When is it?”
I suddenly think to ask.

“Great, brilliant!” Stuart says emphatically, as if I’ve already
confirmed my attendance.  He hands me a sponsorship form, telling me: “All the
details are on here.  You might as well make a start getting sponsors soon.  And
I wouldn’t bother trying to nobble anyone here – I’ve already cleaned up –
so you’ll have to try your other mates.”  I’m heartened by his assumption I have
other mates to “nobble”, as he puts it, as I quickly dart across the gym and into
the changing room before he can think of anything else. 

I finally start to change out of my work clothes and get
ready to start my workout, but as I do I catch sight of my reflection in one of
the mirrors and groan.  A brilliant red line that will soon become a vivid purple
bruise marks the middle of my forehead where the door had hit me.  Days and
days of more embarrassment as I’ll be forced to explain what I’ve done to
myself once again lie ahead of me.  I sigh as I finish doing up my laces,
ignoring the throb of my head as I bend forward.

At the beginning my workout, Stuart makes a point of finding
me again and informing me he had taken a quick look at my training regime and
adjusted it to help me prepare properly for the challenge.  I look at the card
and groan inwardly to see the increased resistance weights and gradients he’s
added to what was already a stretching programme as far as I’m concerned.

“Oh, and I’ve found you a roommate too,” he calls over his
shoulder as he walks off to harass some other poor victim.

“Sorry, what?” I ask, momentarily confused, before I realise
he meant for the walking trip. “Who?” I call after him, my anxiety about the
level of commitment he’s already assuming betrayed by my shrill tone. 

If he hears my anxiety, he chooses to ignore it, calling back:
“Annie.  She’s over on the cross-trainer, if you want to introduce yourself.”  And
with that he’s gone again. 

I look over to the cross-trainers and see a couple of women
who could possibly be Annie.  Summoning all my courage I walk over and
tentatively call: “Annie?” to the first lady, who looks to be in her fifties
with a plumpish figure like mine and dark hair.  She shakes her head and points
to a third lady further along the row that I hadn’t seen previously, as she’d
been hidden by the column.  I follow to where she pointed, only to be
confronted with a woman who could have easily been a model.  She’s like some
sort of glamazon, at least six feet tall, with dazzling red hair that falls in
perfect ringlets, where it has escaped its ponytail around her equally
perfectly proportioned face.  Think Elle McPherson with red hair. 
She basically
embodies almost everything I’m not
, I despair inwardly. 

She looks up and catches me staring at her, at which point
her face breaks into a massive grin as she booms: “You must be Lily!  It’s
lovely to meet you.  Stuart mentioned you to me.  What on earth have you done
to your head?” she says, pointing to my bruised forehead.  Annie speaks in the
way people do when they are talking and listening to very loud music at the
same time and don’t realise they are virtually shouting.  She sees me flinch, as
the heads of all the other gym users shoot up and around like meerkats at such
atypical noisiness and stare in our direction.  She quickly pulls off her
headphones.  “Sorry, didn’t meant to shout at you,” she says, followed by
another of her melting smiles.  Frankly, her voice isn’t much quieter than the
first time, but something about her personal magnetism draws me to her, and I can’t
help but smile back.

“I hear we might be sharing a room,” I say, looking up at
her shyly.  She laughs, a great joyous laugh that draws the attention of the
room again and makes me laugh in response this time.

“I can’t wait, Lily.  I’m so overdue a bit of fun.  I don’t
know about you, but some play time with a bit of walking for a good cause
thrown in sounds really good.  I think you and I’ll hopefully have a great time
in between the exercise,” she says with a wink.  I explain to her I still need
to sort out some things at home before I can definitely confirm, but if it’s at
all possible I will try to make it. 

Something about her has me looking forward to going.  She
grins at me and takes my mobile number, immediately entering it into her phone,
insisting we will need to meet up in advance of going to agree who’s going to
bring what, and that she’ll text me to arrange a day and time in case we don’t
bump into each other again at the gym. 

I nod obediently before hesitantly raising my hand in
farewell and then scurrying my way over to the first apparatus on my revised
programme, surreptitiously watching Annie out of the corner of my eye all the
while.  She’s magnificent, with a body to die for.  Not stick-thin, but womanly
with legs which stretch on seemingly for miles.  She laughs her way around the
gym, appearing to know everyone.  I watch their faces light up when she pauses
to speak to them, especially the men.  
Kind of like a red-haired gym version
of Princess Diana
, I muse, feeling small and invisible by comparison.  I know
immediately when she’s left because the electric hum that seems to accompany
her has gone, and the gym seems just a bit less brightly lit and cheerful, so I
buckle down to trying not to fall off the treadmill at the new gradient Stuart
had set me.