A Season of Hopes and Dreams

A Season of Hopes and Dreams Lynsey James A heart-warming romance about hopes and dreams, perfect for fans of Carole Matthews, Milly Johnson and Cathy Bramley.A season of second chances…It’s been a difficult year for Cleo Jones. The car accident that crushed her leg didn’t just destroy the village baker’s dreams of becoming a dancer, but crushed her confidence too. And recovering from that has been harder than healing from any number of broken bones…But this season is going to be different. Life is turning around for Cleo! Maybe it’s the invitation from her childhood bully to their high-school reunion that’s shocked her out of a ten-year slump. Or joining Carb Counters and finally starting to shed the weight she’d piled on during her recovery – or maybe it’s catching the eye of her gorgeous personal trainer!Whatever the answer, this is going to be a feeling she never forgets… watch out world, Cleo Jones is finally fighting back!Praise for Lynsey James'I loved that Lynsey made me so invested in the characters. They all have their quirks and their flaws; they made me laugh, they made me cry and they made me want to scream at my Kindle. Fantastically real.' – Jenny in Neverland‘A feel-good contemporary romance with a difference. Lynsey’s writing style kept me captivated, right to the very end.’ – Reviewed the Book‘Just the Way You Are is a beautiful little story with an ending that was sublime.’ – Book Addict Shaun‘A breath of fresh air. Lynsey James has a flare for writing captivating characters, and has produced wonderful novels.’ – Into the Bookcase‘This charming story is heart-warming, witty and romantic!’ – Rae Reads‘It was a wonderful festive tale absolutely perfect for this time of year!’ – Becca’s Books‘I loved this book and finished it in two days, it is very much unputdownable!’ – Whispering Stories‘An enjoyable summer read’ – The Belgain Reviewer‘A lovely read, which would be perfect for some light holiday reading.’ – Portobello Book Blog A Season for Second Chances… It’s been a difficult year for Cleo Jones. The car accident that crushed her leg didn’t just destroy the village baker’s dreams of becoming a dancer, but crushed her confidence too. And recovering from that has been harder than healing from any number of broken bones… But this season is going to be different. Life is turning around for Cleo! Maybe it’s the invitation from her childhood bully to their high-school reunion that’s shocked her out of a ten-year slump. Or joining Carb Counters and finally starting to shed the weight she’d piled on during her recovery – or maybe it’s catching the eye of her gorgeous personal trainer! Whatever the answer, this is going to be a feeling she never forgets… watch out world, Cleo Jones is finally fighting back! A heart-warming romance about hopes and dreams, perfect for fans of Carole Matthews, Milly Johnson and Cathy Bramley. Also from Lynsey James (#ulink_521ceacf-89e7-5da7-b6ed-20afee011a27) Just the Way You Are The Broken Hearts Book Club (Luna Bay Book One) The Sunflower Cottage Breakfast Club (Luna Bay Book Two) The Silver Bells Christmas Pantomime (Luna Bay Book Three) A Season of Hopes and Dreams Lynsey James ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES LYNSEY JAMES was born in Fife and is an incurable bookworm. A careers adviser at school once told her writing wasn’t a “good option”, so Lynsey has tried a little bit of everything, including make-up artistry, teaching and doing admin for a chocolate fountain company. Now, she finally has fulfilled her dream and is writing full-time. When not writing, eating cake or drinking tea, she’s daydreaming about the day Matthew Gray Gubler finally realises they’re meant to be together. It’ll happen one day… Follow her on Twitter at @Lynsey1991 (http://twitter.com/@Lynsey1991) I’d like to thank my lovely family – Mum, Dad, Kyle, Gran and Dixie – for always being there, always being supportive and believing in me every step of the way. My gorgeous best friend, Jen. “Some girls know all the lyrics to each other’s songs” and I couldn’t be happier that we know the lyrics to each other’s. Thank you for being my life counsellor, Netflix partner in crime, all-seasons friend and everything in between. Jodie, you’re absolutely awesome. Without you tagging me in Friends memes, my life would be a lot darker. Mexican Day will always be ours. Aoife, thank you for helping to bring Scott Robinson to life. I’ll be in touch about your cut… Andi, aka the other half of Team Cheerleader. It’s thanks to you that I have enough book ideas to keep me going until I’m eighty! You’re always so lovely and positive, and help me see the good in myself when I can’t. Victoria, this is our fifth book together and I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to share my stories with everyone. Sarah, thank you so much for being a wonderful agent. This is our first book together and I can’t wait to create more stories with you. To the super-secret writing group, you are all superstars and I feel so lucky to know such a talented, supportive bunch of people. To everyone who’s bought, read and hopefully loved my books: THANK YOU SO MUCH. I couldn’t do this without you all. This book is for everyone who’s ever felt a little bit like Cleo. Keep chasing your dreams and remember that you are always enough. Contents Cover (#u08ea40e6-a4f7-5ec6-b4f1-a432666dec3c) Blurb (#u574affa0-b37d-5443-9130-2f7509cd6096) Book List (#ulink_a2dd11da-5c72-56c1-bf63-6b5bd24a61c5) Title Page (#u691c7928-4e78-5d50-a7a0-7ea5fde8b41c) Author Bio (#u6b0f55a5-8394-574b-a38f-eaea03403ee1) Acknowledgements (#uc08bda40-c4ed-55c5-9820-6c900874322a) Dedication (#u84a31e86-95e1-5d44-a033-aa1918567df5) Chapter One (#ulink_c8dff785-335b-5145-ba1f-d3f067f92a52) Chapter Two (#ulink_f955fa02-ea37-5dfa-aef6-cfeb4631e550) Chapter Three (#ulink_ea2639c2-22a9-5eaa-89ab-c5406629551e) Chapter Four (#ulink_5f858f6f-2c0d-50e5-a067-4a654ec44040) Chapter Five (#ulink_0a61502c-349c-5926-98b3-e7be5e364488) Chapter Six (#ulink_7f0540f5-32ec-5c35-b66f-74cabb12e817) Chapter Seven (#ulink_ecc8588d-1521-5f4a-be13-f8fee46c0891) Chapter Eight (#ulink_3c1b5c2c-c7fd-5e44-abb8-a2177ee7772e) Chapter Nine (#ulink_82dc4b4a-a672-54f6-8a51-72357ea581ec) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo) Endpages (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#ulink_ea30c19a-a209-5580-afeb-129a6b987906) The story I’m about to tell you starts with the clatter of a letterbox. My letterbox, to be precise. I spring up from the sofa as soon as I hear it. Today will be the day, I say to myself, the day everything finally falls into place. I race down the hall to the front door, almost slipping on the wooden floor, and gather up the post waiting for me on the doormat. I excitedly flick past all the boring stuff like gas and phone bills until I reach the letter I’m looking for. In the top-right-hand corner are the words Little Stars Dance Studio. Yes, yes, yes! I slide my finger under the flap, but pause before opening it. This could be the moment my biggest dream is about to come true and I’m not sure if I’m ready. Are you ever really ready for the big moments in your life? I close my eyes for a second and visualise the words I want to see: we’d like to invite you for an interview. Those eight words will bring me a step closer to teaching dance, like I’ve always wanted to do. It’s the umpteenth trainee position I’ve applied for, but I have a good feeling about this one. It’ll let me study for my teaching qualification while building up my experience and earning money. It’s my dream job. There’s only one way to find out what the letter says. I rip it open and unfurl it, my insides jumping with anticipation. I have a good feeling about this letter and although I’ve had the same feeling with so many others, I’m hopeful that this time will be different. Except it isn’t. In just a few seconds, my dream of being a dance teacher is dashed once again. It’s another “thanks, but no thanks” letter. Ouch. There’s an old song that goes a little something like this: every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. It’s hard to remember that when you’ve just been rejected from your dream job, though. I heave a deep sigh as my eyes scan the letter again. Key words and phrases jump out at me: lack of experience, stronger candidates, good luck with your future endeavours. I’ve seen them all before, but that doesn’t mean they hurt any less this time round. Dear Miss Jones, On behalf of Little Stars Dance School, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to apply for our Trainee Dance Teacher vacancy. Unfortunately, we are unable to progress your application any further at this time. This is a challenging, dynamic role and we felt that other candidates offered stronger dance backgrounds. Also, your lack of teaching experience may mean you’re not suited to such a demanding role at the moment. It might be an idea to build up your experience before applying for further roles. Good luck in your future endeavours. Yours sincerely, Lynne Penman With a heavy heart, I shove the rejection letter into my desk drawer and throw my head into my hands. Although Little Stars is the latest in a long line of dance studios to turn me down, I can’t help feeling deflated. With every “thanks, but no thanks” rejection I get, my dream of being a dance teacher moves that little bit further away. A tiny spark of hope rises in my chest every time I send off an application, as I allow myself to believe this latest job will be “the one”. The optimism may seem strange, maybe even silly, but it’s been my dream for so long I can’t give up on it. Sadly, this time, as with all the other times, it wasn’t meant to be. For now at least, it seems I won’t be Cleo Jones, dance teacher extraordinaire. * You know the saying “misery loves company”? Well, it was practically made for my mum. I go over to my parents’ house to fill them in on my latest dance school rejection and, from the moment my eyes meet my mum’s, I can tell she’s dying to say “I told you so”. She’s perched on the sofa with her patented “I told you so” expression firmly in place: arms folded, brow furrowed and a disapproving look in her beady blue eyes. ‘Let me guess,’ she says with a heavy sigh, ‘it was another no.’ I swallow back the tears threatening to completely engulf me, and manage a nod. ‘How’d you guess?’ At this point, most mums would envelop you in a hug, offer you a cup of tea, and tell you everything’s going to be OK. Not my mum, though: instead, she folds her arms, furrows her brow and shakes her head. ‘I said it wasn’t a good idea to apply for any more dancing jobs, didn’t I? I said you were wasting your time, and now look! You need to give up on being a dance teacher, Cleo; it’s obviously not going to happen and you know why.’ She fixes me with a pointed look and I take a sharp breath inwards. ‘I know, Mum. You don’t have to remind me about my accident every five minutes. I was in a car crash and I broke my leg in two places; I’m not likely to forget that, am I? Remember what the doctor said, though: teaching’s still an option, I just can’t dance professionally.’ She rolls her eyes and mutters something about my burying my head in the sand and refusing to face facts. I bite my tongue and ball my hands into fists as I try to keep my cool. Mum’s known how to press my buttons for the last twenty-six years. Our eyes lock and the tension crackles and hisses between us. Sooner or later, one of us will snap. Just as things are about to get heated, Dad ambles into the living room, bringing his trademark cheerful disposition with him. It’s a welcome relief from the tense atmosphere developing between Mum and me. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks. His smile falters a little when he sees my face. ‘Oh dear, another no for the dance teacher job then?’ Before I can answer, Mum jumps in. ‘What do you think? Of course it was a no! She hasn’t danced since that bloody accident; who’s going to hire her? She needs to give up and find something else she wants to do.’ I ball my hands into fists and grit my teeth. ‘She is still here, in case you hadn’t noticed!’ Dad shoots Mum a look that says “cut out the I-told-you-so nonsense now”. ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on, Nina? And see if we’ve got any of that Victoria sponge left in the fridge.’ Almost imperceptibly, she rolls her eyes. She’s learned how to do it so Dad doesn’t spot her, but I’ve been on to her for years. The mention of cake sets alarm bells ringing in my head, though I do my utmost to remain calm. As long as I say no, calmly yet firmly, it’ll be OK. ‘No cake for me, thanks,’ I say, trying my best to sound normal. ‘Got my Carb Counters meeting tomorrow night.’ ‘And you wouldn’t want to upset the lovely Marjorie.’ Mum’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. ‘One slice won’t hurt, for goodness’ sake.’ Our eyes lock and the atmosphere prickles with things we’d both like to say to each other. There’s an unspoken animosity between us that sprung up one day and decided to stay. She might think one slice of cake won’t do any harm, but I know better. I know the damage “just one slice” can inflict. I feel fear curl its long, tapered fingers around me as my thoughts begin to spiral. If I have “just one slice”, what if I’m not able to stop there? Maybe I’ll end up undoing a whole year’s worth of good work. ‘Honestly, Mum, I’m fine. In fact, I should probably get home; I’ve got an early start tomorrow and the house is an absolute wreck. I-I’ll be round for dinner this week, OK?’ I make a mad dash for the door before either of them can stop me. I’m down the path and across the village green in minutes, my beautiful little piece of Silverdale looming large on the horizon. As soon as I’m home, the fear will stop. I can control things there, in my tiny slice of heaven. I crash through the door and my first port of call is my bedroom, namely the shoebox on top of my wardrobe. I snatch the lid off and throw it carelessly to the floor, revealing my extra-secret stash of chocolate. Everything I need to take the pain away is in this tatty old box. Then I stop. Nestled on top of the bags of sweets is a folded piece of paper. I recognise it instantly and take it out to look at it. I hold it in my hands like it’s made of glass, all thoughts of bingeing melting away. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ I say softly as I unfold it. Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List Become a world-famous dancer Move to New York City Perform in the West End AND on Broadway! Visit every country in the world Learn a new language Go bungee-jumping Swim with dolphins Do something utterly extraordinary Snog someone famous Fall hopelessly in love Looking at the list brings a lump to my throat. I haven’t looked at it much in the twelve years since I made it; it was written just before the accident that changed everything. Back when I felt like anything was possible, that all my dreams were within touching distance. Now, more than a decade later, I haven’t accomplished anything on the list. My ultimate dream of being a dancer has moved that little bit further away today, and I almost just undid a year’s worth of good work. And for what? For some junk food that’ll make me feel sick and sluggish later? Two thumbs up for Cleo Jones. Then again, I reason, like my mum said, I’ve had a horrible day. Maybe one tiny treat won’t hurt. Just a little one, though… I pick up the box again and pull out a huge bag of chocolate buttons, my absolute favourite. The bag’s almost too easy to tear open and when I reach in to grab a handful, I don’t even think about it. Chocolate’s been clinically proven to make you feel better, so really this is medicinal, right? My mouth waters at the sight of them, imagining how sweet and creamy they’ll taste. In just a few seconds, everything will seem so much better. My dreams won’t seem so broken and I’ll be happy, if only for a little while. I grab my “ultimate bucket list” and look at it as I stuff my handful of buttons into my mouth, savouring the rich, sweet taste. Where did those big dreams go? Where did I go? Chapter Two (#ulink_d06ead93-1eaa-5f92-9b18-3e8e324b8323) When I wake up the next morning, the bucket list is stuck to my cheek and I’m clutching my empty bag of chocolate buttons. I let out a groan and roll onto my back, screwing my eyes tightly shut. I’d only meant to have one handful, which had turned into two then three. Before I knew it, the whole bag had been snaffled. Nice one, Cleo. Way to go. Ten out of ten once again. I roll out of bed and run a hand over my tired face. Although I know it’s not a good idea, I look at the list again. Seeing all my dreams written down makes my heart plummet. Back then, I thought I could do anything. ‘Where’d you go, eh?’ I wonder out loud. ‘What happened to that girl?’ The more I look at the list, the more I realise something has to change. I’m a million miles away from the girl who made the bucket list; the fourteen-year-old me wouldn’t recognise the current me. I glance over at the empty bag of chocolate buttons and decide enough is enough. As the saying goes, once you hit rock bottom there’s nowhere to go but up. Slowly but surely, a fire begins to stir within me. If fourteen-year-old Cleo could make a bucket list full of big dreams, twenty-six-year-old Cleo certainly can. It’s time to start dreaming again! * Creating a new bucket list is on my mind as I head to work. I’m one of two bakers at The Pastry Corner, Silverdale’s premier (and only) bakery. As I pull on my baker’s whites, my imagination goes into overdrive as I wonder what dreams I might include on this new and improved list. Leaving Silverdale would be a good start, since I’ve barely been out of the village. The thought of spreading my wings and seeing new places makes my heart do a happy dance. And there’s nothing to say I can’t use some of my original dreams too. There’s something pretty special about the idea of falling in love… ‘Penny for ‘em.’ My colleague Fred’s voice startles me and brings a swift end to my musing. ‘You looked like you were daydreaming there!’ ‘You know me, I’ve always got my head in the clouds!’ I say with a cheery smile as I ice some lemon cupcakes. ‘Fred… did you always want to be a baker?’ He adjusts his glasses and taps his chin thoughtfully. He’s almost seventy, but the age gap has never caused a problem before. Whenever I need his help with something, he always comes up with excellent advice. ‘For as long as I can remember, yes,’ he replies with a dreamy smile. ‘My dad was a baker, as was his dad before him. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Why do you ask?’ For a moment, I consider telling him about my latest dance studio rejection, but I decide not to. Although Fred and I have formed a close-knit unit here at The Pastry Corner and I know he’d be supportive, I don’t want to dwell on the rejection for any longer than necessary. It won’t change anything and definitely won’t make me feel any happier about it. ‘No reason,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘I was just wondering. How are those bread rolls doing?’ Fred turns his attention to the batch of rolls in the oven, leaving me free to return to my own thoughts. He won’t want to burn the bakery’s top seller, after all. Holding the piping bag in my hand, I pick up a cupcake and create a perfect lemon swirl on top. I can’t help but smile at my handiwork; although I didn’t plan to become a baker, I’m glad I did. Creating tasty cakes and breads gave me a purpose after my car accident ruled out a professional dancing career. Pirouettes and arabesques turned into operations and physiotherapy sessions after my friend’s mum’s car veered off the road. Baking was there for me when dancing couldn’t be any more. I fell into a comfortable job at The Pastry Corner and the rest, as they say, is history. Yet, as I continue to ice the cupcakes in front of me, I can feel my mind begin to wander, as though it’s ready to tackle new, bigger dreams. Maybe, after all these years, I’m finally ready to spread my wings and realise my full potential. I almost don’t feel bad for eating those chocolate buttons any more. Almost. * Trips to the gym really aren’t my idea of fun. You’d think, being an ex-dancer, that exercise and I would go hand in hand. No such luck. Since my accident, I’ve made loads of attempts to find fitness classes I enjoy, but to no avail. I tried ones related to dance, like Zumba or Salsacise, but they didn’t quite give me the same sense of enjoyment as my other dance classes had. When I joined Carb Counters, I also got myself a gym membership in hopes of becoming a fully fledged gym bunny. However, it didn’t quite work out that way. Every time I go, I feel everyone has a secret workout manual except me. That sort of manual would definitely come in handy today. I’ve made one of those once-in-a-blue-moon trips to the gym, and I’m stuck on the rowing machine. Yes, really. This is the kind of trouble a packet of chocolate buttons and a twelve-year-old bucket list can get you into, folks. After closing up the bakery for the day, I decided to embrace my newfound positivity and finally use the gym membership I’ve been paying for for what feels like for ever. I had a nice little rhythm going before I decided to call it a day; the back-and-forth motion was even quite relaxing in a weird sort of way. I managed to lose myself in the exercise and even stopped thinking about my bucket list for a little while. However, when it comes to getting my feet out of the pedals, I’ve hit a snag. The straps won’t loosen and there’s no wiggle room whatsoever. So now, my sparkly trainers are firmly wedged in the rowing machine’s pedals and I’m way too embarrassed to ask for help. Instead, I smile and carry on sliding the seat back and forth, like this was what I planned to do all along. I catch the eye of a big burly bloke on a nearby treadmill; I flash him a smile, but he sharply diverts his gaze elsewhere. ‘A smile doesn’t cost you anything,’ I mutter under my breath, mentally noting the unfriendly patrons as yet another reason why I don’t come to the gym. It has nothing whatsoever to do with how disaster-prone I am with exercise equipment, absolutely not. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching me. I hope to God it’s not someone who wants to use this machine. They’ll be waiting a hell of a long time if that’s the case. ‘Everything OK over here?’ I sneak a glance and see a tall, dark-haired man clad in gym gear towering over me. An amused smile is playing on his lips and I can tell he’s trying his best not to laugh at me. ‘Oh, yeah!’ I muster my best breezy smile and continue my awkward sliding motion on the rowing-machine seat. ‘Just gearing up for the next… er… row! I’m really going for it today.’ Mr Gym Gear crouches down next to me, his smile growing wider by the second and his hazel eyes sparkling with humour. ‘Your feet are trapped, aren’t they?’ He gestures to my sparkly silver trainers, still in the rowing machine’s evil clutches. I let go of the chain handle and slap a hand to my forehead. ‘How did you guess?’ I ask with a chuckle. ‘Am I really that obvious?’ He shakes his head and expertly undoes one of the straps, before moving to the other side to work on the other. ‘No, this machine’s notorious for trapping people,’ he explains as he frees my other foot. ‘Up until a few minutes ago, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. Then I clocked the panicked look on your face and thought I’d come over to give you a hand.’ He extends a hand to help me up and I take it, feeling my cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet. ‘Well thanks for, er, coming to my rescue!’ For some reason, I think my words should be followed up with a hand gesture, so I salute. Cleo, what the hell are you playing at? I’m all too aware that I probably look like a sweaty, overgrown Girl Guide, but I try my best not to show my embarrassment. My encounter with Mr Gym Gear has been awkward enough already. ‘No problem, any time.’ He smiles at me. ‘My name’s Scott, by the way, Scott Robinson, like the Neighbours character. In case you need to be rescued again.’ He looks expectantly at me, like he’s waiting to hear my name in return. It sits snugly on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to pop out… Instead ‘I’d better go’ leaps out, followed by ‘I’m running late for a root canal appointment!’ Before Mr Gym Gear – now known as Scott – can ask any questions, I take off down the metal steps towards the weightlifting area and scurry off to the changing rooms as quickly as possible. I didn’t completely lie to Scott; there is somewhere I have to be, but it’s a whole lot worse than a root canal appointment. * For those of you who haven’t been to a Carb Counters meeting before, here’s how it works. You stand in a very long queue to get weighed and measured, then sit in a circle and talk about what kind of week you’ve had. The group leader, in this case Marjorie, announces what everyone’s gained or lost and the whole thing is rounded off with a quick workout session. In short, it’s a bloody awful experience. Unfortunately for me, it’s also a necessary one. I’ve lost three stone in a year and, even though I still have a long way to go before I’m at my ideal size, it’s helped me achieve things I couldn’t have done on my own. I started coming to meetings about a year ago, after finally deciding to get fit and healthy instead of just talking about it. Joining and losing weight is what prompted me to start applying for trainee dance teacher positions too, although that hasn’t exactly turned out as planned. I get to the community centre with just moments to spare before the group starts. The centre is just down the street from the bakery, and is also right next to a caf? that does the best red velvet cake in the world. The temptation to sneak in for a pre- or post-slimming-group treat is very hard to resist. The first person I see is Marjorie’s assistant, Linda. She’s more of a minion and general dogsbody than an assistant, carrying out whatever orders Marjorie barks at her. Currently, she’s sitting at a foldout table, surrounded by boxes of overpriced snack bars, and waiting to take any remaining membership fees. ‘Hiya, Cleo love,’ she says, throwing a quick, warm smile my way as she finishes counting some money. It shrinks a little when she takes a proper look at me. ‘Oh dear, you look like you’ve been in the wars today! Everything all right?’ ‘Oh this?’ I feel a blush creep onto my cheeks as I tug at my frizzy dark curls. ‘Ended up having a fight with a rowing machine!’ I watch her brow furrow in confusion. ‘Long story… Hang on, I’ll get my card out.’ I delve into my purse and slide out a little pink card with CARB COUNTERS emblazoned on the front. Linda scans it and takes the crumpled tenner I offer her. ‘Better watch out,’ she says in a low voice, ‘Her Ladyship’s on the prowl.’ Before I can answer, I hear some very distinctive footsteps approaching me. High heels clicking on wood – it can only be Marjorie. ‘Well, hello there, Cleopatra!’ Her voice is dripping with sugar and her mouth is stretched into a bright pink smile. ‘Cutting it a bit fine today, aren’t you?’ I grit my teeth at hearing my full name; she’s the only one who uses it. Everyone else, including my own mum, calls me Cleo. I plaster a bright grin of my own on my face and meet the group leader’s gaze. ‘How are you, Marjorie?’ I ask, injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible. ‘Sorry I’m late; I was at the gym and lost track of time.’ She puts a bony hand on my shoulder, which slightly unsettles me. I try to back away, but her grip is pretty firm for someone so skinny. Instead, I decide to show as little fear as possible and widen my smile even further. People like Marjorie can smell fear, I’m sure of it. ‘No, no, how are you?’ She sounds like a cross between Barbie and Regina George from Mean Girls: syrupy sweet with a slightly menacing edge. ‘I remember how devastated you were after that little gain last week. I hope you remembered the Carb Counters motto: eat right and the jeans won’t be tight!’ ‘I’ve been reciting it to myself all week,’ I lie. When it comes to who’s lost and gained what in the Silverdale branch of Carb Counters, Marjorie is an expert. ‘Well, off you trot to the scales! I hope we don’t have to announce two gains in a row for you. That really would be tragic.’ A quick smile and Marjorie’s off in search of her next victim. I exchange withering glances with Linda and join the queue for the scales. Up ahead, I spot my best friend, Emma. At least there’s a friendly face here, I say to myself. I reach out and tap her shoulder. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees me. ‘You made it!’ She wriggles out of the tightly packed queue and comes to join me. ‘I thought you might’ve been in the caf? having a cheeky slice of cake after last week!’ A quick flashback to Marjorie announcing to the whole group that I’d gained two pounds zings its way into my thoughts. For a brief moment, I remember the feeling of humiliation that washed over me, along with the little voice that whispered you’ve failed. ‘Cleo?’ Emma’s voice goes from a distorted murmur to clear and crisp in a matter of seconds, pulling me out of my thoughts. Quick, figure out what she was saying! ‘Oh, er… I dunno, a couple of pounds hopefully,’ I say, hoping it sounds right. Judging by the look on my best friend’s face, I’ve missed the mark. ‘I was asking if you were still coming down the pub tonight!’ She giggles and shakes her head. ‘You really are in Cloud Cuckoo Land today, aren’t you? Is it because you got the invite too?’ I frown. ‘What invite?’ Before Emma can answer, it’s her turn to face the dreaded scales. She flashes me a smile, crosses her fingers and hops on. As I watch her, I feel a stab of envy I haven’t felt for a while. She truly doesn’t care about the number she sees in front of her; the only reason she joined Carb Counters was to support me. Blessed with a naturally slender figure, she’s never had to worry about her weight like I have. Never had to wonder if people are looking at her with twisted humour or utter revulsion, or if any man who approaches her is doing it for a joke or to win a bet with his friends. Sometimes, just sometimes, I’d really like to be Emma Wallis instead of Cleopatra Jones. Chapter Three (#ulink_a9bedcb5-7008-5149-b225-20bec5eb48d4) My time on the scales is a successful one: three pounds off. As soon as I see it, I feel a little knot of worry unclench in my chest. Sometimes, it feels pathetic that my life hinges on a digital scale’s reading, but every pound I manage to lose brings me closer to the person I want to be. And, more importantly, takes me further away from who I used to be. Talking in a circle is easily my favourite part of Carb Counters. Although it’s a nightmare if you’ve had a bad week, it’s really inspiring to hear everyone’s stories and see their progress throughout the sessions. First up is Sheila and, although I can’t hear it, I know everyone is groaning inwardly. She’s joined, left and rejoined multiple times and, despite openly admitting she doesn’t follow the plan and eats her body weight in sausage rolls, can’t understand why she isn’t losing weight. We’ve all tried to give her friendly advice, but it falls on deaf ears every time. This week, she’s lamenting her two-pound weight gain. ‘I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,’ she says with a sigh. ‘OK, I went out for my sister’s birthday and had spaghetti and tiramisu. That’s not a crime, is it? And I might’ve had a huge pizza all to myself… and some brownies. But I’ve always had a high metabolism, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’ I purse my lips to stop myself saying something, and see a couple of other members rolling their eyes. ‘Remember what we said last week about sticking to the Treat Points allowance,’ Marjorie says, sounding like she’s about to explode. ‘Pizza and brownies are big no-nos on the Carb Counters plan, as well you know!’ I can tell from the look on Sheila’s face she’s not listening. If she were a cartoon, there’d be a flock of bluebirds circling her head. Some people just aren’t meant to be Carb Counters and she’s definitely one of them. The last to speak is Zara, a woman who joined at the same time as me. She twirls her rose-gold curls round her fingers as she prepares to tell everyone what kind of week she’s had. ‘Well, it’s been a good one for me,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘I’ve managed to stick to the plan better than I thought, even though I was on holiday from work and my husband wanted to eat out every night! The hardest bit is staying within my Treat Points allowance, to be honest. I don’t know about you all, but I can’t resist a slice of cheesecake!’ A giggle ripples around the circle and we all nod. No matter what stage we’re at in our journey, we can all relate to the temptation of cheesecake. Marjorie pipes up before Zara can continue. ‘Tut tut, stay away from that cheesecake or next week’s results might not be so positive! You can always try the guilt-free cheesecake recipe in the Carb Counters cookbook if you’re feeling peckish.’ Nice book plug, I say to myself. Zara giggles. ‘I already have, and it tastes like dog vomit! That bran stuff tastes like twigs and don’t get me started on using quark instead of cream cheese.’ An even bigger laugh bursts from the circle this time, along with murmurs of agreement. Although the Carb Counters cookbook is meant to help us, the recipes are god-awful. ‘On the positive side, though,’ Zara continues after the laughter has subsided, ‘I had a doctor’s appointment this week and my BMI has come down by nearly two and a half points. I’ve got a long way to go, but it’s two and a half points closer to being ready for IVF.’ Her voice cracks a little and she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Zara’s fertility issues are common knowledge within the group; she’s kept us updated with her progress over the last twelve months. ‘That’s great,’ I say with a smile, ‘you’ve worked really hard for this.’ I’m not known for speaking out in the group – despite being here for a year, I’ve always been far too shy – but I’m so proud of Zara that I have to congratulate her. ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘it’s been a long road: three miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy. It finally feels like I’m going in the right direction, though.’ I can’t help but smile; although people sneer at slimming groups, Zara’s story just goes to show they can change people’s lives. Marjorie’s gaze turns on me and she cocks her head to one side. ‘Would you like to share something, Cleopatra? Something about your week maybe, or how you’re going to achieve next week’s target?’ As the other members turn to look at me, I freeze. Although I loved being in the spotlight during my dancing days, that’s definitely not the case now. I feel everyone’s eyes burning into me and my heart rate quickens. ‘I… I… erm…’ I swallow hard and try to focus on my breathing. I can do this, I’ve got this, I say to myself. Finally, I gather the words I want to say in my head and put them in the right order. However, by the time I open my mouth, Marjorie’s already directing her steely gaze in someone else’s direction. Part of me feels relieved to step back into the shadows, but I can’t help feeling a little disappointed in myself. Next time will be different, I promise myself. Next time I won’t fluff my words. * After we’ve had our results boomed out by Marjorie, who would rival any town crier, it’s time for our workout. This is my least favourite part; exercise and I just don’t go together, as you’ve already seen. Today’s one is what Marjorie calls “a fun, high-impact aerobics experience”. Fun is definitely not a word I’d use to describe the hell she puts us through. Nightmare, yes; gruelling, most definitely. ‘Aaaaaand it’s onto jumping jacks!’ Her smile is wider than ever and almost looks macabre as she stares out at us from the stage. Her high heels and dress have been swapped for a canary-yellow tracksuit and trainers. ‘Come on, ladies, let’s burn that fat, shall we?’ With an energy that would make a Duracell bunny jealous, she throws herself into the exercise. Some weird noises come out of her mouth as she jumps up and down; I guess she thinks it’ll encourage us to do the same. ‘If I do any more, my heart’s going to explode,’ I say to Emma as I try to catch my breath, my voice barely a croak. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for jumping jacks, not that I had a lot to start with. They’re more like stumbling jacks now. ‘Why can’t we do something nice like yoga? Or a group nap?’ Emma pauses and takes a deep breath, although she’s barely broken a sweat. She looks at me in my broken, sweaty state, but there’s no judgement in her kind, dark eyes. ‘Because yoga doesn’t make our fat cry,’ she says, reminding me of yet another one of Marjorie’s mottos. ‘Anyway, keep going; you’re doing great!’ ‘Hey, what was the invite you were talking about earlier?’ I ask. It’s too late, though; Emma’s already thrown herself back into the jumping jacks. I suck it up, take a deep breath, and give the rest of the workout everything I have. Somewhere along the line, I get a second wind and even find myself enjoying it a little bit. Maybe being Cleo Jones isn’t quite so bad after all. The mysterious invite Emma mentioned lurks at the back of my mind as I head home from Carb Counters. She left pretty sharply after the workout ended, so I couldn’t ask her any more about it. I throw her words around in my head: is it because you got the invite too? What has she been invited to that I might’ve been asked to as well? 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 (#ulink_97b5ab40-cbb0-5f23-a3e7-0b179041ade9) 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. ‘Touch?.’ 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.’ Scott smiles. ‘I’d like that. Anyway, I’d better get back to the lads; if they don’t get their pints soon, things will turn nasty. It was nice to meet you, Cleopatra Comin’ Atcha.’ For the first time in twenty-six years, my full name doesn’t sound quite so horrible. Nevertheless, I tell him, ‘I prefer Cleo, you know. That’s what my friends call me.’ ‘I’ll remember that,’ he says before making his way back to the bar. As I watch him go, I take a moment to marvel at myself. Apart from the hiccup, my exchange with Scott went pretty darn well. I started off a little bit nervous, but soon relaxed and allowed myself to, be… well, me. I even made him laugh a couple of times, which I count as a bonus. My insides unclench and I make my way back to my and Emma’s booth. ‘You took your time,’ she says with a grin. ‘Talking to your admirer, were you? I think you should make him part of your bucket list: get a date with Mr Fit and Hunky!’ I glance across the bar and, even though I can’t see Scott’s table from where I’m sitting, I smile. Our encounter has made me feel all fizzy inside. Maybe I’m capable of more than I give myself credit for. ‘One thing at a time eh? I haven’t even written the bloody bucket list yet. Anyway, I hardly know the guy. We’ve only spoken twice!’ For some reason, I don’t dismiss the idea of getting a date with Scott outright. It doesn’t seem totally impossible and Emma’s right about it making a good addition to the bucket list. Yet, just as I’m entertaining these thoughts, something stops me from fully embracing the possibility. Little doubts begin to creep into the periphery of my thoughts and I take a glance down at my figure. Ever since my car accident, my life’s been dictated by my weight and that’s still true today. Maybe getting a date with Scott will have to wait. At least until I’m less of a work in progress. ‘Well, I think he’d be daft not to go out with you,’ Emma declares. ‘You’re awesome, like I’ve told you a million times! Let’s get thinking of some ideas for this bucket list, shall we? I was thinking doing a shark dive might be cool.’ As talk turns to whether I should sky-dive or bungee jump, go zorbing or get a tattoo, I can feel the doubts slowly begin to disappear. As the excitement for my brand-new bucket list mounts within me, I can’t help but feel like I’m about to go on the greatest adventure of my life. * After a few more drinks, I head back home. Larkspur Cottage is nestled in a row of gorgeous ice cream-coloured cottages, just a short walk from the Bell and Candle. Its cheerful baby-blue frontage lifts my spirits every time it comes into view. Even now, with only the dim light from the street lamp on the corner illuminating it, I smile when I see it. Although it’s chilly outside, I’m warmed by the alcohol I’ve drunk and my thoughts are all cosy and fuzzy. I had a good laugh with Emma, as I always do, came up with lots of bucket-list ideas and even managed to conduct a conversation with a man. Wonders will never cease. I let myself in and do a little stumble into my living room, where I see my computer sitting in the corner. Since I’m all fired up from my ideas session with Emma, I decide now is as good a time as any to write the new Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List. My journey across to the computer is a bit wobbly, thanks to my high heels, but I make it there unscathed. After firing it up, I take a deep breath, flex my fingers and begin to type. Within minutes, my slightly tipsy brain has opened itself up to a whole world of dreams and possibilities. Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List Conquer my body issues, once and for all Book a sky-dive (and do it!) Do one thing that scares me Go on a ridiculously exotic holiday Learn a new language Do zorbing Get a tattoo Find a way to dance again Figure out what I really want to do with my life Let myself fall in love All in all, it looks pretty good to me. It won’t be easy and I might even decide it’s not a good idea once this slightly tipsy haze wears off. Looking at it right now, though, it feels like a whole new chapter is going to start. Like I might finally become the Cleo I’ve always wanted to be. World, get ready for Cleo 2.0! Chapter Five (#ulink_da66b823-6388-5551-86f4-83b65f61018b) The next morning begins with an email from the last person I ever thought I’d see in my inbox: Amanda Best. When I log on to my emails, there it is, sitting right at the top: an email from [email protected] with the subject line Silverdale Comprehensive Reunion. I’m a little apprehensive as I click on it. I haven’t heard from her in nearly ten years; she struck the fear of God into me back then and, I’m ashamed to admit, still does a little bit now. Still, how bad could an email be? It’s just a bunch of words on a screen, right? Dear Cleopatra, I’m writing to invite you to the ten-year reunion of the 2007 class at Silverdale Comprehensive. It will be held at the George Hotel in Manchester on 10th June. It starts at 7 p.m. and the theme is Hollywood glamour. I really hope you’re able to make it; it would be lovely to see you after all these years and find out what you’ve been up to. Please let me know as soon as possible if you’ll be coming. All the best, Amanda P.S. If you don’t want to come, I totally understand. You didn’t really fit in after your accident, did you? These two sentences show Amanda hasn’t changed at all: snide, manipulative and a nasty piece of work. Any lingering thoughts I might’ve had about her having changed and matured over the years quickly evaporate. The saying “leopards never change their spots” was made for her. Out of curiosity, I quickly type her name into Google and come across her business networking profile. There’s a picture of her with her swishy blonde hair, cat-like grin and icy blue eyes. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her genuinely smile. According to her profile, she’s quite the businesswoman. During her time at Franklin Financial, Amanda’s worked in Switzerland, Japan and New York. Her skills apparently include wealth and asset management, contract negotiations and customer relations management. I feel my heart sink a little. I haven’t managed to leave Silverdale or achieve any of the things I wanted to do when I was younger. Everything kind of went on hold after my accident and I was always too scared to start again. Amanda, meanwhile, seems to have made a huge success of her life. If I go to the reunion, she’ll love rubbing it in my face. Just as I’m about to shut down my computer and walk away from it, I come across the bucket list I made the night before. Seeing some brand-new dreams written down ignites a spark of hope inside me. Amanda might be doing really well, but there’s no reason I can’t do the same. The fact I’ve made this new list shows I’ve started to dream again, and that seemed impossible before. If I can do that, who knows what else I’m capable of doing? Maybe I can even walk into the reunion with my head held high and show everyone how much I’ve changed in the last ten years. Anything’s possible, after all. * The Pastry Corner is just across the village green from my cottage. As the sun rises the next morning, I stroll across to get started on my latest batch of creations. There’s something quite special about being the only one out at this time of day; Silverdale is quiet and still, just waiting for morning to come so it can burst with life again. I’m not the first one in the bakery this morning; Fred is already there, baking a fresh batch of bread rolls. For a man who’s nearly seventy, he’s showing no signs of slowing down any time soon. He’s usually the first one in and the last one to leave the bakery. ‘Morning!’ I say with a smile as I pull on my whites. They’re around three sizes too big for me – I was at my largest when I started working at The Pastry Corner – so I have to wind the cord round my waist a good few times to make them fit. I haven’t had the guts to get some in a size that actually fits, mainly because I’m scared I’ll gain the weight again. ‘Hello there, love!’ Fred says with a sunny grin. He’s one of the most cheerful people I know; if you looked up “morning person” in the dictionary, you’d find a picture of his face underneath. ‘Ready for another busy day at the coalface?’ I roll my eyes and smile. ‘Always! Don’t suppose you fancy a cup of coffee?’ ‘I never bother with the stuff,’ he replies. He looks at me and a smile forms on his lips. ‘You look perky this morning! Something’s putting a smile on your face.’ My cheeks pink up and I look away to hide my blushes. ‘You could say that! Let’s just say things are looking up for me. I got an email inviting me to my ten-year high-school reunion today; I’m thinking I might go.’ For a brief second, the words on Amanda’s email come back to haunt me: You didn’t really fit in after your accident, did you? My resolve wavers and I wonder if going to an event hosted by my high-school bully is really the best idea. ‘Good for you,’ Fred declares. ‘It’ll be nice to see what everyone’s been up to, won’t it?’ He looks at me with kind eyes and a hopeful smile. With his wispy white hair and beard, he could almost pass for Santa Claus. I chuckle. ‘I’m not so sure about that! Amanda Best’s organising it and we weren’t exactly best friends at school.’ And the award for Understatement of the Year goes to… ‘Oh yes, I remember her. She was a little madam, wasn’t she? Maybe if you go, you can patch things up with her. Secondary school was a long time ago for both of you, wasn’t it?’ Even though the thought of being in the same room with Amanda again makes my stomach churn, I have to admit Fred has a point. It did all happen a long time ago, even if my arch nemesis doesn’t appear to have changed that much. ‘You’re right,’ I agree. ‘It’s time to put the past behind me. Anyway, Emma’s going too, so it’ll be fine.’ As I turn my attention to the batch of strawberry tarts I’ve been working on, I feel dread creep all over my skin. Although I’m trying to be positive about going to the reunion, there’s something inside telling me I’m setting myself up for a fall. There’s no way Amanda’s organising the reunion out of the goodness of her heart. In fact, I’m not even sure she has a heart. Whatever her motivations for bringing our year group together, they won’t be pure. * It’s early afternoon when Amanda Best walks into The Pastry Corner. In many ways, she hasn’t changed at all: same blonde curls, same superior air about her and the same slightly flared nostrils, as though there’s a bad smell somewhere. I have to do a double-take when I first see her. Although very little about her has changed, I still can’t quite believe she’s here. It’s like seeing a ghost or, in Amanda’s case, a poltergeist. It’s one thing having a look at her business profile, but quite another to see her in the flesh after so long. Fred’s gone off for lunch, so it’s only me in the shop. There’s nowhere for me to hide. ‘Cleopatra Jones!’ Her face breaks out into a wide grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She always insisted on calling me Cleopatra at school, even though I didn’t like it. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, how are you doing?’ I ball my shaking hands into fists and try to control my breathing. I hate how she still makes me nervous, after all this time. Like Marjorie, I’m sure Amanda can smell fear, so I try to hide it as much as possible. ‘Um… good, thanks.’ My voice is barely a croak. ‘What are you doing here? I-I thought you left the village ages ago.’ The corners of her lips curve into something resembling a smile. ‘Oh sweetie, I did. I got out of this nothing little place as soon as I could.’ Her nostrils flare a little as she looks around the bakery. ‘I’m working for a wealth management company in Manchester, but I’m using up some annual leave right now. Thought I’d come and visit this place for a little while. No need to ask what you do, I guess.’ She looks me up and down with her cobalt-blue eyes and I can tell she’s baiting me. She was always good at that, making subtle little digs that would sound innocent to anyone else. ‘W-what can I get you?’ She cocks her head to one side and simpers. ‘Aww, you’re still as shy as always. Some things never change. I remember at school, you were always hiding behind a book or something. Do you have anything paleo? Or has that not quite hit Silverdale yet?’ I grit my teeth as I wrack my brains to remember what people can eat on the paleo diet. Of course she’d ask me about one of the only diets I haven’t tried. When my brain fails to come up with anything, I decide to go with the first thing that catches my eye in the display case. Who knows, it might turn out to be a lucky guess. ‘Um… would a fruit tart be OK?’ I ask, gesturing to one of Fred’s expertly decorated creations in our display cabinet. ‘W-we have raspberry o-or maybe blueberry?’ I kick myself for stuttering and for letting Amanda have the same effect on me she did ten years ago. Some people’s fright factor only increases with age, it seems. All the things I’d love to say to her pile up in my head and turn my other thoughts cloudy. Come on, Cleo, you’ve got this. Just stand up to her! Amanda chuckles, but there’s no humour behind it. ‘I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. Did you get my email about the school reunion, by the way? It’s in a couple of months at a really posh hotel in Manchester called the George. I hope you’re able to come. Won’t it be lovely to catch up on old times?’ I pause to think for a second before I answer. The way I see it, I have two choices: I can either say I’m not able to make it and come up with some bullshit excuse, or I can look her right in the eye, tell her I’ll be there and that I can’t wait to see everyone. My mind flashes back to the third item on my bucket list: do one thing that scares me. Making eye contact with Amanda and committing to the reunion definitely fall under that category. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and look her in the eye for the first time ever. Her steely gaze makes my blood run cold, but I hold my nerve. I even add a smile for dramatic effect. ‘I did, actually,’ I say, my grin widening, ‘and I’d love to come. It’ll be great to see everyone again and catch up on old times, like you said.’ I take great delight in watching her smile falter a little. The tiny, almost imperceptible twitch in her lips fills me with more joy than I’d like to admit. It’s a little personal victory that I won’t forget in a hurry. ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you there then,’ she says, her immaculate feathers clearly ruffled. She turns to walk towards the door, but stops and faces me again. ‘I’ve got to say, I admire you, Cleo. Given how… stressful you found school, I didn’t think you’d show up at all. Anyway, must be going! Lots to organise before the big day. Ciao!’ She turns on her heel and marches out of the bakery, leaving a scent of expensive perfume in her wake. I breathe a sigh, but I’m not sure it’s one of relief. The dopey grin I have from unsettling Amanda is still firmly in place, but I’m not sure how I feel about what I’ve just agreed to. Still, there’ll be time to figure that out later. It’s official: Cleo Jones is going to the ball! Well, school reunion. * Later that afternoon, I fill Emma in on everything that’s happened. We grab lunch in the Silver Spoon caf? and I provide a detailed breakdown of Amanda’s visit to the bakery. ‘She actually came into the bakery?! I thought vampires only came out at night. Mind you, even Dracula couldn’t resist your salted caramel brownies.’ She breaks off some more red velvet cake and shovels it into her mouth. I look down at my jacket potato with beans and hear my stomach rumble. I’d give anything for some red velvet cake. ‘You should order some of this,’ she says with a grin. ‘It’s to die for!’ I chuckle and shake my head. ‘Marjorie would kill me if she found out!’ ‘Then don’t let her find out.’ Part of me knows one tiny slice probably won’t hurt, but I can’t bring myself to order any. My brain’s already added up the calories and I just can’t risk it. ‘No thanks, I’m enjoying this,’ I lie. ‘You should’ve seen me, Emma; I was such an idiot at first. She asked for something paleo and I ended up babbling about fruit tarts. Then, when she asked me about the reunion, it was like I became a different person. I was… I don’t know… confident, I guess. I looked her right in the eye and told her I’d see her there.’ Emma stops with the fork halfway to her mouth as her eyes widen. ‘You said what?’ I nod. ‘No one was more surprised than me, believe me! I think it might have had something to do with this.’ I reach into my bag and pull out my new bucket list, sliding it across the table to her. We both fall silent as she scans it, her smile growing wider by the second. She hands it back to me a few moments later. ‘This is amazing, Cleo. You could totally do all of these things! I reckon you can cross off number three on if you’re going to the reunion. I can just imagine you walking in, marching up to Adam Hartwell and saying “Ha, this is what you missed out on in high school!” It’ll be brilliant.’ My head snaps up when I hear his name. I haven’t thought about my high-school crush in forever. ‘Oh God, he’s not going, is he?’ Emma nods. ‘Didn’t you see his RSVP? He must’ve hit Reply to All when he was letting Amanda know he’d be there. I saw it in my inbox today.’ I shake my head. ‘Nope, Amanda emailed me personally, so I didn’t see anyone else’s RSVP.’ She frowns as she turns her attention back to her cake. ‘You know, I know it’s been a long time but I could kill him for what he did to you. Still, you’ll get the last laugh when you see him at the reunion. Just think how good it’ll feel to wipe that smug grin off his face.’ A particularly unpleasant memory crosses my mind; it involves me, Adam Hartwell, the school Leavers’ Dance, and a massive bowl of punch. Facing Amanda Best after so long is one thing, but facing Adam Hartwell is a whole different kettle of fish. Suddenly, I’m not sure going to the reunion is such a good idea after all. Maybe I’ll have to find another way to cross number three off my bucket list. Chapter Six (#ulink_ede23ae2-c8d5-5e34-b421-2f2a5c4e445c) By the time I finish work that night, I still haven’t got the reunion out of my head. On the one hand, it’d be good to prove to everyone – and myself – that I’ve really changed. I could show everyone I’m not the girl with the unhealthy relationship with food any more, that I’m a million miles away from who I used to be. On the other, I can’t imagine being in the same room with Adam Hartwell again. Not after what happened at the Leavers’ Dance. I decide to put it firmly out of my mind as I head over to my parents’ cottage. It’s my weekly trip to theirs for dinner, so at least I have some good food to look forward to. My parents are massive foodies; they and their friends have a Come Dine With Me league, where they each try to host the perfect dinner party. The only problem is they refuse to cook anything remotely healthy. As soon as I open the door to their cottage, which sits just across the village green from mine, I’m greeted by a beautiful smell. Judging by what my parents like to cook, it won’t be something Marjorie would approve of. ‘Hi, guys!’ I call, ‘something smells good!’ ‘In here, darling,’ my mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Come and taste this spaghetti carbonara!’ Yup, just as I thought. Although my mum’s all too aware of my weight-loss journey, she believes food is something to be enjoyed and that salads are strictly for rabbits. I head into the kitchen, where the aromas are even more intense. I can smell the smoky pancetta, the onions and the garlic. Definitely not Carb Counters approved. Mum beckons me over and holds a wooden spoon in front of me. ‘I’m glad you’re here; your dad’s still over at the pub and I need someone to taste this sauce. What do you think?’ ‘I think it’s definitely not on the Carb Counters meal plan!’ I reply with a giggle. Mum’s face darkens and she sighs. ‘Can’t you just have one night off the diet? One plate of spaghetti won’t make you pile three stone back on, will it?’ Although I know she’s right and that it’s silly to be worried, I still feel a little apprehensive as I take the spoon from her. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and anything that threatens to ruin my progress scares me. I can almost hear Marjorie saying eat right and the jeans won’t be tight; part of me wants to run home and dig out one of my healthy ready meals from the freezer. ‘What’s up?’ Mum asks with a frown. ‘I thought this was your favourite!’ For a brief moment, I consider reminding her for the millionth time that I’m on a diet and that pasta with rich creamy sauce is a big no-no. But she’s worked so hard on preparing the spaghetti carbonara that I can’t bear to even picture the look of hurt on her face. ‘Nothing, everything’s fine.’ I lick the spoon and my taste buds are hit with the sensation of cream, Parmesan and eggs. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy it. ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘that tastes incredible!’ Mum’s face lights up and she goes back to stirring the sauce. ‘I knew you’d like it! I wasn’t sure if I’d added too much garlic or not. Anyway, go and sit down, it’ll be ready in a minute.’ I wait for her to ask how last night’s Carb Counters meeting went, but she doesn’t. I don’t know why I’m surprised; Mum isn’t exactly the biggest fan of slimming groups and diets, and I can’t say I blame her. But that’s another story. * After Dad makes his way back from the pub, we sit down to dinner. I stare at the plate in front of me, my brain in a whirl as it tries to add up all the calories. Best not to stick this one down in the food diary, I reckon. ‘Eat up love, it’ll get cold.’ Mum looks up from her own half-empty plate and gestures to my full one. ‘Go on, it’ll be a change from that healthy muck you always eat. Looks like it’s been swept out of a rabbit hutch.’ I feel a little bubble of anger rise within me and grit my teeth. I know Mum means well and just wants to serve me a nice meal to eat, but a little bit of understanding wouldn’t go amiss. I twirl some pasta round my fork and put it into my mouth, loving and hating the taste at the same time. This is laden with calories and not something I should be eating on Carb Counters, yet I can’t deny how amazing it tastes. Mum looks at me expectantly, waiting to hear my verdict. I manage a weak smile and nod my head. ‘S’good,’ I say through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Really good.’ ‘As long as you’re enjoying it,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how you stomach that quinoa stuff you’re always banging on about. Life’s too short to eat rubbish like that and worry about the numbers on a scale.’ One, two, three, four… Counting to ten doesn’t help this time; the words are out of my mouth before I know it. ‘My Carb Counters meeting went fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’ A deadly silence falls over the table, replacing the convivial chatter we’d been having before the subject of food had been brought up. ‘That bloody con artist Marjorie Newton still got you hooked, has she?’ Mum purses her lips and folds her arms, looking at me with a sneering expression. ‘She’s hardly a con artist if I’ve lost three stone, Mum!’ ‘A bloody slimming group is the last thing you should be going to after all the trouble you’ve had—’ ‘Enough!’ Dad’s voice booms out across the room and stops our argument in its tracks. ‘Now let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Mum isn’t in the mood to back down, though. ‘I’m just saying a slimming group isn’t the best place for someone like Cleo, that’s all. Or don’t you remember what happened when she was at school? She was throwing up nearly everything she ate and taking those awful diet pills!’ My blood begins to boil and I dig my nails into my palms. I hate being reminded of the worst time in my life, not least because of how hard I’ve worked to overcome my issues. Yet Mum brings it up at every available opportunity, using it as a weapon to undermine my progress with Carb Counters. ‘I am here, you know? Look, I know I haven’t always had the best relationship with food, but Carb Counters helps me, Mum. I know you’re worried I’ll fall back into my old habits, but I won’t. I’m eating healthily and losing weight safely this time.’ I can tell she’s not convinced, but she chooses not to pursue the matter any further. Instead, she flashes me a look and turns her attention back to her pasta. In an attempt to clear the air, Dad pipes up, ‘Cleo, did you know Amanda Best’s back in the village?’ Nice subject change, Dad. ‘Yeah, she came into The Pastry Corner earlier today. Apparently she’s hosting a school reunion.’ My brain throws up the memory of me looking her right in the eye and telling her I’d be there. The corners of my lips pull up into a smile. Mum scoffs. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ ‘Actually, I said yes,’ I snap. ‘Surprised?’ I decide not to say that Adam Hartwell is also going to be there. What Mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Her eyes widen and she looks at me. ‘After what she put you through at that school? I was never away from the place because she was calling you names or making your life a misery.’ I think about apologising for being such an inconvenience, but change my mind. Things are tense enough without me making it worse. ‘That was years ago, Mum; things are different now,’ I say without the conviction I was hoping for. Hardly surprising given Amanda’s poisonous P.S. in her invitation email. She shakes her head, mutters something under her breath and turns her attention back to her carbonara. Dad flashes me a weak smile, but doesn’t say anything. Whenever Mum’s against something, he usually follows suit. I decide to make a final stab at a civilised conversation. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess what I found! This old bucket list I made when I was fourteen; it’s quite funny to look at it now, actually. I wanted to move to New York, be a dancer and swim with dolphins!’ ‘It’s a bit late to do the whole dancer-in-New-York thing now,’ Mum remarks. ‘This is real life, love, not Flashdance.’ I want to point out that Flashdance is set in Pennsylvania, not New York, but decide not to. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my mum, it’s that you have to pick your battles. ‘Actually, finding the list inspired me to make a whole new one,’ I reply, digging the list out of my bag. ‘Here, take a look.’ I pass it to Dad, who hands it to Mum after a cursory glance. She doesn’t mimic Emma’s wide, beaming grin. Instead, her face contorts into a grimace as she gives it back to me. ‘Cleo, don’t you think some of those things are a bit… well, ambitious? I mean, finding a way to dance again will be really difficult, especially since you’ve been away from it for so long. I just don’t want to see you get disappointed, that’s all. There are people in life who are meant to do big things and people who are meant to do small things. You are meant to do small things and there’s nothing wrong with that. Leave the big things to everyone else,’ Mum advises, passing me some more garlic bread. I feel as though someone’s punched me in the guts. I’ve always dreamed of doing big things, but even my own mum doesn’t believe in me. While my parents aren’t looking, I take a little glance at my list. A fire lights up inside me as I see my biggest dreams written in front of me. Prove everyone wrong, the voice in my head whispers, and whatever you do, don’t give up. * The first thing I do when I get home is open up the email containing Amanda’s invitation. Although I told her I’d be going when she came into the bakery today, I want to make it more official so I won’t back out. My latest confrontation with Mum has spurred me on to do my bucket list and prove her wrong. I want to show her that I am capable of doing big things, and it starts with this school reunion. As electricity shoots through my veins, I flex my fingers and begin to type. Hi, Amanda! Thanks so much for my invitation. I’d absolutely love to come to the reunion. It’ll be great to catch up on what everyone’s been up to since we left school. It was great seeing you today, by the way. I sign off by saying I’ll see her at the reunion, then hit Send and sit back to admire my handiwork. It’s official; I’m going now and I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to. Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List part two has begun! Chapter Seven (#ulink_810982fb-6f61-5889-a541-64840fe40209) The next morning, I’m in the gym bright and early. It’s my day off at the bakery and I want to make the most of it, especially now I’ve got the reunion coming up in a couple of months. It’ll also help me accomplish the first item on my bucket list: Conquer my body issues, once and for all. I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, of course. After my disaster with the rowing machine, I’ve decided to stick to the treadmill. It’s just walking (or jogging if I’m feeling brave), so nothing can go wrong, right? Unsurprisingly for this time of day, the gym’s virtually empty. The only people here are the really hardcore gym-goers. And me, of course. I prefer it like this; if I make a massive mistake, there’s no one around to laugh at me and there’s no silent competition with the person on the next treadmill. It’s just me and my music; today’s choice is ‘Spice Up Your Life’ by the Spice Girls. My love for nineties pop groups knows no bounds. I’m just getting into a nice little rhythm when a loud bang from somewhere in the gym bursts through my headphones. It sounds like someone dropping a kettlebell or something. I nearly jump out of my skin and my hand accidentally hits the speed lever, cranking it up a good few notches. ‘Shit!’ I yell as my eyes dart around me to find the emergency stop button. ‘How do you stop this thing?!’ I probably look like Bugs Bunny running away from Elmer Fudd at this point, but I’m too terrified to care. Just as I think I might actually take flight with the speed I’m building up, a hand reaches over and flips the emergency stop switch. I look to my right and see Scott standing on the treadmill next to me, stifling a laugh. ‘Not that I’m counting,’ he says with a grin, ‘but that’s the second time I’ve had to rescue you from our gym equipment in three days. I reckon you should take up yoga instead; it’s much safer, you know.’ I take a second to get my breath back and shoot him a glare. ‘I’ll have you know I was going at that speed for a reason.’ Scott raises his eyebrows and slowly nods. ‘And that reason would be…?’ I stick my chin in the air, desperate to maintain some dignity. Why does he always have to see me at my worst? ‘Because… I’m in training for something. A marathon, if you must know.’ Oh well, I say to myself, at least that’s half true. If you can call running away from the web of lies I’ve created “training”: I’ve never run a marathon in my life, and I’m not likely to. ‘Ah, so it wasn’t because you cranked the speed up too high and couldn’t find the emergency stop button?’ Scott’s Cheshire cat grin widens. Damn, I’ve been found out. Not that it’d take Sherlock Holmes to work out I was lying. ‘That may have had something to do with it,’ I admit with a smile. ‘Go on, what gave me away?’ Scott rests his chin on his palm and looks at me from beneath long brown eyelashes. ‘Oh, I don’t know; I reckon it was you yelling “how do you stop this thing?!” or the terrified look on your face. No offence, but I don’t really see you as a marathon runner.’ It’s a throwaway remark I know has no harm behind it, but it hits me right where it hurts. I try for a smile and fail miserably. ‘I know,’ I say, gesturing at the round belly poking against my lavender workout vest. ‘More like a sumo wrestler, eh?’ Scott frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Well, I’m hardly a Victoria’s Secret model, am I?’ My second attempt at a smile is more successful. ‘The only thing you’d see me running for is a special offer on cake at the caf? in Silverdale!’ To my surprise, Scott doesn’t join in with my laughing. He tilts his head to one side and looks at me as though he can’t quite work me out. I’m not used to this. Whenever I make a joke out of my weight – usually because I think someone else will first – they end up laughing along and the situation’s defused. ‘I get it,’ Scott says, folding his arms and nodding. ‘This is one of those things where you think I’m going to make fun of your weight, so you do it first. Like a defence mechanism.’ I can’t stop my mouth from dropping open. Although it doesn’t seem like he’s judging me, I suddenly feel uncomfortable and exposed. It’s as though Scott can see right through me, and I don’t like it. ‘Aren’t you overstepping your mark as a gym trainer?’ I go over to a set of kettlebells and pick one up, like I have a clue what to do with it. ‘Or do you have a sideline as a psychologist?’ I feel bad for being prickly towards him, but the last thing I need to do is talk about my insecurities with a guy I barely know. I haphazardly swing the kettlebell, which is heavier than I thought, and nearly topple myself over with the force I put into it. Scott jumps up and puts his hands on my waist to steady me before I fall backwards. I turn round to face him and feel my cheeks heat up. He drops his hands from my waist and sighs, his face breaking out into a lopsided grin. ‘You really need a personal trainer, you know.’ He chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t have a sideline as a psychologist. I just noticed how quick you were to jump in with a joke about looking like a sumo wrestler. Which, by the way, you definitely don’t. You thought I was going to make fun of you, didn’t you?’ I feel my nostrils flare Amanda-style and try to stop myself. No way do I want to be anything like her. At first, I think about telling Scott he’s wrong, but from the way he’s looking at me, I know he won’t buy it. ‘Yeah, I guess I did,’ I admit. I stop just short of admitting that people have made fun of my weight for years. That’s crossing the line into too much information. ‘Well, I wasn’t. I was actually going to say that, from the look of sheer panic on your face when you picked up a bit of speed, I guessed you weren’t a natural runner.’ My cheeks burn even more and I drop my gaze to the floor tiles. ‘Well, I might not be a natural runner, but I’m an expert at jumping to conclusions! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump the gun.’ Scott smiles and waves a hand dismissively. ‘Forget about it, it’s over and done with. I don’t think this will overstep my mark as a gym trainer…’ He pauses and grins as he parrots what I’ve just said to him. ‘But since you seem to attract trouble in every area of the gym, why don’t we do a workout together? Nothing complicated, just some cardio and weights and maybe some core if we have time at the end. I’m not sure you should be let loose in the gym on your own just yet.’ I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Although Scott hasn’t asked me out on a date – helping people in the gym is his job – I don’t feel confident enough to accept his offer. I’m already doing something that scares me by going to the reunion and, although this would help me conquer my body issues, the thought of working out one-on-one with Scott terrifies me. What if I make a complete fool of myself again? What if he sees things about me I’d rather keep hidden? What if, as I’m pushing my body to its limits, I end up exposing everything I don’t like about myself for him to see? That’s too many what ifs for my liking. ‘I… I can’t today, sorry. M-maybe another time, though.’ The words stumble out of my mouth and I hate how stupid I sound. Scott digs into his pocket and pulls out a small white card. ‘My contact details are on there. Whenever you’re ready to book a session, just give me a call and we’ll arrange something.’ He presses it onto my palm and our hands touch for a brief second. My stomach does a funny little flip that I try very hard to ignore. ‘Thanks for this.’ I smile and stick the card in my purse. ‘I-I’d love to have a session with you.’ Oh balls. ‘Would you? Very interesting!’ Scott laughs and strokes his stubble. I try to style out my double entendre with a chuckle and rub the back of my neck. ‘A gym session, I mean, not a… I-I’d better get going!’ I take off in the direction of the changing rooms as fast as I can, wondering if I’ve embarrassed myself enough to warrant joining another gym. * Meeting Emma for a post-workout bite to eat makes a complicated day a thousand times worse. Not least because the subject of speed-dating is brought up. ‘It’s a really good idea,’ she says, pointing her fork at me. ‘You could find a ridiculously hot date to take to the reunion, and your new bucket list says you want to let yourself fall in love. You could kill two birds with one stone by going to the speed-dating event at the pub next week. Come on, it’ll be fun!’ ‘I dunno, Emma, I’ve never fancied the idea of speed-dating; it all seems a bit impersonal. I really want to tick off stuff on my new bucket list, but I don’t think speed-dating’s going to help with the whole falling in love thing.’ Emma grunts in frustration. ‘How do you know unless you try? You might meet the love of your life for all you know! He could walk into the room, sit down at your table and bam! You’re getting a joint bank account and picking out kids’ names before you know it.’ I roll my eyes and laugh. ‘You know, I’d love to live in the world you live in. Everything’s so simple! You watch way too many romantic comedies, you know that, right?’ ‘You’ve got me there,’ Emma agrees. ‘All jokes aside, we’ll have loads of fun if we go to this thing together. I mean, can you imagine the kind of blokes who’ll turn up to a speed-dating event in Silverdale? It’ll be a laugh if nothing else.’ ‘OK,’ I say with a sigh, ‘I’ll do it. I’m not buying all that “you’ll find the love of your life” stuff, but it’ll be interesting to see who turns up!’ Emma’s face breaks out into a beaming grin, and she starts babbling excitedly about how much fun it’ll be. As I listen to her, I stop for a moment to process what’s happened over the last few days. I’ve made a bucket list, agreed to go to a school reunion, and now I’m going speed-dating. I almost don’t recognise myself. The Cleo who stayed hidden in the shadows and watched other people have fun is a thing of the past. For the first time in over a decade, I’m opening myself up to new possibilities and adventures. Who knows what will happen next? Chapter Eight (#ulink_3e966e24-e3b3-53ad-bee0-a36283e53dc8) One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced since joining Carb Counters is learning how to eat healthily. I don’t think there’s anyone out there who’ll disagree with me when I say it’s much easier to stick a pizza in the oven than make one from a tube of passata and a tortilla wrap. However, I’ve come to find I actually enjoy cooking. I’m even quite good at it, although I’m much better at baking. On tonight’s menu is homemade chicken and peanut butter curry, followed by some healthy brownie bites for pudding. As I stir the chicken coated in the curry sauce, I feel the aromas ensnare my senses. My mouth begins to water and my heart does a happy little dance in anticipation. I chuckle as I remember the time Marjorie tried to make ‘healthy’ sauce substitutes and sell them at meetings. ‘These are delicious alternatives to all those calorie-laden ones you get in the shops,’ she’d claimed. ‘Now you can enjoy all your favourite meals guilt-free. How fabulous is that?!’ Not really, as it had turned out. For all of Marjorie’s wild claims, she’s actually a terrible cook and the sauces were rancid. Not least because she’d added way too much vinegar to the sweet and sour sauce, and overloaded the curry sauce with chilli powder. It’s time to taste my own creation. Carefully, I dip my finger into the sauce and put it to my lips. Just right, I think. It’s rich and creamy but with a little kick of chilli to stop it being bland. After a quick check to see the rice is properly cooked, I tip some of it onto a plate and take it through to the living room with me. My stomach grumbles impatiently as I sit down at my computer desk to tuck into it. Before I have a mouthful, I shake the mouse to bring up the screen I’d been looking at. I’m logged into Facebook and have Adam Hartwell’s name typed into the search bar. Before I’d gone to make my tea, I’d been about to look him up for the first time in ten years. Apprehension – plus my growling stomach – stopped me, but now I’m determined. There’s nothing a good chicken curry can’t help you accomplish, after all. My finger hovers over the Enter key and I’m just inches away from pressing it when the doorbell rings. I give a grunt of frustration as I haul myself up from my ridiculously uncomfortable computer chair; why do people always call round at the important moments? I throw open the door and find Emma standing outside, holding a huge bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands. ‘Hey!’ I try not to make my surprise too obvious, in case I’ve invited her round and forgotten. ‘You look… erm… happy!’ Emma chuckles as she makes her way inside. ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t done that thing where you tell me to come round then forget again! I just thought I’d pop round with a bottle of wine to celebrate you agreeing to come to the speed-dating thing with me next week. It’s not every day I get you to try something new, so we should make the most of it! Ooh, is that your peanut butter curry I can smell?’ ‘Yup, there’s still some in the pan if you fancy it? I was going to freeze it for later in the week, but you can have it.’ Emma dashes through to the kitchen to claim her plate of food, while I follow to pour the wine. She’s like a kid at Christmas as she pours the rice and curry mixture onto a plate, and I can’t help but smile. ‘How are you feeling about the speed-dating event anyway?’ she asks as we make our way through to the living room. ‘It should be fun, I reckon. What do you think?’ I recognise the tone of her voice; she’s trying to make sure I won’t back out and leave her to go on her own. It’s a tone I’ve heard many times before when we’ve had something planned. ‘If you want me to be honest, I’m petrified,’ I reply, ‘but I’m actually kind of looking forward to going as well. Like you said, it’ll get me out of my comfort zone for a bit, and it’s stopping me from worrying so much about the reunion.’ Emma smiles, but it’s an uncertain one. ‘You’ve got nothing to be terrified about, Cleo. You’ll have a great time. I bet you end up meeting someone really nice, then you can take him to the reunion and rub it in Adam’s face.’ Although I don’t want to admit it, the thought of getting Adam back for humiliating me at the Leavers’ Dance is a tempting one. The feeling of cold punch being poured over me by the lovely Amanda while Adam looked on in hysterics still makes my blood boil. Her eyes fall on my computer and she moves closer to get a better look at the screen. She turns to face me with a smile playing on her lips. ‘Ah, so you were about to look him up, were you?’ She gives a little chuckle and leans against the desk as she tucks into her curry. ‘What stopped you?’ ‘Well, I was starving so I decided to make my curry. Oh, and I’m also a massive wuss. Close it down – we can see if there’s anything good on TV.’ From the look on Emma’s face, I know a quiet night in front of the TV isn’t what she has in mind. Judging by that mischievous smile, putting our feet up is the last thing we’ll be doing. ‘I don’t think so, missy,’ she says with a grin. ‘Why don’t we see what Mr Hartwell’s been up to for the last ten years? Couldn’t hurt, seeing as the reunion’s coming up, right?’ I open my mouth to disagree, but Emma’s already pressed the Enter button and is making herself comfortable. I run over to the computer as fast as my legs will carry me, careful not to drop any of my delicious curry. ‘Here he is!’ Emma’s face lights up as she clicks on the top profile. ‘What do you think?’ She wiggles the screen round so I can get a proper look at him. As soon as I see his picture, my breath catches in my throat. Although he looks older now, some things about him haven’t changed at all. He still has the same licorice-black hair, huge puppy-dog eyes and that mischievous grin that used to make my insides do backflips. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel those same butterflies looking at him now. ‘Wow…’ The rest of my words dry up in my mouth before I can say them. ‘He’s… the same as always. Good to know.’ Emma turns to look at me, arms folded and face set into a stern expression. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still attracted to him. He humiliated you in front of everyone at school, in case you’ve forgotten.’ I shake my head and make some spluttering noises. ‘Of course I’m not! I stopped liking that loser years ago; I was just looking him up so I could see if his hairline had started to recede, that’s all.’ My best friend narrows her eyes in that special I’m-on-to-you way that suggests she doesn’t believe me. Can’t say I blame her; even I know I’m lying this time. ‘Mmm-hmm. This just goes to show that the speed-dating event’s come along at the perfect time. You’ll get back in the dating game again and shake off that crush on Adam Hartwell for good. Or if all else fails, you could ask that gorgeous guy you were talking to in the pub the other night. What was his name, Scott?’ My cheeks start to burn as soon as his name’s mentioned. ‘I can’t ask him to the reunion; he’s just a bloke who works at the gym I hardly go to! I’ve only spoken to him a few times, so I can’t see him jumping at the chance to go to the reunion with me. I’ll give the speed-dating a try, but I’m not promising anything, OK?’ I retreat back to the safety of the couch, hoping to entice Emma over for a night of trashy reality TV. ‘Oh, and I do not have a crush on Adam Hartwell any more.’ At least I don’t THINK I do… Emma puts down her curry and, right away, I know she means business. She wouldn’t abandon her favourite meal for nothing. ‘I actually came round for another reason,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about your bucket list and I want to help you do as much of it as I can. So I decided to come round for a brainstorming session to see how we can make some of them happen. What do you think?’ My heart swells with joy and I even feel a lump form in my throat. Emma’s always been my biggest supporter, telling me I can do anything I put my mind to. I always went along with her daft schemes when we were kids, so it’s quite fitting she’s returning the favour now. When I don’t immediately answer, she continues, ‘We could get quite a few done before the reunion too! That’ll show Amanda, even though you obviously didn’t make the bucket list to impress her. You’re doing it for yourself and I think it’s bloody awesome. Hopefully you’ll see you’re capable of doing extraordinary things instead of selling yourself short. What do you say? Will you let me help you?’ The memory of Mum telling me I’m only capable of doing small things crosses my mind. The stab of pain in my heart makes my answer laughably simple. ‘Go on then.’ My voice trembles slightly, but my resolve doesn’t waver. ‘You’re on.’ Chapter Nine (#ulink_cb54f9ce-0442-55da-a3c2-d5931e546146) The speed-dating event comes around a lot sooner than I’d like. I was perfectly fine with it when it was a week away, but now it’s here I’m wondering what the hell I’ve let myself in for. I continually remind myself I’m doing it not only to push myself out of my comfort zone, but also to potentially tick something off my bucket list. Let myself fall in love is by far the hardest, so the sooner I make a start on it the better. I’ve already ticked off do something that scares me by agreeing to go the reunion and made a start on conquering my body issues, so I’m on a bit of a roll. Hopefully that’ll continue tonight. Before I inflict myself on some poor, unsuspecting strangers, I have a Carb Counters meeting to get through. I’m so nervous that I’m not even tempted by the prospect of a slice of cake in the Silver Spoon. I stand in the queue, palms sweating and my brain working overtime to produce a list of all the things that could go wrong at the speed-dating night. Emma’s skipped this meeting because she has to work, so I’m on my own. Much as I don’t envy her very stressful job as a legal secretary, I can’t help wishing I had work to keep me away from this meeting. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lynsey-james/a-season-of-hopes-and-dreams/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.