There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—
No, Lottie. Don’t go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.
“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.
Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.
“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”
“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”
“Of course!” I say. “Absolutely!”
“But will she still get the credit?” chimes in another friend anxiously. “Because she’s already failed one module.”
“It’s all his fault,” says the first friend viciously, and about ten girls nod in agreement, murmuring things like “It so is” and “Tosser” and “He can’t do a smoky eye.”
“We were together for two years.” The pale girl gives another sob. “Two whole years. I did half his coursework for him. And now he’s all like, ‘I need to focus on my career.’ I thought he wanted to be with meeee.…” She dissolves into prolonged weeping and I stare at her, tears starting to my eyes. I know her pain. I know it.
“Of course you’ll get the credit,” I say warmly. “In fact, I’ll give you a special mention for turning up when you’re clearly in mental distress.”
“Will you?” Cindy gives me a watery smile. “Will you really?”
“But you have to listen to me, OK? You have to listen to me.”
I’m feeling a gathering urge to speak off-topic. To convey a universal truth, not about pensions, not about tax breaks, but about love. Or not-love. Or whatever limbo place we’re both in. I know it’s not in my remit, but this girl needs to know. She needs to know. My heart is beating strongly. I feel noble and inspirational, like Helen Mirren or Michelle Obama.
“Let me say one thing to you,” I begin. “Woman to woman. Professional to professional. Human being to human being.” My eyes fix on hers intently. “Don’t let a breakup ruin your life.” I feel so galvanized. I feel so sure of myself. I’m burning with my message. “You’re strong.” I tick off on my fingers. “You’re independent. You have your own life, and you don’t need him. OK?”
I wait until she whispers, “OK.”
“We’ve all had breakups.” I raise my voice to take in the whole room. “The answer isn’t to cry. The answer isn’t to eat chocolate or plot revenge. You need to move on. Every time I’ve had a breakup, do you know what I’ve done? I’ve taken my life in a new direction. I’ve found myself an exciting new project. I’ve changed my look. I’ve moved house. Because I’m in charge of my life, thank you.” I pound my fist in my palm. “Not some guy who can’t even do a smoky eye.”
A couple of girls break into applause, and Cindy’s friend whoops supportively. “That’s what I said! He’s a waste of space!”
“No more crying,” I say for emphasis. “No more tissues. No more checking your phone to see if he’s called. No more stuffing your face with chocolate. Move your life on. Fresh horizons. If I can do it, you can.”
Cindy is gawping at me as though I’m a mind reader.
“But you’re strong,” she gulps at last. “You’re amazing. I’m not like you. I never will be, even when I’m your age.”
She’s looking at me with such wonder, I can’t help feeling touched, even though she doesn’t have to behave as though I’m such a dinosaur. I mean, I’m only thirty-three, not a hundred.
“Of course you will,” I say confidently. “You know, I was like you once. I was quite timid. I had no idea what I would do in life or what my potential was. I was an eighteen-year-old kid, floundering around.” I can feel my All-Purpose Motivational Speech coming on. Do I have time to give it? I glance at my watch. Just about. The short version. “I was lost. Exactly like you feel now. But then I went on my gap year.”
I’ve told this story many, many times. At student events, at team-building seminars, at preparation sessions for personnel going on sabbaticals. I never get bored of telling it, and it always gives me a tingle.
“I went on my gap year,” I repeat, “and my whole life changed. I changed as a person. One pivotal night transformed me.” I take a few steps forward and look directly at Cindy. “You know my theory of life? We all have special defining moments which set us on a path. I had my biggest defining moment on my gap year. You just need to have your own big moment. And you will.”
“What happened?” She’s agog, and so are all the others. I can even see someone switching off their iPod.
“I was staying at a guest house on Ikonos,” I explain. “It’s a Greek island. It was packed full of gap-year travelers, and I was there all summer. It was a magical place.”
Every time I tell this story, it brings back the same memories. Waking every morning to the Greek sun dazzling my eyelids. The feel of seawater on sunburned skin. Bikinis hung over peeling wooden shutters to dry. Sand in my trodden-down espadrilles. Fresh sardines grilled on the beach. Music and dancing every night.
“Anyway. One night there was a fire.” I force myself back to the present. “It was terrible. The guest house was packed with people. I mean, it was a death trap. Everyone came out onto the upstairs veranda, but no one could get down; everyone was screaming; there weren’t even any fire extinguishers.…”
Every time I remember that night, it’s the same flashback: the moment the roof fell in. I can hear the thunderous sound and the screams. I can smell the smoke.
The room is utterly silent as I carry on.
“I had a vantage point. I was up in the tree house. I could see where people should be heading. You could jump off the side of the veranda onto the top of a nearby goat shed, only no one had realized. Everyone was panicking. So I took charge. I started directing people. I had to yell to be heard, and wave my arms, and jump up and down like a mad thing, but finally someone noticed me, and then they all listened. They followed my instructions. They all jumped off the veranda onto the shed one by one, and they were all OK. It was the first time in my life that I realized I could be a leader. I could make a difference.”
The room is absolutely still.
“Oh my God.” Cindy exhales at last. “How many people?”
“Ten?” I shrug. “Twelve?”
“You saved twelve lives?” She sounds awestruck.
“Well, who knows?” I try to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m sure they would have been saved anyway. The point is, I realized something about myself.” I clasp my hands to my chest. “From that moment on, I had the confidence to go for what I wanted. I changed course, changed all my ideas. I can honestly say, it all dates from that point. That was my big defining moment. That was when I became the person I am. And you’ll all have your defining moments. I know you will.”
I always relive the moment and feel a little overcome when I tell that story. It was so terrifying. That’s the bit I never put in: how scared and panicky I was, shrieking through the breeze, desperate to be heard, knowing it was all down to me. I blow my nose and smile around at the silent faces. I made a difference. That mantra has stayed with me all these years. I made a difference. Whatever else I do that’s crap and stupid, I made a difference.