I pull out of my winding gravel driveway and make the journey across the city to my dads’ house withThe Greatest Showmansoundtrack blaring through the speakers of the car.
Fear and doubt loop through my brain like a spinning carousel.
What was I thinking, asking Ronan Rivers to teach me how to swim?
The man has the filthiest mouth I’ve ever come across.Or not, as the case may be.
His suggestive remarks and one-liners don’t offend me, quite the opposite, in fact. The reason they infuriate me is because my mind refuses to stop playing them back each night after I put the girls to bed. It’s not helpful.
But he is the best swimmer in the country. I’ve seen his teaching methods first-hand. He’s kind and gentle, to thegirls, at least. I’ll have to suck it up if I want to fulfil my role for the Coral Chic contract. Which I do, badly.
And if I learnt to swim, I’d be able to bring the twins to the beach without the fear of drowning hanging over me. It’s a stone’s throw from the house. I can see it from my sitting room window, yet I make every excuse under the sun why we can’t go. A wave of guilt ripples through me.
Being a mother is the hardest job in the world. No matter how much of myself I give, it never feels like enough. I wrote an entire book on how to parent as a single mam, but sometimes I think I’m none the wiser. As the book title suggests, I really am winging it.
I swing into the driveway of my childhood home. April in Ireland can be a beautiful month, especially if you have access to a garden like this one. As usual, the lawn looks like a golf course, the boxwood bushes are perfectly preened, and pink and purple tulips line the perimeter.
Both of my dads are obsessed with gardening. They even grow their own herbs and vegetables in raised boxes at the back of the sandstone house. Thankfully, they take pity on me and work their magic on mine once or twice a month, too.
A warmth expands in my chest as the red front door swings open and both dads rush out. I’m under no illusion it’s to greet me. No, it’s the twins. They’re obsessed with them.
Stuart and Steve Kingsley are both lean, athletic, and well able to lift my daughters and swing them in the air like dolls. Of course, the girls love it. They might not have a dad, but they have the best two grandads in the world.
Stuart is more playful than Steve. He loves to tease me about getting married, despite being famous for my single status. I’m sick of telling him that “Married Sav” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Even if I spent my childhoodparading around the house with a pillowcase on my head as a veil singing‘Here comes the bride.’Doesn’t every little girl dream of a big white wedding? It’s just that life had different plans for me.
I pull to a stop next to their matching ebony-coloured Audis. ‘Thank you so much for taking the girls.’ I let down the window but don’t get out of the car. If these two start talking, I’ll be late, and I’m cutting it fine as it is.
Stuart goes to Eden’s door to get her, while Steve goes to Isla’s.
‘No problem. Take your time,’ Steve says, over the girls shrieking their greetings. ‘Where are you going again?’
‘I’ve decided to take swimming lessons,’ I admit, like it’s nothing.
My dads eyes lock. Steve’s mouth falls open. Stuart arches his eyebrows, all too aware of the origin of my fear of the water.
‘I got offered a contract as the ambassador for Coral Chic and the promotional shoot is in the sea.’
‘That’s amazing, honey.’ Stuart leans in through the open car window to grip my shoulder and squeeze. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
‘Me too, baby,’ Steve says, ushering Isla and Eden up the semi-circular front steps.
‘We’ll have a glass of wine ready for you when you’re finished,’ Steve promises.
‘Steve bought fresh salmon from the guy at the pier for dinner and we’ve got new potatoes, carrots and kale from the garden.’ Stuart gives one more squeeze before removing his hand from my shoulder.
‘Sounds delicious.’ The nausea swirling in my stomach has prevented me from eating anything since my conversation with Ronan last night.
Steve approaches again, peering in the window. ‘Just an afterthought, but who exactly is teaching you to swim?’ His silver eyes gleam. ‘Please tell me it’s the ultra-hot former Olympic champion who teaches the twins!’
I put the gearstick in reverse and deliberately ignore the question. ‘Bye dads. See you later.’
‘Good luck,’ Steve calls, stepping back.
‘Behave!’ Stuart shouts, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Ronan never replaced the Aston Martin. He bought a Tesla instead. When I reach the car park at St Jude’s, it’s already there. It’s safe enough today. The car park is empty and there’s ample parking.
I suck in a huge breath as I enter the building and strut through to the female changing rooms, exuding way more confidence than I feel.
