The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart (14 page)

‘He’s going to send
me over a new sample of this material called Ultra Board that they now print on. It’s a lightweight cardboard rigid enough for display panels but fully recyclable. I think it would fit perfectly with your vision for offering a green marketing package.’

I look at her, stunned. What green marketing package? Since when is Rick discussing strategy with her? She’s only been with the company five minutes.
And, more importantly, why isn’t Jim sending me that sample? I’m the senior designer.

‘I don’t remember him showing us that,’ I say, thinking that I must have been doing some serious daydreaming.

‘Oh, he didn’t. We just got chatting when I phoned him to thank him for taking the time to show us round.’

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Of course she phoned him. I’m beginning to understand how
she operates.

‘Brilliant, Linz. Sounds just like what I was after. I can’t wait to see it.’

‘So how many people are doing the abseil?’ asks Giles. He throws me a look and I know he’s deliberately changing the subject. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the Linz appreciation society too.

‘There’s now eight of us doing it. Us four, then Fran, Greg, Isla from accounts and Pat,’ replies Rick.

I can’t
believe anyone else volunteered to do it. Greg and Isla are quite adventurous, as is Pat the office manager, who’s in her sixties and is totally putting me to shame, but it does surprise me that Fran’s volunteered. It doesn’t seem like her type of thing at all, especially after she wriggled out of the trampoline because of her fake pregnancy. I wonder if she’ll come up with anything equally ridiculous
to get out of this.

‘It’s going to look fantastic at our Spinnaker pitch. Abi, I can’t thank you enough for inspiring it,’ says Rick.

I forget about my shaky hands and lunge for my pint of cider and down it, my brow breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of the abseil.

‘I never pictured you as an adrenaline junkie,’ he continues.

‘Oh, Abi’s turning over a new leaf. She’s learning how
to windsurf at the weekend.’

I shoot Giles a look. That’s it. I’ve got to stop telling him about the list.

‘You are? Well, I’ve got a couple of boards if you want to go out for a blast on the water after?’

I’d rather poke my eyes out with skewers.

‘I love windsurfing,’ says Linz, practically purring. ‘I did it a couple of times in France. Where do you go round here?’

‘Usually Hayling or the
Witterings.’

‘Wow. I bet it’s great sailing out to sea. I’ve only ever been on a lake before.’

I bite my lip. I think that she believes she lives on the West Coast of the US, rather than on the South Coast of England, which is bombarded with a fierce sea breeze strong enough to knock your socks off nearly all year round.

‘Why don’t you do the course with Abi?’ says Rick. ‘And then you could
always come out with me on one of my boards.’

‘That’s a fab idea,’ says Linz, grinning.

‘It’s such short notice. I think they’ll probably be full already.’

It’s bad enough that I’m having to put up with her five days a week at work, let alone seeing her on a weekend. Especially when I’m doing something as important as one of the tasks off my list.

‘I could phone them to check. Can you text
me the number of the centre?’

‘Of course,’ I say, thinking that I’ll give her a fake number.

‘It might be too late for you to hire a wetsuit and things,’ I say, lying.

‘Oh,’ says Linz. Her face falls.

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got loads of my ex-wife’s wetsuits kicking about the house. I’m sure one would fit. She was petite like you.’

I can’t be sure but it sounds like Rick is flirting.
He’s old enough to be her dad – well, if he had been an extremely sexually active eleven-year-old, but still, it’s physiologically possible and therefore gross.

‘Ah, thanks, Rick, that would be fantastic,’ she says, batting her eyelashes. ‘I can’t wait. It’ll be the start of my nautical adventures living here by the sea.’

‘Look at us all, bonding as a team,’ says Rick.

I grit my teeth and try
to smile.

‘Abi, I love the fact that you’re making Linz feel so welcome by taking her windsurfing with you. It’s so hard when you move to a new city and don’t know anyone. I remember when I first came over to England. It wasn’t easy not knowing anyone down here. Especially when I didn’t move to London with the rest of the Antipodeans.’

Now I feel like a bitch. Rick’s right. Maybe Linz isn’t
being intentionally annoying. Maybe she’s just new to Portsmouth and lonely.

I forget sometimes that I have it relatively easy, having stayed here after university. It was surprising the number of us that hung around the area, so I know quite a lot of people. But Linz is brand new.

I dig out my phone and find the number for the outdoor centre and read it off to Linz.

‘Thanks. Fingers crossed
they have some space,’ she says, smiling and holding up her fingers.

‘Fingers crossed,’ I mutter into my pint.

Perhaps there’s no great secret romance after all. I should probably just feel sorry for her, rather than letting my imagination run away with itself.

After all, I’ve got enough to worry about doing my bucket list, without worrying about Linz too.

Chapter Ten

Five weeks until the abseil – that’s if I don’t get swept out to sea during my windsurfing challenge . . . or is that wishful thinking?

‘Morning, morning!’ calls Linz as she strides across the entrance hall of the outdoor centre.

She’s still unnaturally happy despite the fact we’re up earlier than should be legal on a Saturday morning. Instead of looking knackered from the week
at work and too many vinos on a Friday night like me, she looks all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. What it must be to still have that young skin which doesn’t show the daily wear and tear so badly.

I wave at her. It’s about as enthusiastic as I can get at this time in the morning, especially when I’m preoccupied with the fact that any minute now we’re going to be plunged into icy water.

I’ve
lived in Portsmouth for over ten years and I can count the number of times I’ve been in the sea on one hand. It’s always freezing, even if it’s a blistering hot day at the end of summer. Going into the choppy sea in March when it’s so cold that I had to put on a winter coat this morning is not something I’m relishing.

‘All right, guys,’ says a man who’s surely still a teenager, if not in body
then in mind. He’s got bright blond shoulder-length surfer hair and he’s wearing shorts and flip-flops. His nod to the fact that it’s nippy out is a hoodie . . . because that’s going to keep his toes warm.

The motley crew of aspiring windsurfers assemble in front of him. All four of us, of whom I’m the oldest and most out of shape.

‘All up for getting blown away?’ He flashes his big grin at
us and his eyes settle for longer than necessary on Linz, who giggles appreciatively.

Everyone replies enthusiastically, apart from me, and we’re led through into a little classroom which has rows of those desks with flippy-down tables that you can never balance paper on properly, and a whiteboard at the front.

‘Now, I know you’re all eager to get wet,’ he says, winking at Linz. ‘But we’ve got
to understand the basics first. I’m going to go through how you essentially sail a windsurf and some of the key concepts like jibing and tacking that I’ll be teaching you later on. So are we ready to learn?’ he says, dishing out some little books.

‘Yes,’ I say eagerly. I notice that everyone else is sighing, but I’m relieved to get a few more moments snuggled up in my hoodie and trackie bottoms.
In fact, if only the whole course was desk-based. That would be ideal.

Unfortunately for me, the whole course is not desk-based. What I am hoping will be a long and lengthy windsurfing 101 is in reality a twenty-minute lecture with stick men drawn on the board. By the end, I know as little as I did before the lesson and I still think that tacking is something to do with horses.

‘Let’s get
you all kitted out then,’ he says, eyeing us up and handing out wetsuits. ‘Abi, I think you might get away with a medium, but I’ll give you a large too to be on the safe side.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, my cheeks colouring. There was me hoping I’d lost some post-break-up pounds with my cycling to work, but clearly not.

‘Here you go, Linz – you’ll be a small,’ he says, handing a wetsuit to her.

She flashes
him a big smile before heading into the female changing room. I sigh and follow her.

I hate wetsuits with a passion, but the only thing worse than having to put on a wetsuit is going into the freezing cold sea without one.

I catch a glimpse of Linz in her itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie blue almost polka-dot bikini and I sigh again. I look down at my own black Speedo swimming costume, chosen to attract
the minimum amount of attention, and I can’t help but notice the thick belly protruding from it.

Where did my toned stomach go? OK, so I might not have had a super-toned stomach for a number of years, but before I got together with Joseph I’d been able to look over my stomach line and see the waist band of my low-rise jeans. Now there’s a roll of fat in the way. All those contented pub lunches
and meals out plus the post-break-up Chinese did me no favours.

I look between the medium and the large suit and back down at my thighs. I guess it can’t hurt to try the smaller one first. I do want it to be tight to help keep warm.

I step into the wetsuit and I immediately cringe that it’s ever so slightly damp. I daren’t think about the fact that means someone else was recently wearing it.
I pull it up over my thighs and start to jump it up. My boobs go flying as I try and wriggle to get myself in.

I’m starting to think I should have gone for large, but I’m too invested to give up now.

I see out of the corner of my eye that Linz seems to pull hers on like a glove and she has no problem getting it up over her chest and then pulling the long strap up at the back to fasten it.

I curse under my breath and put my hands through the arms. This’ll be the test of whether it really is too small.

To my sheer amazement, I get my arms in and the fabric pulls tight across my chest. I practically break my arm trying to grab the strap at the back, before Linz bounds over and helps me.

‘Let me grab that for you.’

She zips me up, and I yelp as a little bit of back skin gets stuck
in the zip.

‘Oops, hang on,’ she says poking at my flesh and trying once more.

This time it does up and I windmill my arms to make sure I can move around. The fabric stretches a little bit and I think I’m going to be OK.

‘Shall we go?’ asks Linz enthusiastically as she leaves the room.

I try not to look at her skinny little behind as she walks out of the changing room in her wetsuit and flip-flops.
I pad behind her, my wetsuit shoes flapping noisily on the tiles. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and instantly wish I hadn’t. This wetsuit is the least flattering thing I think I’ve ever worn. They’re clearly not designed for women with hour-glass figures. My boobs still look massive despite being compressed in neoprene and my thighs look like tree trunks.

Any sense of glee that I felt
at squeezing into the medium disappears as I waddle out feeling like an overweight walrus.

‘Let’s get this show on the road,’ says Brett, as we meet him and the other two guys in the lobby. We follow him outside, where there’s a windsurfing board fixed to the floor.

‘So, I’m going to run you through what you’re going to do when you get out on your boards,’ he says, jumping on and masterfully
spinning the board around with his legs. I find myself being impressed and suddenly Brett’s become that little bit more attractive. Down, cougar, down.

He takes us through what we’re supposed to do at breakneck speed. And then he calls for us to have a go one by one.

When it’s my turn, I climb onto the board, and push myself up to stand. The board swivels underneath me, instantly making me nervous.
What on earth possessed Joseph to put this on his list?

The thought of him in a wetsuit with wet curls running out of the surf, à la
Baywatch
, suddenly makes my knees buckle and I’m reminded why I’m doing this.

I gain control of my legs once more and push my arms out rigid.
I can do this
. I chant.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I could fall the three inches from the board – and
probably face plant into the concrete floor below . . .

‘That’s it, Abi. Strong legs. Now, gently pull the rope of the sail up and lean back whilst grabbing the bar.’

I take a deep breath and do as he says. The wind begins to take the sail and I pull it up. I can sense Brett hovering behind me and from watching the others I know he’ll have his hands outstretched, so with that in mind I lean
back and allow myself to get in the position.

‘Sweet, Abi, sweet,’ says Brett. ‘OK, you can hop on down.’

I stand back upright and almost immediately let go of the sail. It crashes noisily to the ground.

‘Sorry,’ I say, wincing as it hits the concrete below.

Brett tries to smile through his own wince. ‘That’s OK, just go careful.’

The last of our group takes to the fake board and I start
to think that this windsurfing malarkey might be quite easy after all. I can already stand on the board and pull the sail up, and Brett says from there the wind will carry us, so really I can practically do it already.

Maybe I should just get Linz to take the prove-I-was-here photo and then I can call it a day.

‘Right, guys, let’s grab our boards and get in the water. I’ve already attached the
sails and I’ll teach you about connecting the rig after lunch.’

Brett has deposited our windsurfers on the edge of a concrete slipway and he helps each of us carry ours into the water.

I can’t help but try and tiptoe as the water starts to run over my ankles and into my wetsuit shoe.

The coldness of the water takes my breath away and I can’t believe that I’m voluntarily wading into it.