Prime Time (23 page)

‘Is it working? I enquired when her minute was over and she was rolling on the floor, clutching her abdomen.

‘It had better be.' Clara prodded herself in the stomach. I think it's all a bit firmer than it was.'

‘I think mine is too,' I said, poking myself. ‘But I don't seem to be that much smaller – I want to lose weight as well as firming up.'

‘Not too much, though,' said Clara. ‘Look at her!'

She nodded over to where an incredibly skinny woman was running on the treadmill, ear phones clamped to her ears, weights on her wrists.

‘She does it for hours,' whispered Clara, ‘until she's pouring sweat and seems about to pass out. It can't be good for her. And she doesn't even look nice.'

We both stared at her. Her arms and legs were like sticks and she had a minute bottom. With a shock I realised it was the woman I'd seen in the changing room the first time I came to the gym. The one with the fabulous body. She seemed to have lost about two stone since then and it wasn't an improvement.

‘You can definitely be too thin,' I agreed.

‘Not that we have to worry about that just yet,' said Clara wryly. ‘She has training sessions with Marco,' she went on in the same low voice. ‘I think she's got a few quid – I've seen her getting into a Merc outside and her clothes are fab. But she's totally obsessed. I was talking to her in the changing room one day and she tests her urine every morning to make sure she's in ketosis and burning fat. She told me she has an egg white omelette for breakfast and another one for lunch. That's it. Chicken and salad in the evenings. I suppose she's on one of these missions to get to a size zero. She's already got the horrible breath.'

‘Blimey,' I whispered back. ‘Isn't she starving?'

Clara shook her head knowledgably. ‘Apparently once you're in ketosis you stop feeling hungry. Alfie said that too – he's only on about 600 calories a day, and endless litres of water.'

Lucky old them, I thought. My appetite was showing no particular signs of abating.

‘Neither's mine,' said Andrew Lazlett a couple of days later, after we'd almost crashed into each other as I stumbled sleepily into the gym and he swung his way through the turnstile on the way out.

‘Goodness, what time did you get here?' I said, looking at the clock.

He pulled a face. ‘Six a.m. when they opened. Only way I could fit it in. I really need to be in school by eight – lots to do.' He sighed. ‘And I could do with being earlier than that. I think I might have to start coming at six in the evening instead.'

‘Ooh no,' I said, ‘that's glass of wine time.'

‘I know,' he said with feeling. ‘Beer time for me. But I'm still off it.' He pulled another face. ‘I'm on water only.'

‘Well, so am I actually,' I admitted. ‘Well, in theory anyway …'

I was trying to cut down on alcohol and eat only good things. Forcing down Sally-Ann's vitamin protein shakes when I could bear it and attempting to remember to rub her pungent creams into various parts of me morning and night. This was a complex procedure dependent on recalling whether you did your breasts yesterday or this morning and if it was the turn of your upper arms or inner thighs to smell peculiar.

I hadn't noticed any particular enhancement in my cleavage yet – one of the benefits promised in the extensive leaflet that came with the product – but from the dreams I'd been having, causing me to wake up flushed and strangely embarrassed, it seemed to be doing something to my sex drive. Or perhaps that was just all the exercise which, Clara informed me, done properly produced as many endorphins as a “stinker of an orgasm”.

‘I can barely remember,' I told her.

But whatever it was doing to me, I realised one morning I was actually looking forward to the gym. There was something about being on the cross-trainer, hot and sweaty, legs aching, short of breath yet with the music pounding away in my ears, my legs and arms moving to the rhythm, that felt good and uplifting. It was nice to go with Clara if she was around, but equally OK to go on my own.

Sometimes I did forgo the wine totally and went early evening if Stanley was elsewhere. I even took myself down there on a Sunday morning once Daniel had picked him up, instead of taking up my default weekend position of staying in my pyjamas and eating crisps.

‘It's exhilarating,' I explained to Charlotte.

She looked deeply unimpressed. ‘Doesn't turn me on, love.'

‘That,' said Becky, ‘is because you're sad. If you exercised a bit more, and gave up smoking …'

‘Now you're
both
boring me,' said Charlotte.

‘Do you understand?' I asked Andrew, with whom I'd fallen into the habit of having a freshly squeezed orange juice if we happened to coincide in our sessions and then catch each other's eyes across the top of the chest press.

‘I don't think I'm quite there yet,' he said. ‘I come because I know it's doing me good – I am beginning to feel my abs again – and because I do like the feeling of being in shape. I know it's hard to believe, but I used to play football for The Flying Duck when I lived in Southampton.' He grinned at me. ‘And I ran a marathon for Cancer Research when I was in my first year of teaching. And up until just a year ago I used to cycle everywhere. I was really quite fit – I know it doesn't look like it now.'

‘No, I can believe it,' I said. Looking at him afresh, he did have that look of the former athlete about him. Something about the way he moved, the easy rhythm of his running. The way he caught an exercise ball lobbed at him from across the floor by Alfie.

He waved at Alfie now. ‘He's a great guy,' Andrew said. ‘I can't believe how much weight he's shifted, he's so focused.'

I waved at Alfie too. His once-great girth appeared to have shrunk a bit further every time I saw him. He seemed taller as a result and his face had more definition.

‘And he always looks so cheerful with it,' I said.

‘He does. I'd like to enjoy it more. But I'm not getting the high out of it just yet. Still kicking myself for everything I can't do. Hey, do you play tennis?' Andrew asked.

‘Er no, not really. I mean I have done, but badly.'

‘Well, perhaps you could try again. Maybe we could play in the spring?'

‘Yes, maybe.'

We lapsed into silence.

‘How's the diet anyway?' I asked after a while.

‘Boring,' he said. ‘I've never eaten so much bloody cheese in my life. I'm sure it must be sending my cholesterol sky high and I'm about to keel over with heart disease and furred-up arteries, but Elaine says it's only short term and it's the quickest way to shift all this lard. But, frankly, if I don't get a piece of toast soon … Hey,' he said again, looking round the café area, ‘can you stay for breakfast?'

I shook my head. I'd been feeling comfortable sitting talking to him but at the mention of his wife, I felt myself withdraw. Andrew was a nice bloke who'd been really kind, always asking after Stanley and checking how we were, and I liked him. But it while it was very well passing the time of day with him, I'd just been forcibly reminded that he was married and having breakfast together seemed a bit more intimate than just chatting over an orange juice. I didn't want to be any sort of Hannah figure, especially after I'd been so vociferous about her.

I was no closer to getting to the bottom of exactly where Roger was with all that, but I'd be going to his works do soon and I was determined to find out then. I'd only popped into Charlotte's a couple of times recently and he hadn't been there either time, but I'd gathered via a casual comment from Charlotte that Roger went for a drink most nights after work, so I assumed he was still in Hannah's thrall.

‘That's a pity,' said Andrew now, smiling. ‘While it's the weekend and I can. Another time perhaps?'

I smiled back but shook my head again. ‘I'm really busy at the moment,' I said.

Chapter Twenty-five

It wasn't untrue. Mike was giving me more work than ever before and what with going to the gym and looking after Stanley and needing to concentrate on not eating too much, it was a constant battle to keep up.

Whereas once I was delighted to be interrupted by Charlotte at any hour of the day, now my heart sank slightly if the doorbell rang, knowing I would have to abandon my brochure-writing for an hour the latest deadline was getting scarily close and there were still pages to go – and that she'd also expect me to eat biscuits.

I'd tried not having any in the house but Stanley had been mutinous and Charlotte, upon finding the cupboard was bare, simply turned straight round again and went out and bought some.

This afternoon she'd brought them with her, not trusting me to have a decent supply, and was morosely eating her seventh garibaldi, while I stared into middle distance, reliving the delicious conversation I'd just had with Cal.

‘Things are really tough out there,' she was saying. ‘I mean, I know there's a bloody credit crunch on but I was still sure I'd sell that place in Harbour Street quickly. It is seriously fabulous inside and he's knocked almost a hundred grand off the price. I'd bloody buy it myself if I had the money. I even asked Roger if we could get a loan. But he's still being very peculiar of course. Wouldn't even discuss it!'

She looked at me expectantly and I dragged myself back to the present. ‘I didn't think there were any loans,' I said vaguely.
Cal's coming down tomorrow to do some more filming. He said he's really looking forward to it …

‘I'm sure there are if you know where to go,' said Charlotte crossly. ‘I've decided it's definitely a mid-life crisis. You know, he's reading some very odd books at the moment …'

He's been thinking about me a lot and there's something special he wants to discuss with me …

‘Like what?' I said.

‘Oh, I don't know what it was called but I read the back cover, and it was some poncy-sounding “relationships” effort. You know the sort of thing–' She pulled a comic face and adopted a faux intellectual tone. ‘This deeply complex novel examines the frailty of modern liaisons, challenging at the deepest levels our common perceptions of love and marriage with a unique insight into the human psyche that is both uplifting and disturbing …' Charlotte gave a loud and magnificent snort. ‘This is a man who reads wall-to-wall Jeffery Archer or James Patterson and used to take the piss out of me for liking Joanna Trollope. He said someone at work recommended it.'

I snapped out of the daydream where the “something special” was Cal's overwhelming desire to take me away to a deserted island in the Bahamas for two weeks, and gaped at her. ‘Really? Who?'

‘I don't know,' said Charlotte impatiently. ‘You know how weird they all are. Well, you don't, but you'll see for yourself next week.' She suddenly looked at me hard. ‘It's not just Roger – there's something funny about you too. You've got a really odd expression on your face – and it's not just because your eyebrows are three inches too high. Have you shagged this Cal bloke and neglected to tell me?'

I gave myself a shake. ‘No, of course I haven't. I wouldn't mind though …' I said, in a lame attempt at humour. ‘But as I‘ve told you before, I'm old enough to be his mother. Well, not quite …'

Charlotte was still scrutinising me keenly. ‘So how old is he again?'

‘Twenty-eight.'

‘Oh well, that's OK, then. Older women are all the rage now – I was reading about it. He should be bloody grateful a gorgeous woman like you might want to teach him a thing or two.' She wasn't smiling.

‘Come off it,' I said, embarrassed.

‘But,' said Charlotte, with sudden fervour, ‘you can do better than some shallow youth from a TV company. Bet he spends more time looking at himself in the mirror than at you.'

‘No,' I said at once. ‘He's not like that at all. He's really sweet and not shallow either – he's terribly clever. He was telling me on the phone this afternoon about this production of
King Lear
he worked on when he was a student and how it totally turned all the preconceptions about false love and vanity on their heads and made him realise that, in fact –'

I stopped as Charlotte put down her coffee cup and stood up. ‘Hmm, very interesting I'm sure.'

‘Anyway,' I burbled, ‘they're coming to do the next lot of filming tomorrow and I'm supposed to have lost weight. Do you think my arms look better?' I held them up for her inspection.

Charlotte picked up her handbag. ‘Sorry, love, they just look like arms to me.'

Clara understood.

‘Ha! Another pound gone,' I cried triumphantly, as I jumped off the gym scales and braced myself for what we now termed “the nasty steps”.

‘I'm not weighing myself till the weekend,' said Clara, wiping at her face with a towel. ‘And it had better be good when I do. I haven't had any alcohol for ten days, no biscuits, no chocolate, no cocktail pork pies. If I haven't lost at least half a stone, I am going to seriously consider killing myself.'

‘You look visibly smaller to me,' I said encouragingly. ‘You really do – that T-shirt is much looser than it was when I first met you.'

‘You look thinner too,' said Clara. ‘Especially on your upper arms.'

We both examined them. ‘After all the bloody weights I've lifted I should think so.'

I turned sideways so she could assess how much my stomach was sticking out. ‘I'm still not what you would call skinny, am I?'

‘No,' admitted Clara, ‘but would you really want to be? Do you want to look like that?' We both turned to gaze at the now
really
skinny woman, running as usual on the treadmill, who Clara had found out was called Annabel. ‘She's getting that lollipop look,' said Clara. ‘I'm sure she's anorexic.' We both sniffed.

‘Do I really look a bit thinner all over, though?' I said anxiously. ‘They're filming me here again tonight and I'm supposed to look as though “the regime” has started to work.'

‘Yes, you do and ooh, what time? Perhaps I can pop in on my way to work.' Clara beamed. ‘I want to see this sexy young director of yours.'

I shook my head, trying to pretend I wasn't longing to as well. ‘He's not mine, unfortunately. Though he is lovely.'

‘Well, get in there, then.'

I laughed a bit too loudly. ‘He's a bit young …' I pushed away the memory of his smile, and the way he'd called me “babe”.

‘It's all the rage to have a toy boy,' said Clara.

‘I don't think he sees me like that,' I said firmly. ‘It's purely professional.'

Though, if anything, Cal seemed even more affectionate this time – he gave me a big hug when he arrived and draped an arm around my shoulders as we went up the stairs to the studios.

‘I've had a word with them at reception,' he said, ‘and they're happy for us to film you doing a little bit of each class. There's yoga at six, and a step class at the same time and then afterwards there's “On the Ball” and a dance group. So if you can join in for about 15 or 20 minutes of each – and change your top in between? Did you remember to bring some different gym clothes?'

I nodded, and he squeezed my shoulder. ‘Well done. You're so great to work with. And later,' he added, with a melting smile. ‘I'm taking you out to dinner.'

A collection of women in leotards and yoga trousers looked at me curiously as the cameras were set up around my mat. Cal smiled at them all. ‘Thank you so much, ladies, and my apologies for any disturbance. Please try to ignore us and enjoy your class.'

I watched them wilt under his charms as we waited for the instructor to arrive. He was small and dark with a soft, sing-song voice that I could barely hear.

As we all lay down and began waving our arms around, I kept my eyes firmly on the woman next to me, so I could see what I was supposed to be doing, trying to ignore the fact that there was a large microphone by my left ear and a camera hovering above me.

‘Lift your left leg uuuuppppp …'

The small man's own limbs looked as though they were made of rubber. He sat in a lotus position in front of us, his feet curled in impossible balls, while instructing us how to breathe deeply with one finger against the side of our nose.

I was beginning to feel a bit twitchy, rather than chilled out and relaxed. The bloke's voice was getting on my nerves and breathing through only one nostril was making me tense. ‘And-the-other-oooonnnneee …'

I closed the other nostril and breathed a bit more.

‘Now put your fingers in both ears, and …'

I took my fingers out again. What?

‘Buzz like a bee,' hissed the woman next to me. I looked about. All around me the women were making a strange humming sound deep in their throats. Our bendy little instructor was the loudest of them all.

I closed my eyes and made a noise too – it resonated around my head and vibrated down my neck in a not unpleasant way. After a while I stopped and opened my eyes. Everyone else was still going.

The room was full of droning hums. The woman next to me was rocking and buzzing, her eyes screwed tight shut, her head rolling – obviously well into whatever it was supposed to be doing for her.

I shut my eyes again and buzzed a bit more. The noise filled my head and was strangely relaxing. I felt my shoulders drop, as the noise rose up from my chest in soothing waves. I wondered where Cal and I would go for dinner. Did he mean just me and him or would everyone come? Matt and Russ were here, of course. And Tanya. Being her usual cheery self …

Buzzzzzzzzzzz
. I could almost curl up on this mat and go to sleep now but it was probably time to open my eyes again –

I looked up. Everyone else had stopped and was sitting on their mat, watching me. There was a camera about six inches from my nose – Matt grinning behind it. I gazed wildly around the room at a series of amused expressions. Oh God, how long had I been buzzing on my own?

As I sat there, scarlet, our teacher went into a set of praying, bowing movements and they all began flapping their arms up and down. Cal nodded at me to do it too so I stretched my arms out until my forehead was on the floor, glad to hide my hot face.

He put an arm around my shoulders once I'd got up. ‘That was great,' he said, obviously struggling to keep his features under control, while Russ and Matt stood openly grinning. ‘Very good.'

I cringed. ‘I feel a complete prune.'

‘You were fine.'

‘What, buzzing away on my own like a demented wasp?'

Cal smiled. ‘We probably won't use it – we do all this filming but only a tiny proportion actually ends up in the programme. And it doesn't matter – shows how you were really receptive to what you were doing. It was great – honestly. ‘Now, the step class is full, so have a breather and we'll go into “On the Ball”. Looks like fun. You don't have to do all of it,' he said soothingly as I groaned. ‘Just give us a taste.'

The class was run by Marlena, a dramatic-looking 40-year old with a tight Lycra top, bright red lipstick, and very shiny black hair. ‘Are we ready to have fun?' she cried through her microphone, nearly taking my ear drums out. ‘Are we ready to work?' She darted across the room and hit a switch on the CD player. ‘We're going to work!

‘Grab those balls, ladies,' she yelled like a manic redcoat. ‘And gentleman,' she added with a high, cackling laugh in the direction of the lone man in the room – a round faced bloke in his 50s with thinning hair and a T-shirt saying
Not Out, Still Scoring
.

Most of the big, squashy balls were blue. I took the only orange one. ‘Beryl usually has that,' said a voice in my ear. Beryl also clearly had the place in the middle of the room right in front of Marlena, with her two blonde-rinsed, pearl-earringed, neat-tracksuited friends either side. The three of them – looking like the Broadstairs answer to the Golden Girls – glared when Cal directed me into a similar position. And exchanged nods of satisfaction when I sat on my ball and promptly fell off it.

Sitting was the easy bit. By the time we'd bounced up and down on the ball, laid on the floor and pushed it up and down between our legs, done press-ups, sit-ups and something excruciating involving one of the Beryls squatting on my ankles, I was unable to move, let alone speak.

Cal seemed to have disappeared. Matt and Russ were packing up all the camera gear.

The music was still blaring. ‘On your feet,' cried Marlena. ‘And it's jack jumps!' As the room propelled themselves upwards, arms flailing, I hobbled toward the door, glancing at myself in the mirrored wall as I went.

My hair was flattened to my head. The make-up I'd carefully layered on earlier in order to look cool and alluring was smudged and streaked. I was red, sweaty, and exhausted.

Outside in the corridor, Tanya had arrived and was on the phone. She nodded hello, giving me an amused look. ‘Yeah, doing this gym stuff,' I heard her say to whoever was on the line. ‘It's hysterical.'

Glad you find it so entertaining, I thought sourly, as I sat in the changing room, towel wrapped round me, trying to do something with the gym hairdryer and without Antonio's magic clay stuff that I'd forgotten. I wondered what Tanya actually did to contribute to anything – so far all I'd ever seen her do was make phone calls and drink Diet Coke.

She was nowhere to be seen when I'd finally changed into jeans and my most slimming stretchy black top and joined Cal and the others in the café area for the “feedback” session.

‘We just want you to talk about how you're feeling about your new exercise plan,' said Cal. ‘And then we'd like some extra shots of you speaking to your personal coach about it.'