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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “At the Zoo” Down in the Dirt v210 (8/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Home Town Counterplay
Wendy Taylor
Reagan said I was cold fish.
But I did not get where I am today by being nice. CEO of a major company in the city. Small town girl, big city dreams, and so far, it had all worked out. I admit there were many casualties along the way: friends, work colleagues and boyfriends. It was lonely life at times, long hours at my desk and many social events full of fake air kisses and pretend interest in others’ lives that I only attended to get ahead. I did not need friends. My career was my friend. The rewards were worth it. I owned a huge apartment full of glinting, bespoke furniture, in your face art, vases of fresh, aromatic, long stalked flowers, and designer clothes, squishy, leather handbags and shoes in every colour of the alphabet filled my walk-in closet. I roared around in a black Porsche. No public transport for me.
Up till now I had been happy in a fizzy, don’t mess with me sort of way. I had everything I wanted. Well, almost everything. I didn’t have Reagan. And I wanted Reagan. Who wouldn’t want Reagan? Tall, dark, handsome, young and rich. So, cliché, but so suited to my life plan of a successful career, new stuff and arm candy. I had the first two but not the third. If my male counterparts could date a younger good-looking partner, why not me. It had been easy to catch Reagan but harder to keep him.
At first entranced with my drive, it seemed Reagan now found it tiresome. And callous. He wanted a sweet little thing. Being a sweet little thing was definitely going to be a challenge, but perhaps I could show Reagan I had changed. I had a heart. It was time for damage control. Atonement. Right some wrongs.
I did not come up with this plan on my own. After throwing some serious money at life coaches and therapists, the consensus was, apologies to all those I had slayed, would melt Reagan’s heart. Actually, I did come up with this plan on my own, but hesitant nods from the afore mentioned coaches and therapists indicated to me I was on the right track.
I needed to do it properly. I never did things by half measures.
This meant going back to see Klutzy Cleo.
Back to my home town.
Everyone called Cleo, Klutzy Cleo. Actually, it was really only me at the start. Back then, I was the person everyone emulated. I could run, jump, kill an essay, was blessed with blonde hair, straight teeth, and my doting mother spoiled me with the latest fashions. I was seriously cool. The others at school followed me around. Wanting to be me. When I started to call Cleo, Klutzy Cleo, everyone followed suit. To make sure Cleo heard, it was always KLUTZY. CLEO. Loudly with two full stops for emphasis. I also imitated Cleo, her walk, her actions, mostly behind her back, but not always. That’s what kids did, didn’t they, made fun of others? She coped, just wandered off and did her own thing, or hung out in the library.
I ignored my parents’ admonishments.
‘Be kind, she can’t help it.’
‘Cerebral Palsy,’ I said back then, ‘was no excuse for not being as co-ordinated as the rest of us.’
Now, I realised that was a little unfair.
Cleo is going to be the first on my road to redemption. Reagan would be so impressed I had gone back to my tiresome home town to meet up with little old Cleo. She had not even the drive to leave. She had married the school hunk, Sam, who had been my number one fan when we were teenagers, and were deliriously happy, according to my mother. How she knew this I didn’t know, but, for ‘goodness sake,’ she was still living in the town of our childhood. No ambition. A total stick in the mud.
‘Don’t be so judgmental,’ Dad had said when I bought this up. ‘Sam and Cleo have done okay. They have turned a failing bathroom company into a huge success.’
I snorted. ‘With the working from home phenomena, everyone is coming back to these sad little towns, buying derelict houses, cheap and doing them up,’ I replied. ‘It would be hard to fail.’
Dad just threw his hands up at this point.
Plus, she had five kids. Who on earth would be happy with five kids? All that snot and whinging. But I did have to admit that when I saw her around town on the rare occasion I went back, and spotted them in the street, Cleo and her offspring did seem to be the epitome of family togetherness; all giggles and glee.
I thought that meeting up with Cleo would be easy. She would be honoured to meet up with the town success story. There would be hugs and kisses and joyful reminiscing. But several Facebook messages resulted in nothing. No response. Silence. It was not as though she was an infrequent user. She wasn’t. She posted most days, and her page radiated with photos of her kids and Sam on glorious overseas holidays, at fun parks and many, many snaps of their sprawling mansion and riotous gardens. No reply, even though I “liked” every photo. Oh what, there was even a tennis court. And a pool.
Sam had not changed, his curly hair, still long and untamed, swept his shoulders. His tee-shirts did not hide his muscles on muscles. Cleo had grown into her gangly limbs. Her elfin haircut and long eyelashes gave her a svelte Bambi vibe. I had to admit, Cleo and Sam did look deliriously happy. Eyes alight, wide smiles. Sam staring into Cleo’s eyes like she was super-hot and the love of his life. Like I wanted Reagan to look at me. And so many friends. Arms around each other, glasses of wine spilling, in waving hands. But despite these almost daily posts, no reply to me.
It looked like I was going to have to hunt her down. No one ignored me. Or hid from me. I do not fail when on a mission.
I knew from phone calls with my mother, who filled me in on, who, what and when, every time I rang, that Cleo worked in the local supermarket.
‘They don’t need the money; she just enjoys the interaction with the locals.’
Oh please.
At least that meant I could corner her and do my thing. A piece of cake. It would be all over in minutes and I could tick her off my list and impress Reagan.
So, here I am, in the supermarket of my childhood. Same place, same building, albeit updated and extended with a new frontage and a larger carpark, the family run bookshop next door, gone to accommodate these changes. Once inside and mooching down the aisles, lights flicking overhead, freezers humming, I see hummus, wraps, goats’ cheese and gluten free flour. Maybe this town is dragging itself into the 21st century after all. Wonders will never cease. There is even the aroma of fresh bread floating on the air, tickling my nostrils making my stomach rumble.
Cleo is at the checkout. The only one open today. That is a bonus.
She is still as bumbly as ever. No, I’m a nice person. She is still, endearingly, herself. Hiding behind the shampoos I see she knows everyone, and everyone knows her. Smiles, laughter, swapping of anecdotes.
Five items. I decide to choose five items. I had to look like I was picking up things for my parents. This needs to look like a spontaneous apology. I choose stuff they might have run out of: milk, margarine, bread, cheese and toothpaste.
I line up. Nerves fizz in my veins. That I did not expect. I never get anxious. Ever. I must really, really, want to impress Reagan.
Only one person is in front of me. A hooded pimply youth.
I am sweating. “Miss Cool Calm and Collected” is sweating!
Cleo is talking to the pimply youth. Toothy grins and a shared joke.
The roaring is that is now surging in my ears prevents me from hearing it. I shake myself. Get a grip. I don’t even get this wound up in board meetings.
Now I am in front of Cleo. Her eyes narrow. The smile slides away, her lips clamp shut, glossy lipstick crinkling. No need to introduce myself. I see she recognises me. But I do anyway. I do my thing. I am dimly aware that there seems to be a lot more scanner beeps, than items I am pulling out of my basket and plonking on the counter. I finish. Both my spiel and handing over the groceries.
Cleo arches her eyebrows.
‘Will that be all?’
I do not know whether she means the apology or the purchases.
I nod and take the purchase docket from her outstretched hand.
Still no emotion. Until she turns the next customer, her back to me.
‘Hello Mrs Craddock. How is that new baby grandson of yours?’ she says, her voice light, genuinely interested.
I was well and truly dismissed. Also, I had not been offered a bag and it hadn’t occurred to me to ask for one. Redness creeping up my face, I scoop the items off the counter into my arms, juggling them like a toddler with an armload of soft toys. In an attempt to regain a sense of control, I stride to the entrance, shoulders and gaze staunch.
As the doors whoosh open, I glance down at my docket and see that Cleo has charged me three times for each item.
