Buch lesen: «A Season of Hopes and Dreams»

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

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

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

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 café 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 café 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.