Some Kind of Wonderful

  ‘Haven’t you wanted to start running again?’ she says to him, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

  He looks between the pair of us, caught a little off guard – his mouth gawping just enough for me to notice.

  ‘Yeah … that’s right,’ he says with a slow nod of his head.

  ‘Remember when you were younger, Elizabeth?’ she asks. ‘You two used to run together.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  ‘It wasn’t that often. Maybe three or four times,’ Dad shrugs.

  ‘Nonsense. You did that 5K race together. Remember? You got a little plate for it and everything.’

  Now that she’s saying it, I do have a very vague recollection of struggling through the countryside with Dad next to me.

  ‘I think I actually found the plate thing,’ I say, remembering an item I picked out of a box the other day. It was absolutely filthy, but you could just about see 5K engraved on it. I had no idea where it had come from. I’m pretty sure it went on the dump pile.

  ‘You should take your dad out with you next time, love. For old times’ sake,’ Mum says, placing a Chocolate Hobnob in her mouth, and crunching down on it while looking mighty pleased with herself for coming up with the idea. ‘It’ll be a nice thing for you two to do together while you’re back here.’

  I look at Dad. He looks as baffled as I feel. It doesn’t appear that he’s thought about going out for a jog recently. He’s not overweight, but he’s not exactly the fittest man I know, either. If he were to start running again, I’m not sure he’d choose me as his partner.

  ‘Everything’s OK, right? You haven’t had a health scare?’ I ask with a panic, wondering if that’s the cause of this chat.

  ‘Don’t go killing me off just yet,’ he laughs, the lines around his eyes crinkling up and showing his age. ‘Right,’ he says decisively, almost to himself, as he jabs his fist in the air. ‘Sign me up to your new running club.’

  I have to laugh at the concern on his face. He doesn’t look like this is something he actually wants to do, so I can’t work out if he’s just saying he’ll come because Mum has sprung it on him and he doesn’t want me to feel upset if he turns the idea down. If he’s not sick then I imagine this is another way for Mum to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t cut myself off from society and become a wallowing mess.

  ‘I’m a pretty shit runner to be honest, Dad,’ I say, attempting to let him off the hook.

  ‘I won’t be any better,’ he shrugs, stealing a telling side-glance at my mum. ‘Just let me know when you’re next going and I’ll try to come with you. It’ll do me good to loosen these old bones a bit.’

  ‘What a lovely idea,’ Mum says, shoving in yet another biscuit.

  An awkward silence that I can’t quite decipher falls upon us.

  I open my mouth to see if I can figure out what’s going on when the doorbell rings and startles us all.

  ‘Has he forgotten his bloody key again? Honestly!’ Mum tuts to herself, before turning to me. ‘Can you get it? It’s Ted with Michelle and Stuart.’

  I wander off down the hallway, wondering what’s going on with my mum and dad, because something clearly is. It doesn’t feel like they’re not getting on, but something has clearly happened. It’s a thought I don’t have long to ponder over. When I get to the door, Ted is in the middle of tripping over. He’s literally mid-air while a white box, presumably containing the top tier of the wedding cake Michelle was hoping to save for the baby’s first birthday, does its own little flying spree.

  In my direction.

  It might be happening in slow motion, but as the box opens, the cake reveals itself and propels out. My arms stay firmly by my side, failing to block the cake from its final destination.

  Me.

  The white buttercream icing hits me with a splat, covering my face and chest. It’s not as light as it tasted last night and hits with quite an impact.

  There’s a moment where no one says a thing. I stand there frozen, feeling their eyes on me. Then a deafening laughter spills from Michelle and Stu, the pair of them cackling hysterically.

  I feel my emotions flounder. Either this moment is mortifying, even though it’s only my loving family here to witness it, or it’s one of the funniest things that’s ever happened to me.

  Laughter wins. It rises up and bubbles out of me as I wipe the delicious-smelling goodness from my eyes.

  The very worst has happened to me lately. I can handle a bit of smashed-up cake on my face.

  I scoop it from my hand to my mouth and enjoy the sugary goodness.

  ‘I want some!’ Michelle giggles, leaping over poor Ted who’s still on the floor rubbing at his ankle. She uses her finger to swipe a bit off my face and licks at it.

  ‘Mmmmmm … As good as I remember,’ she smiles at me.

  ‘That’s gross,’ says Stuart, screwing up his face in disgust.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Are you all OK?’

  Mum and Dad come wandering down the hallway. They take one look at me and fall about laughing. Quite literally. Mum actually collapses down the wall, clutching at her tummy. She can’t even stand through the laughter.

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ she wheezes.

  ‘Try a bit,’ Michelle says, helping herself to more of my cake face and shoving it in.

  ‘Seriously, if I were marrying Ian this is how we’d have served up the cake,’ I laugh, tears springing to my eyes. ‘Plates are so overrated.’

  ‘I’d better try some,’ smiles Dad, helping Mum up.

  ‘Me too,’ sniffles Mum, giggles still spilling from her mouth.

  They both join my little sister in picking bits from my face and eating them. I feel like I’m a monkey being checked for lice, although I don’t think they could ever feel as good as I do right now.

  I embrace the silly moment and feel joyous from it.

  Joyous and sticky!

  I need another shower!

  17

  In the two weeks since Michelle’s wedding I’ve been working on ‘THE PROGRESSION OF LIZZY RICHARDSON’ and looking up clubs in the area. Group activities that’ll get me out of the house and meeting new people, but also developing a new skillset or reigniting a passion for an old hobby I’ve completely forgotten about. I’ve had to look further afield for some, as the village is pretty limited in its options, but not too far beyond the neighbouring villages as I want to keep it local. I’ve found a lot of churches or community clubs I could join and immerse myself in, but I don’t think I’m looking to be that involved. I just want to find out who I’m meant to be whilst engaging in some fun activity. That shouldn’t be too difficult a task.

  The week before Christmas I find myself alone in the office at work. Stephanie has been called out to put up an old client’s Christmas tree and make the rest of the house look festive. She’s taken Pippa with her.

  No one really thinks about redecorating at Christmas because the houses always look so magical and full of charm (and highly blinged up here in Essex), so it’s dead in here. No phones ring, no emails pop up. As we’ve already put plans in action for a few properties to start their makeovers in early January, nothing much else can be done. For that reason, I’m looking back over my whittled-down list of possible hobbies and making notes.

  I could join a choir. Absolutely! I also want to sing more so this could be a two bird, one stone situation. I’ve found a couple of different sorts of singing groups so far. There’s obviously the one at church, but there’s also an all-women a cappella ensemble who meet every Thursday night here in the village. It sounds great, but the thought of having no music to follow scares the life out of me. I know I can sing, but I need at least the bashing of a piano to bleat along to. It’s the only way to ensure I remain in time and some sort of key! It won’t be easy to become part of something like that, clearly. I’m sure there’d be auditions, identical to those in Pitch Perfect, but it might be worth investigating. Especially if it means meeting someone like Rebel
Wilson – my ultimate female crush for so many hilarious reasons.

  On the list there’s bell-ringing of The Hunchback of Notre Dame variety, not the bells on a table sort (which is weird). Seeing as I hear them all day every day when I’m at home, and they go berserk at the weekends for weddings and services, I’m pretty intrigued to see how it all works. Only downside, I might have to be a member of the church to be allowed to take part. I don’t think I’m going to find myself by turning to God, but this might be worth keeping in mind if other options fail me along the way.

  Juggling is scribbled on my list, but I don’t know why I’ve written this one down, to be honest, as I’m below average when it comes to throwing and catching a single ball as it is. This option is clearly my own version of running away to live with the circus. I’m pretty sure the circus wouldn’t want me.

  Cheerleading is written in capital letters, showing my enthusiasm for this particular idea. It’s even followed by five exclamation marks. Basically I want to be in Bring it On, but I’m not in high school, college or America. Only a slight problem though as, after lots of Googling, I have found just one class for ‘senior’ participants (ouch) that is half an hour away. It’s a drive but it could be worth it – as long as I don’t have to be the one thrown in the air. I couldn’t handle that, and neither could the ones catching me! Haaaa … maybe this one requires further thought.

  I’ve written down ‘starting a book club’, but I know Connie won’t read what I’ve suggested, so it would probably end up being just Mum and I having a chat. We swap books and do that already so there’s no point faffing about with this one.

  Then there’s the local drama club that I was a part of as a kid. If I’m honest I think I’d cringe at this one now and am better off with the choir idea.

  Karate could be fun, and it really would be a useful skill to have now that I’m single and mostly alone, with no one to protect me. Ever …

  Fuck me, that’s depressing. I don’t want to feel weak and dependent. Karate is definitely a firm contender.

  Aqua aerobics, tennis, badminton and gardening have been brainstormed next, but suddenly I’m not so keen. Purely for the fact they make me feel twenty years older than I am – and terribly British country bumpkin. That said, I have also thought about horse riding. It’s something I did when I was five or six, but I’ve not been on a horse since. I loved it though.

  For the completely absurd, I’ve written down ‘Hula hooping club’. I don’t even know if such a thing exists, but I can remember seeing some article a year or so ago about hoop love growing thanks to a contestant on Britain’s Got Talent, so you never know. I’m not saying I’d be good at it, but I’d give it a go and I’m sure I’d have a laugh doing so if I ever managed to find a class.

  I look back at my list and the scribbles I’ve just penned over it. I think joining a choir might be the best way to ease me in gently.

  As I’m about to suck it up and email the a cappella choir, I remember an old school friend had posted something ages ago about starting some sort of singing group which seemed like fun. I’ve not seen anything pop up of hers for a while, so I imagine she’s one of the lucky ones Facebook has decided to mute from my page. As soon as I type in her name and get directed to her account I find a post about not forgetting to bring sheet music to the next ‘Sing it Proud’ rehearsal.

  I remember her well, Jodie Craig. She always seemed lovely. I mean, we never really hung out or anything as we were in different forms and our paths never truly crossed due to our friendship groups. In fact, I’d say I’ve found out more about her from a Facebook stalk after we left school at eighteen than I ever did when we were at school together. All I knew back then was that she smiled a lot, was always in the school shows (invariably the lead), and usually won the talent show. She was bubbly, fun, and didn’t care what people thought of her. I might not be looking for a friendship to start up, but just remembering her passion and joy makes me want to get in touch.

  I click on ‘message’ and type out a little note saying that I’m back in the village and wondering if there is space in the choir and if I have to audition or anything.

  A few minutes later a reply pings through.

  Oh, it’s lovely to hear from you, Lizzy! My mum mentioned you were back so I thought I might bump into you at some point. We meet at the church (the one near the park, not the one your sister got married in) at seven PM every Wednesday night. There’s no size limit and absolutely no need to audition. I’m not looking for the perfect choir (although I happily remember you can hold a tune very well). We want to spread the happiness singing can offer.

  Tonight is our final session before Christmas. We won’t be rehearsing but rather going straight in and running everything we can remember – there’ll be lots of festive numbers and mulled wine in the break if I can locate enough flasks to get it there. There’ll also be some mince pies from one of the members. Would you like to come in and watch to see if it’s your sort of thing? It’s really quite remarkable.

  Oh, isn’t she just a delight?! As I type out a message telling her that I’d love to go along, I feel excited about the prospect of meeting new people and doing something I used to love. The only difference is that this time I’ll be doing it for the sheer joy factor, and not because I think I’m going to be the next big pop star (yes, I did once think that).

  I text Connie.

  I’m going to be in Jodie Craig’s choir!

  Three hours later she replies with a laughter emoji.

  18

  At precisely seven twenty-eight I walk into the church, figuring that if I were to arrive any earlier I’d have to make small talk with strangers or people I’ve not really spoken to in years. I know mingling with others is a huge reason for me taking on this new class (and the hope is that I might learn something about myself through their questions), but I want to just observe today without any pressure being added. They’re singing, I’m listening. That’s it.

  While walking through the huge wooden doors, doors I haven’t entered since primary school when we were made to come here for celebrations like the Harvest Festival, I steal a glance at the altar to see a bunch of roughly twenty people standing around in a semicircle next to a black grand piano. They’re visibly waiting for the stragglers to join them while flicking through their sheet music, quietly singing lines to themselves and getting prepared. The stragglers are less focused on what they’re about to do and are making the most of seeing their mates. Their bags have been dumped on chairs lining the right-hand side of the church behind where the congregation sit when it’s particularly heaving, like at Christmas. They look like they’re in no rush to get into their formation with the rest of the team. Instead, they’re perfectly happy cradling their cups of tea and having a gossip.

  I fleetingly wonder where I would fit in here as I nervously slip in on the end of a pew right at the back of the church. I’m fiddling with a loose piece of thread from the end of my shirt.

  I want to be here but I also want to be hidden. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone who might chuck a glance in my direction. Part of me wants to shrink away. Another part of me wants to actually leave. The feeling of being the new girl is intense and unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

  I’ve been so comfortable with our cosy little life at home for so long that this feels totally wrong. This is not sitting down and hardly talking to my partner while we happily munch on (vanilla-powdered and coconut-oiled) popcorn and watch a Netflix series together. This is out of the house and conversing. I’m still in actual clothes past seven o’clock. I still have make-up and a bra on!

  I bite the inside of my cheek to steady myself. I want to be here. I really do. I’ve never been one to suffer with social anxiety in the past, but I know this is the result of Ian and I shutting ourselves away and not venturing out to anywhere other than the gym. I don’t know how to talk to people in a social capacity. I’ve forgotten how to be me.

  I didn’t
realize trying out something new as an adult would be this tough! It’s far more overwhelming than doing so as a kid. When I was twelve I’d have been straight up joining in without a care in the world. I don’t understand how changing the way we interact with others can have such a lasting effect on how we might react in social situations, but it makes me angry that I’ve allowed myself to feel this way in a scenario I’d have previously thrived in. But it’s the anticipation of the unknown. I don’t know what’s expected of me, even though I’m meant to be here just to watch.

  ‘You made it!’ Jodie says, cutting into my thoughts while sliding in next to me and placing an arm around my back. She’s exactly as I remember her. Her blonde hair is still long and down to her waist, and her smile is just as big, warm and inviting. She’s wearing a yellow t-shirt with ‘Sing it Proud’ printed across the front, along with some blue skinny jeans and white ballet pumps – the uniform of the group, although everyone is wearing t-shirts in different colours.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she sings, her hand rubbing along my shoulders.

  ‘Thanks for having me. It looks great,’ I say, pursing my lips together sweetly, looking up at the people before me, seeing the individuals rather than the daunting group. The sight is comforting. It’s such a collective bunch of men and women of all ages and sizes, all wearing the same happy and contented faces Jodie displays. It literally is a case of everyone being welcome. Clearly this makes it less Pitch Perfect than I’d hoped, but I’ll reserve my judgement for now. I’m sure this lot can give some attitude when the song demands it.

  I notice a few other people occupying the pews in front of me who also aren’t wearing the Sing it Proud tees; some are on their own like me, others are little families or sitting in couples. They’re possibly spectators too, seeing as it’s the last rehearsal. Perhaps they’re here to see what their loved ones have been getting up to while out of the house on a Wednesday.