At the words “fish tank” I can see everyone in the queue starting to giggle and look around. There are people who put hats on their ferrets and dresses on their dogs and they are laughing at us.
“Thanks, Dad!” yells Pete, leaping to his feet. Then he sees the tank and his face droops. I haul myself up using Gabe as a crutch, stumble over a few magazines and shuffle over to stand next to Pete. We stare together.
Well. If one were to scrabble around for a nice thing to say (and let’s be nice, why not?), it looks a bit like modern art. It lurches and bulges wonkily at the sides. I can’t imagine it holding a small mouse, let alone gallons of water. And it’s really small – the swimming routine is going to involve a lot more cuddling than I’d choreographed.
Also, how are we going to move it into the studio? Already a traffic warden is eyeing it up and reaching for his notebook.
“We won’t keep you,” I say crisply to Debs and her team. They drift off with a couple of pitying backwards glances and sniggers.
“Stay here,” says Pete to me, wearily. “Hold our place.” Happy to! His dad was tetchy when I asked him his surname, imagine how moody he’ll be when questioned about his crazy fish bowl. I watch the three boys slope away towards the wobbly upside-down greenhouse in the middle of the pedestrianized zone.
My stomach is churning with cheese, pickle and worry. I fiddle with my whistle. Usually that bolsters my confidence, but right now I feel out of my depth. I think about calling home, but I’ve got no bars.
Pete, Roman and Gabe finish talking with Pete Senior and walk back to me with the faces of men who have seen their own doom and know there is nothing left to do but face it with dignity.
“Good news?” I say brightly.
Gabe looks at Pete, who says nothing. Gabe fills me in. “We have no idea how we can move it from out here to in there. And, that tank is so small that if we attempt the triple dive someone’s going to end up pregnant. It can’t be me because I need to focus on my education.”
I sink deep inside my sleeping bag. All this hard work for nothing! After a few seconds I poke my head back out to see what’s going on. They’ve fallen silent. Roman and Gabriel are staring at Pete in utter astonishment.
“What?” I demand, pushing my hair out of my face. “What have I missed?”
“Pete just apologized,” whispers Roman.
“Do it again,” says Gabriel incredulously.
“Oh, shut up!” snaps Pete. “I’m sorry, OK? I really thought my dad would come through for me.”
“To be fair…” I say slowly.
“Oh seriously, Lou, can you not?” interrupts Pete.
How is everyone allowed to make fun of him except me?
“I wasn’t going to!” I protest. “I was going to say that he got a gigantic truck across town, carrying a quite big and –” I hiss this bit – “stolen fish tank in it and he managed to put it together, sort of. Your dad did all that because he loves you, and it’s still amazing…” I trail off, suddenly becoming shy again.
Pete’s dad ambles up.
“No good, then?”
We hesitate.
“It’s brilliant, Dad, thanks,” lies Pete and hugs his dad, who gives him a surprisingly comfortable hug back.
“Thanks, Pete!” we all say with big fake smiles.
“Good,” says his dad. “Call me when you need me, I’ll be in the pub.”
“Aaahh,” says Gabe as we watch Pete Senior wander off. “I love to hear those words from the man who’s driving me home in a ten-ton truck.”
There’s a shrieking, scratching noise behind us and we turn around just in time to see the tank collapse in on itself. A raggedy cheer and round of applause rise up from the queue.
So it’s come to this: Plan B, as in Bloody Stupid.
I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and divest myself of a couple of jumpers. I’m walking to my doom and I don’t want to look like a laundry basket that sprouted legs. I’ve been formulating a desperate idea for the past ten minutes, which I really hoped I wouldn’t have to put into action. I head towards the TV cameras at the front of the queue.
I see Debs from the back, she’s standing just inside the entrance to the aircraft hangar. She’s leaning on one leg slightly, hand on hip. Even when she’s relaxed Debs always looks ready to pounce and kill. Which doesn’t help right now.
“Debs?” I say. She doesn’t turn around. She’s watching her girls give an interview to two smooth-faced men holding microphones.
“COACH!” I yell and she wheels round. Instinct.
“Can I talk to you?” I ask.
“Not now.” She turns back, dismissing me. Hannah would do this so much better than me, but she’s not here. I grab hold of my inner Hannah and take a deep breath.
“Durbs!” I announce in a reedy shout.
Oops: spit bubble in my throat. Ahem.
“Debs!” I shout less froggily. “I’m sorry I didn’t swim fast enough at the Olympic time trials, I’m sorry that after all your coaching and hard work I just wasn’t good enough! I’m a failure!” The camera moves over to me.
“But now I’ve coached a team of swimmers for this show and it’s helping me feel confident again! I just want a chance to show what we can do and make my gran proud. My gran who … died.” I shield my eyes so I don’t cry (very little risk of that tbh, both my grans are fine). The crowd around me murmurs sympathetically. I’ve seen this show, I know how it works. I lift my face out of my hands and do Big Eyes at Debs.
“So please, Debs, can we borrow your … bespoke pool?” The world goes very quiet as I stare at her.
Debs has a peculiar look on her face and I realize she doesn’t know what to feel, let alone fake. I really have got her on her weakest area here. Genius, Lou! And only a little bit humiliating for me – but no worse than having tampons flicked at your head.
“That’s a beautiful story,” says one of the presenters, putting an arm around each of us. From the look on Debs’ face I’d be surprised if he gets that back in one piece.
“Great back story. I know we can’t wait to see these two former teammates become rivals today.” He’s not really talking to us, he’s twinkling at the camera. Debs looks homicidal, so I say, “Thanks, coach!” and run off.
“Hey!” A man with a walkie-talkie gestures to me. I hesitate, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “The pool will be here. Come and find us when you’re a hundred away from the head of the queue, OK?”
I nod and run off to tell the boys.