She high-fives him.
‘We have our first reason! Though, I’m pretty sure every single woman in this room would disagree, but yes! All of the good ones are taken. Who’s next? You. Lady in the yellow scarf.’
‘I’m not conventionally “attractive”,’ she replies hesitantly, air-quoting the word attractive.
‘In what way?’
‘I’m fat.’
‘Good!’ Anna exclaims. ‘Let’s keep this going. Next!’
And with that, the entire room starts revealing the reasons they’re single, some even shouting out without being prompted.
‘I can’t find anyone good enough for me!’
‘I have a dodgy leg!’
‘I’m ugly!’
‘I only attract arseholes.’ (That one was Patricia.)
‘Men only want sex!’
‘I’m too busy to meet anyone.’
‘I get bored quickly.’
I’ll give Anna credit. In only half an hour she’s managed to whip a relatively quiet room into a frenzy; people yelling and laughing, even hugging, until finally everyone has vented. Well. everyone except me, because I’m not here for the same reasons they are. I’m not single because there’s something wrong with me, I’m single because I choose to be.
Anna gestures to everyone to quieten down. ‘Those reasons you gave – you’re absolutely right, those are the reasons why you are single.’
At least half of the people in this room now look horrified, the rest mildly offended.
‘You see, it doesn’t matter whether those reasons are true or not because y’allbelievethem. You tell yourself the sky is green for long enough, you’ll start to believe that too. Keep sayingno one loves meover and over, that’s exactly what you’ll get. You manifest exactly what you think about. The universe doesn’t understand sarcasm, or wit or nuance. You sayI’m too ugly to find love, the universe will say “OK”. You say,I only attract assholes, the universe will say, “Cool, here’s another asshole”. You see, in every aspect of our lives, we get what we think about, and love is no different. If you continually think about what you don’t have, that’s exactly what you’ll get. This week we’re going to teach you how to attract what you want by believing you already have it. We’re going to teach you how to reprogram your subconscious to shift your paradigm. Think you can’t be loved? We’reliterallygoing to change your mind!’
While everyone else applauds, cheers and whoops, I look for the emergency exits. The universe? Paradigms? Reprogramming?
What on earth has Faith signed me up for?
CHAPTER11
After a coffee break in which three-quarters of the bootcampers go outside to smoke, we’re divided into four groups of ten, consisting of five men and five women. I’m in Group Two.
‘This will be your team for the week,’ Anna explains, while everyone assembles at their designated area. ‘Each team has been allocated a mentor who will work with you individually and collectively throughout the bootcamp. Of course, you’ll still be participating in larger group activities, but consider your group your family for the week.’
That might not be so terrible, I think, sending Charlie yet another message she won’t reply to. I’ll be looking to replace Faith with a better sister anyway, when I get home from this circus.I place my phone back into my bag and smile civilly at the rest of Group Two. They just stare back at me. My new family appears to be mute.
‘Nora,’ I pipe up, breaking the ice. ‘Lovely to meet you all.’
‘Hi, Nora,’ they all reply in unison. God, this feels like an AA meeting. As we go around the group, I learn that my new female family members are Allison, middle-aged redhead; divorced Patricia, blonde, last seen insulting her ex-husband’s beard; Jillian, dark hair, darker eyes; and Meg, pink ombre hair, has a ‘welcome to my channel’ YouTube vibe about her. While my male siblings are Paul, middle aged, bald, man jewellery; Tim, early sixties, looks startled and also like a potato – a thin-lipped potato; Russell, fedora owner; Will, tall, dark hair, dishevelled; and Nish, cute face, reminds me of a guy I went to school with whose name escapes me.
‘I wonder who our life coach is?’ pink-haired Meg chirps, looking around. She appears bubbly and confident, but the way she’s nervously picking her nail varnish, leaving tiny white specks on her black skirt, makes me think otherwise. I’m guessing she’s in her early thirties, perhaps younger; it’s hard to tell under the sheer volume of makeup she’s wearing. I’m not entirely sure when the go-to makeup look became Drag Queen Chic but it’s hard to find someone under forty who isn’t contoured to within an inch of their life before they leave the house.
‘I think it’s that guy walking towards us,’ Nish replies, his gaze lingering on Meg for a little too long. I turn to see Brad striding towards us, his biceps like baseballs, and I silently groan. His face looks like it’s been sponsored by Armani. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate with THAT all up in my business? This is probably how Nish is feeling about Meg.
‘Hello, everyone. I’m Brad. Everyone well?’
His accent is also American, but not Southern like Anna. California, perhaps? I nod to indicate my wellness, while everyone else is able to form actual words. What the hell is wrong with me?
