The calls she’d taken had yanked her out of her one-woman pity party. Particularly the overnight shifts. The number of men she’d spoken to who reminded her of her brother had been staggering. She wanted to tell them all of this and how it had led her to take an eye-opening pilgrimage across America to be an audience member in chat show after chat show until, at long last, she’d reached California, where baring one’s soul seemed to be an entry requirement. All of which had led her back here to Newcastle, to this stage, in front of this audience who were waiting for her to say something. Anything really.
So she did the only thing she felt they deserved: stepped to the side, held her hand out to the side of the stage and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud and humbled to introduce to you my mentor and, I can’t believe I’m saying this – my friend, Oprah Winfrey! Let’s show her what a Newcastle welcome is all about!!!!!’
It was less than a five-minute spot, of course. And they’d only managed to make that happen because Oprah was already over in the UK doing one of her SuperSoul roadshows. But she’d come to Kath’s out-of-the-way studio in Newcastle. She’d sat down and listened to Kath’s story, along with the audience. Nodded and absorbed just how low Kath had had to go before she realised that she had a chance to make a difference, a real difference in people’s lives and that the only way to do that was to own everything she was which was why, when Oprah had come out on stage, she’d been carrying a birthday cake with sixty candles on it. All of which Kath blew out in a oner. And now that Oprah was gone and the cake had been shared amongst the audience and the crew she had just a bit more unfinished business to see to.
‘That’s ten seconds to final commercial, Kath,’ said the voice in her ear.
‘… that’s all we have time for today from Newcastle, but I want you to know that when you tune in tomorrow – and I really hope you will – I’ll be here … and I’ll be listening.’
TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER
‘It’s hill climb time!’
Flo stood up on her stationary bicycle, loving the expressions on everyone’s faces as her students tried and largely failed to heave themselves up to standing on their pedals. It was the trying that mattered. The journey.
‘Remember! No matter what you achieve – you’ve achieved a personal best! Because by walking through that door – by choosing Golden Soul Cycle – you have made a decision to love yourself! Can I have a yes, Flo!’
She’d stolen this end bit from MasterChef. She’d actually stolen quite a few of her inspirational lines from MasterChef, but so long as it worked, she figured a bit of verbal plagiarism wasn’t going to land her in the clink. After all, who would want to arrest a poor, grey-haired old dear from Portugal’s finest golf and retirement community?
The motley, mis-matched crew of geriatrics pedalled and sang and ‘Yes Flo’d’ every Tuesday and Thursday when she and Stu were down here in the Algarve. This time they’d be staying a bit longer so she could train one of the younger girls who ran the pilates class. The leisure centre wanted to run it full time now that it had proved such a hit. The class was completely full today. Full of oldies. Some with dyed hair, some with gunmetal grey, or, like her now that she’d grown it out, shock white. Right in the centre of them all, her Stu was pedalling away, singing rock and pop songs she never knew he knew the lyrics to (he had helped with the playlist), and, of course, cheering the other riders on.
After the students had sweated and groaned and begged Flo to give them all a break, she turned off the disco ball, leaving the room in a soft, restorative light and pressed the song on her playlist they all knew signaled cool down. ‘Everyone get your lighters ready!’
There was all sorts of fiddling with phones (Stu had helped everyone download the app because real lighters were forbidden … health and safety), and then, as the flickering artificial lights began to fill the dark room, that same rush of joy she’d felt all of those years ago in a stadium filled with crazed fans rose within her.
‘Time to dial back the resistance,’ she said. ‘Put a towel round your neck. That’s right. Beatrice, take a drink of water, you look a bit flushed. That’s right, everybody. Slow your tempo down … nice and easy.’ And then, just as she did every single time the lyrics began to wrap round her, reminding her just how close she’d come to throwing it all away, she looked her husband in the eye and began to sing along with Freddie, ‘Love of my life.’
THREE YEARS LATER
Raven watched as the eighteen-year-old in front of her shifted and, as she had done so many times when she had been asked to talk to someone about what was troubling her, avoided eye contact.
She pushed the box of felt and scissors and glue towards her. She’d just shown her how to make emoji-shaped elbow patches. If she wanted to do it, great. If she didn’t? Not a problem. Crafting or drawing or etching out squares and triangles were all ways of letting the brain process
