The Other Woman (20 page)

****

RIVAL

The thought of losing weight and visiting Bradley energizes me, and I’m ready for all the training Ritchie is going to throw at me.

We are probably going to start off with walks.
Brisk
walks at that, then maybe after a couple of weeks, we will switch to light jogging (mental note to self – stock up on some extra-strength joint-pain relief and nutrition, like Chondroiten and Glucosamine). Then a couple laps in the pool (mental note to self – stock up on Magnesium to prevent cramps) before we retire for the night.

I can do that. Might be a little bit of a challenge, but…

When I see Ritchie, he hands me two forms.

“What is this?” I ask as I accept the form from him.

“I’ve signed us both up for a fifteen-kilometer race on 23 October.”

My jaw sags. “Fi…fif…teen?”

“Yeah, you said you wanted to lose weight and win back—”

“Yeah, but, Rit—”

“—Bradley. Here’s how we’re gonna do it. Fifteen kilometers in thirty days.”

Panic shoots through me. “But…but what about the brisk walks, and…and the jogging, and the sit-ups, and the…hurdles in the park, and…Chondroiten—”

“It’s all included in the price. A bonus. Sixteen dollars buys you an entry in the race, and it comes with free jogging, hurdles in the park, and Chrondroit—”

“But…Ritchie…I’ve never ran a fifteen-kilometer race before!” I blurt. “Hell, I’ve never ran more than five hundred meters. What are you talking about?”

The truth is, I’ve never even ran five hundred meters before. Maybe as a kid, but I doubt it.

“Good, then it’s a first for you. Congratulations.” He clamps a paw on my shoulder, shaking my whole body. “You’re getting out of your comfort zone, Rival. No more playing nicey, nicey.”

“But…but…but Ritchie—”

“We will train six days a week, because even God rested on the seventh day, and within a month, we should be fit enough. Both of us. We can do it.”

I’m at a loss for words. For someone who has never run before, to running fifteen kilometers in thirty days? That’s downright crazy.

“Don’t think of it that way,” Ritchie says as he fishes out two bottles of water from the refrigerator. “Think of it as the pot of gold at the end of the…
race
being Bradley and your kids. You will be getting on par with Scarlett if you finish this race. This race is symbolic of you moving ahead, Rival, it’s symbolic of you growing. It’s significant, more than a race.”

“What…what if I don’t make it, Ritchie? What if I don’t—”

“What if you
do
? Then you get to brag to Bradley how you finished the race. Your first race. Then he will tell Scarlett, who won’t be impressed, and he will tell your kids, who will think their mum is just awesome, because you will be, and…win, win, win.”

I like the way he’s putting it. Scarlett has run a few marathons, and she was even a contestant in Australian Survivor. Bet she’ll be really annoyed to learn that I can run a marathon too. Me, Nice Girl with the fat arse.

“Learn to love this,” Ritchie says, handing me a bottle of water. “It’s your elixir to winning the race and taking a giant step.”

I’m terrified to ask the next question, but I have to. “When do we start…training?”

“He looks at his watch. “In ten minutes,” he says, backing away.

“What?”

He whistles as he runs upstairs, leaving me gawking at his back.

I expected Ritchie to make me run like a dog and suffer the whole way through. I was right. By the time I return from the fifty-kilometer run (it felt like that even though Ritchie laughingly assures me it was a mere three kilometers), I am too exhausted to walk, too tired to think, too tired to even swallow my own saliva, and most of all, I am too tired to shower. I fall asleep fully clothed and with my sneakers on.

I hate Ritchie so much.

I hate Ritchie more than Scarlett.

No, no, I hate Scarlett more.

****

RIVAL

It’s been a week since I started training with Ritchie, and it’s going better than I thought it would. Ritchie is still whipping me into shape, but I am able to shower before I go to bed. Has to mean I’m getting fitter. I think.

We train six days a week for about one hour and thirty minutes. That includes forty laps in the pool after our long run. Grueling for sure.

But the part I look forward to is our time in the spa. It’s great for my aching legs, and my aching back, and my aching ankles, and my aching everywhere.

Ritchie the tyrant is a strong swimmer, a former lifeguard, while I’m not. That means forty laps come easy to him, not to me. I make sure I voice this.

“You’re competing with yourself, here,” Ritchie reminds me. “Not with me. So chill, and do another lap. Move it!”

While I do another lap, I try to figure out a way to drown him.

He still refuses to let me buy a scale so I can weigh myself. “We can only weigh ourselves after two weeks,” he says.

That’s agonizing for me. I really want to know how much weight I’ve lost. I think I may have lost at least five kilos, and I’m really excited about it.

While Ritchie handles our work-out regime, I focus on our food. I scour the internet for a handful of healthy recipes, which I, together with Girly, (who we have persuaded to join us in getting healthy) prepare for us every night. Healthy but energizing foods that my body seems to crave these days.

Imagine, I have fourteen days and about five more kilos before I can approach Bradley. Before I can brag to him that I finished a fifteen-kilometer race. The thought makes me shudder with excitement, and I swim a total of forty-
one
laps, even though I can’t feel my shoulders anymore.

****

RIVAL

“I don’t think I’ve lost much weight,” Ritchie says, his forehead lining.

“I never can lose weight,” Girly says, eyeing the scale in front of us like it’s a landmine. “That shit, it don’t work for me. My bones – it’s big.”

I, on the other hand say nothing, but the smirk on my face says it all – I’m able to remove my jeans without undoing the button or unzipping it; I have probably lost more than five kilos.

Ritchie rubs his hands, then steps on the scale. “Six kilos!” He fist-pumps the air.

"Brilliant!” I shout and high-five him.

“Good, Pig.” Girly says.

“Girly,” I say, with a grand gesture toward the scale. “Please…”

Mumbling in a language I have never heard before (probably about the size of her bones) and looking very nervous, she steps onto the scale.

“Four and half kilos – whoohoo!”

She jumps for joy. Literally. The theory about the size of her bones now dispelled.

“Me next,” I say, blowing out my cheeks, gingerly stepping on the scale and holding my breath.

“One…one and a half…kilos,” Ritchie says after a short pause. “That’s…good. Really—”

“Nah, can’t be,” I say, a sliver of panic darting through me. “Let me do this again.” I get off the scale, wait until it resets, then step back onto it and hold my breath.

“Eh, one point…three,” Ritchie says in a distressed voice.

“That’s impossible,” I screech.

Ritchie opens his mouth to speak, but words don’t come out.

“Your bones, is big, I tell you,” Girly says, her voice shrill.

My eyes shift from Girly to Ritchie’s before I burst into tears. All my hard work, and I lost just over a kilo? How is that possible? I slump onto a couch, put my forehead on my arms, and weep.

Ritchie and Girly flock around me, uttering words of sympathy and encouragement, but I can’t help it – I just wail.

“It’s probably water retention,” Ritchie says. “That time of the month?”

I shake my head.

“Girly may be right about your bones,” Ritchie mutters, scratching his head.

Logic tells me that I shouldn’t really rely on the scale, but my disappointment outweighs all sense of reasoning, and I cry myself to sleep. As I do, I wonder about the size of my bones.

****

RIVAL

In spite of my absolute disappointment over my marginal weight loss, I continue to train with Ritchie and cook healthy food for us.

It’s after dinner, and Ritchie and I are doing laps in the pool when I pause and drift.

Ritchie stops and shakes away water from his face. “What?”

“I…gosh, Ritchie, I feel like a steak.”

“Me too!” he says, his eyes widen. “Steak and a
beer
.”

“Oh, yeah…with fries.” My head bobs and my mouth waters. “Thick, steakhouse…fries…”

“And sauce.” His eyes glaze. “Pepper.”

“Cheese sauce!”

“Yes.
And
cheese sauce.” His head bobs.

“Yeah.” I let out a sigh and stare at the night sky. “And a glass of wine. A
big
glass of Chardonnay.”

He nods. “Yeeeeah!”

“Butter!” I say. “Chilled butter, warm bread!”

“Oh yeah!” he says.

“And a chocolate mousse! With those little chocolaty buttons on top. The tiny ones.”

“Yeeeeah!” he says and closes his eyes. “No salad! No…salad.”

“Absolutely not!” I say in a vehement voice. “No vegetables at all. Not even onions.”

“Unless they’re fried.”

I squint at him. “Huh?”

“Fried?”

“O…kay. I guess so. Yeah, okay, you can have your onions if they are fried.”

“And garlic bread. With
cheese
on it.” He smacks his lips.

“Ooooh, I feel faint with desire.” We both laugh, then fall silent.

He swims closer, drops his voice, and with his eyes darting around, whispers, “Let’s go grab a McDonalds Quarter Pounder.”

I look at him, my mind racing.

“With cheese. Nobody will know. C’mon.”

I stare at him as if he’s just confessed to being a woman in 2007.

“C’mon, please. I’m so hungry.”

My eyes drop as I think about his indecent proposal.

“We’ll skip the fries and the coke?”

I fight to remember my plan – to get in shape, feel good about myself, and visit Bradley at his offices. The desire to get back my kids and my life supersedes my desire for a steak, butter on hot bread, and chocolate mousse with chocolate buttons.

“You go ahead,” I say in a surly voice. “I wanna see Bradley after I lose the weight, remember? But you go ahead. You don’t have the same pressure as I do.”

He stares at me, a thoughtful look on his face. “Nah, forget it,” he says, and floats on his back.

“No really, go for it, Ritchie.”

“I’ll make myself one of those cup-a-soups,” he says. “Or some cornflakes…” he lifts and drops his shoulders.

“I’ll join you with that.” I jerk my head toward the house. “Let’s go. I need food.”

We sit around his dining table and eat our cornflakes in silence.

“Dieting sucks,” he mutters in a morose voice.

“Tell me about it,” I say, my mouth turned downwards.

Then we look at each other and laugh.

****

RITCHIE

It’s the day of the race and Rival is quiet. Nerves. That’s okay. It’s expected.

I catch her eye at the start line. “Ready?”

She doesn’t answer. With her eyes to the ground, she pinches her earlobe, rubs her chin, runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.

“You’re going to finish the race, Rival. Trust me.”

She gives me something between a smile and a grimace.

“Remember to breathe, okay?”

More nodding from her.

Everyone is there to support us – Bear, Arena and their kids, as well as Girly and my girls.

“Good luck, Pig!” Girly shouts from a distance.

“Good luck, Pig!” Becky echoes.

I wave, even though everyone turns to look at me, and even though I cringe at my nickname.

“Rival!” Girly calls. “Kick his arse, okay?”

Rival smiles and gives Girly the thumbs up.

“Rival,” Becky calls, “Kick his arse, okay?”

Both Rival and I gasp as Arena clamps her hand across little Becky’s mouth, an embarrassed look on her face.

“That’s my daughter,” I say after I get over the shock of her words. “A real sponge.”

The race starts and I run ahead. My aim is to finish in the top twenty. Ambitious, I know, but...

When I look around for Rival, she’s nowhere to be seen. Just hoards of entrants trying to outrun each other.