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.
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
