The Burnout(37)

“Yes, please,” I say, instinctively glancing around to see if anyone can hear. “Orange, if they’re available.”

“Orange Club biscuits.” The guy nods and taps the side of his nose. “Got it. Drop them up at the hotel, shall I?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll collect.”

“You’re the boss. Anytime after five.” I hand him a twenty-pound note and his eyes swivel to the door, where a pair of women have come in. “Mum’s the word.”

As I walk out, my phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see a name flashing. At once I feel a leap of joy.

“Hi!” I answer. “Hi! Dinah. How are you?”

“How am I?” Her Irish brogue nearly knocks me off my feet. “I’m grand. It’s you I’m concerned about, Sasha. Running into walls now, is it?”

I laugh, instantly relaxing. God, it’s nice to hear her voice. Why haven’t I called her before?

“I don’t know what happened,” I admit. “I flipped out. It was the well-being officer who did it. She wanted me to answer 375 emails and be joyful.”

“Joyful!” snorts Dinah. “When you’re at work you’re a laboring woman. You’re concentrating on the job. You need sensitive support and peace to get on with the demands being made of your body and mind. Sod the doctors! I mean, the well-being officers.”

Since Dinah became a doula, she sees everything in terms of childbirth and occasionally slips into “labor” pep talks. Which are actually quite instructive.

“So, what are you up to?” she demands now. “I heard you went to the seaside.”

“Trying to be restful. And healthy.” I look at my shopping bag of crisps and cake. “Let’s say it’s a work in progress.”

“You’ll get there,” says Dinah firmly. “You’re stronger than you realize. You have to believe it. How’s the old libido doing?”

Dinah knows full well about my missing libido, and she even once gave me a leaflet, “Getting Back into Sex,” for postnatal women, which had lots of advice about sore nipples. (So not that helpful.)

“Still can’t get excited about it,” I admit. “It’s like looking at a plate of chicken drumsticks when you’re not hungry.”

“Chicken drumsticks!” Dinah collapses into laughter, and I can’t help sniggering myself. “Well, if you’re burned out, it’s no surprise. You’ve got sexual burnout, that’s what it is. So, no holiday romance, then?”

“There is a guy here,” I admit. “Quite hot-looking. But probably wouldn’t want to hook up with a woman who’s repelled by the idea of sex.”

“Probably not ideal,” agrees Dinah.

“Also, he’s awful. He was mean to a toddler.”

“No!” exclaims Dinah in outrage. “OK. Well, leave him out of it. And don’t despair, it’ll all come back. You can do miracles with that body of yours, Sasha. Your body is designed to succeed, you know that? Designed to succeed.”

“Dinah, I’m not giving birth,” I remind her, laughing.

“Well, maybe you should!” she answers promptly. “Give birth to a whole new Sasha.”

We chat on about this and that—but for the rest of our conversation, that phrase keeps coming back to me. Give birth to a whole new Sasha. Maybe I could. Maybe I will.

As I ring off half an hour later, I feel transformed. Just one easy, gossipy conversation with a friend has done wonders for me. I feel light. Energized. Confident. Strong. I need to find some grit, I find myself thinking. Grit.

On impulse, I walk into the small empty car park next to the supermarket, put my shopping bag on the floor, and jut out my chin, remembering Dinah’s advice. You’re stronger than you realize. You can do miracles with that body of yours. Your body is designed to succeed.

I’m feeling a doggedness I haven’t had before. Mind over matter. I can be strong. I won’t be defeated by this. If the setting for my transformation isn’t a glorious beach but instead a grotty car park, then so be it. We can’t all have picturesque epiphanies. Sometimes we just have epiphanies. And my epiphany is that I’m going to do this bloody hundred-squat challenge. Right here, right now.

I take a deep breath and start doing squats. Come on, Sasha, come on. I do ten. I pause. I do another ten. I have a longer pause—then do ten more. After fifty I have a motivational snack and let my muscles have a short rest—then I resume. I’m panting and my legs are burning, but I’ve never felt better. It wasn’t that my thighs couldn’t do squats—it was that my head couldn’t.

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to reach a hundred, a few at a time with lots of breaks. But at last, puffing and hot in the face, I get there. I did it! I did the squat challenge!

I sink onto the ground and just pant for a bit, trying to avoid the curious gaze of a delivery driver.

Then, on trembling legs, I head out of the car park and wander down to the beach. Talking about Club biscuits earlier filled me with nostalgia. I want to check out the Surf Shack again.


As I see the wooden structure, my heart skips a beat. There was always a party feel around the Surf Shack. It was the center of the beach, the place to be. It was where you met friends and hung out. And Terry was the king.