Sweatpants at Tiffanie's

by Pernille Hughes

  ‘Satisfaction?’

  ‘Yup – for about five minutes. Firstly, you’ll feel bad, because Blackie promised him his job, and you’ll get hung up on the sentiment. Secondly, you’ll have even more days without a coach than planned. Thirdly, there’ll be gossip.’ Tiff blanched. ‘Fourthly, Ron’ll find some HR angle and get you for unfair dismissal.’

  ‘But we don’t have a contract!’

  ‘No, but he’s been there for years and there’s most likely some rights to twist. You need him to resign.’

  Tiff’s heart sank. Where was the justice in that? ‘So I have to let him stay on, poaching my clients for five more days, AND pay him?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Nightmare.’

  ‘Yup, sucks. Spit in his drinks if you have to. That’s what I do when Lorraine’s here.’ Shelby took a quick slurp of her coffee. Tiff regarded hers with suspicion.

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘Take the small pleasures where you can,’ Shelby said blithely, chivvying them to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not making his coffee.’ Tiff was adamant.

  ‘Fine, whatever,’ Shelby sighed, popping two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘Tiff, take the higher ground here. He’s gone in five days, yes? You’ll be shot of him, with your head held high. You can stand back and watch his game-plan dwindle after the first month and all the scabs crawl back when they hear how amazing your gym is.’

  ‘Not if I’ve got no coach.’ Tiff loved Shelby’s faith in her and the gym, but she needed to grouch. If Shelby wouldn’t let her shout at Ron, she should at least bear the brunt of the whinging. Fair was fair.

  The toaster flung the slices up and out. Shelby caught them mid-air, and gave herself a silent roar of applause for being the Toast-ninja. ‘That’s where you should be putting your efforts instead, isn’t it? Looking for a replacement on the quiet.’

  ‘Well, I can’t do that until he’s resigned. These coaches are all besties. Someone’ll tip him off straight away.’

  ‘Okay, but sort your plan of attack. Know who you’re calling the second he’s gone. Replacing him within days would be a kick to his spuds, personally and in business terms. He’ll suddenly have competition and the lads’ll have less incentive to leave.’

  ‘Mikey said he’d make some calls,’ Tiff said, picking at the chipped counter top. Having his support felt good. In fact just thinking about Mike felt good. She liked having him back as a friend.

  ‘Mikey who?’ Shelby asked, mouth full of toast. The peanut butter and marmalade combo was sticking to the roof of her mouth.

  ‘Fellner. Mikey Fellner.’

  ‘Mikey Fellner? Rings a bell. One of the boxing lads?’

  ‘Um, sort of.’ Tiff suddenly wanted to back-peddle, but she was committed. ‘Mike “The Assassin” Fellner. Slightly famous. Remember?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Shelby could sniff withheld information at a hundred paces. Tiff felt a touch of panic.

  ‘He was at Blackie’s funeral. Beaten face, bent nose, on the brink of retirement. Came to the wake.’ Tiff was sure she’d mentioned him when debriefing Shelby on what she’d missed. Fleetingly perhaps, but she’d definitely mentioned it. Maybe. Or perhaps she’d skipped that part…

  ‘Whoa whoa,’ Shelby’s interest went to high alert. Laying the remaining piece of toast on the plate, her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you mean Mikey, your boyfriend before Gavin?’

  Tiff resisted the need to face-palm herself. ‘Mmmhh.’

  ‘The boyfriend you’ve rarely spoken of and about whom I’ve had to wheedle information out of you in tiny, stingy morsels during the last decade?’

  ‘Maybe.’ If only she’d kept her mouth shut.

  ‘And this boyfriend is, in fact, a known boxer, with a nickname and everything?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Tiff hedged, then sighed. She had to stop fibbing to Shelby. Mike probably deserved his dues too. ‘Well, yes. He’s world famous.’

  ‘I know he’s bloody world famous, Tiffanie,’ Shelby said, sounding slightly snarly, ‘even I’ve bloody heard of Mike “The Assassin” Fellner.’ Shelby was cross, possibly livid. ‘How could you have withheld information like that?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Tiff started, ‘He was at the funeral. You were there too.’

  ‘No way, don’t even try to get out of this. Wake aside – and for the record I’d have remembered the mention of a celeb – you never disclosed mysterious Mikey and Mike “The Assassin” Fellner were one and the same. What kind of friend does that?’

  ‘I don’t follow the sport. I didn’t know myself,’ Tiff tried. She got up and started to pull her coat on. Leaving now would be ideal.

  ‘Oh please!’ Shelby said, with an angry huff. She crammed the last bite of toast into her mouth and left the table. Tiff winced as the plate was unceremoniously ditched into the sink.

  Tiff hated arguing with Shelby, and she was primed to launch into a plea of cluelessness, but it wasn’t quite accurate, was it? True, she hadn’t followed his stellar rise to the top. Too hurt, she’d vowed not to give him another thought, because he was doing the same to her. But she hadn’t been able to avoid hearing his name now and again. She couldn’t unsee the back page of the newspapers she’d passed in the paper-shop. It was more wilful than actual ignorance about who he’d become.

  ‘I… it didn’t seem… I didn’t know you Shelbs until after…’ Tiff tried many ways to explain as the front door was crossly locked behind them. Finally she gave up finding excuses. ‘What did it matter? He was gone, he broke my heart, you weren’t going to know him, I had moved on. All of those Shelb, but most importantly, you were a fresh start for me. You were my friend. You didn’t care about town gossip, or at least you didn’t hold it against me. I wanted to move forward, not mope around in the past. Mikey was the past. You see?’

  Shelby took her own sweet time chewing it over. Eventually, she sighed, resigned. ‘I suppose so.’ Tiff gave her own sigh. Hers was relief. ‘But you owe me a full and detailed exposé. The full story.’

  ‘Fine, but over copious drinks,’ Tiff agreed as they walked, side by side. ‘I can’t face it this morning, not if you’re making me spend the next five days navigating Ron with an Oscar-worthy poker face.’

  ‘Deal. Now tell me what Mike said. About the coaches. This was at the wake, right?’

  ‘Um, so no. I didn’t own the club at the wake, did I? He dropped in for a visit.’

  ‘He dropped in for a visit?’ Shelby’s voice sounded taut. Tiff felt herself falling deeper into trouble. She chose to omit it being a nocturnal visit.

  ‘Yes, he came to see the place, yesterday. Being nostalgic and that. Blackie left him the ring in his will.’ Tiff tried to sound breezy, ignoring the blurred time-line. ‘So I told him Ron wasn’t staying and he said he’d call his coaching buddies and see if anyone was available.’ Ta-dah. Not lying; simply stripping down the events to relevant bullet points.

  ‘What about him? As coach. If he’s retiring soon, maybe he wants a job.’

  Tiff nearly choked. ‘Shelb, that’d be like asking Beyoncé to give me singing lessons.’

  ‘Not worth a shot then?’

  ‘I’d rather get in the ring myself. The embarrassment of asking, not to mention the offense he’d take, would be shocking.’ Tiff cringed.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no. Come up with your own idea then. Meanwhile, he’d better be discreet.’ Shelb sounded a little huffy. Tiff didn’t know whether it was because she’d been kept in the dark about Mike, or because plans had already been actioned without her.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be the paragon of discretion, Shelb. He’s an assassin remember. They’re pretty cloak and dagger about things.’ Tiff hoped a joke might thaw her mood.

  ‘Well, you would know,’ she replied curtly. ‘I wouldn’t, of course, not knowing much about him.’

  Tiff took a deep breath, ‘I, Tiffanie Trent do hereby promise, to update you on all details regarding Mike Fellner, as soon as our ridiculous schedules allow
.’

  Shelby snorted. She’d need time to cool down. Thankfully, they’d reached the salon and Tiff could run away.

  ‘Gotta go, babes. Mrs Doyle’s having her fanny waxed first thing so I need to crack a barrel of wax on to melt and find the biggest pair of paper knickers we have.’ Tiff was relieved to be off the hook, but Shelby wasn’t done. ‘Wednesday, the Pig & Whistle, 9 p.m. Bring your info. And you can start with why he was doing nostalgia visits at night.’ Tiff gaped. ‘Oh come on, Tiff,’ Shelby said, unlocking the door and kissing her cheek, ‘I’m not dim. You only heard about Ron last night, so how did you see Mikey if it wasn’t later last night or before dawn this morning? You can pick which it was and let me know. Laters.’

  Tiff didn’t get a chance to say bye before the door slammed shut. Her head was already racing regarding what to admit to. If Shelby wanted to give her something other than Ron to think about, she’d succeeded.

  Chapter 21

  ‘What’s tonight’s torture?’ Tiff asked, that Wednesday. She was meeting Shelby later and she couldn’t decide which she was least looking forward to; exercise or execution. Natalie had compiled a comprehensive, if aggressive, list of classes to trial. They’d attended a karate class the night before, and while she’d enjoyed imagining each chop connecting with Ron’s body, the post-class consensus was the martial arts could wait. For now the boxing, fitness and toning would lead.

  ‘You’ll like this one,’ Nat said, grinning, which told Tiff she probably wouldn’t. ‘Pole-fitness, over in Westhampton.’

  Tiff dropped her head on the desk and groaned.

  ‘Look Tiff, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s supposedly god’s gift to abs and toning.’ Tiff knew all this, she’d seen the pictures online after her discussion with Mike, but it didn’t mean she actually wanted to do it. Swinging and gyrating like a tabletop dancer in front of strangers must be excruciatingly, toe-curlingly embarrassing. Natalie mistook her cringing fear for her being unconversant in the language of Pole.

  ‘Trust me on this Tiff, it’s a hen-do favourite, so you could offer that too; a class followed by drinks in the bar before they go to the next activity. Limos will fit through the car park. Hens’ll love it.

  ‘And,’ Natalie continued, ‘I blew our cover. I told the instructor, Sammi, what we’re about. She’s got Westhampton sewn up, but she’s had plenty of interest from Kingsley too.’ Natalie saw the look on Tiff’s face. ‘Tiff, give it a chance. You can always second-phase it, but try it or you’ll never know. It’d be another USP.’

  Tiff understood her point, but it was Natalie’s passion that persuaded her.

  ‘I’ve arranged to watch the class tonight,’ Nat explained, ‘to see who goes and what they do, and then she’ll do us a private class, so you won’t feel stupid in front of strangers.’

  ‘You got the measure of me pretty fast, didn’t you?’ Tiff said wryly, hoping for an immediate case of gastro, or death even, to get herself out of it.

  In spite of looking uber-sweaty, the women finishing the pole class had beatific smiles on their faces and many were laughing. Really, no tears at all. They weren’t shaped like they’d slinked out of Stringfellows either. Fit yes, but all normal-looking women of all descriptions. To Tiff’s alarm, they all wore sports-bra tops and skimpy shorts. That wasn’t happening; Tiff was safely cloaked in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt which would remain until the last second.

  On an impulse, she sidled up to the nearest woman. She was early forties and the photo on her phone case showed her three freckled kids.

  ‘Excuse me, what do you think of the class?’

  ‘Changed my life,’ the woman answered not missing a beat.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Totally. I’ve got killer abs now and a sex life to die for.’ Tiff wondered if she could use that on a poster. ‘Joining up?’

  ‘Checking it out. Thinking about bringing it to my gym,’ she said. Would she ever get used to saying that?

  ‘Best thing you’ll ever do,’ the woman said, moving off to join her friends, ‘You’ll bruise and hurt like hell, but it’s worth it.’

  Natalie was triumphant. ‘See?’

  ‘All right, smuggie,’ Tiff said, removing her sweatshirt, ‘the proof’ll be in the pudding.’

  Six silver poles stood from ceiling to floor at the back of the dance studio. Tiff reckoned she’d easily have room for the same amount. Sammi was lovely and welcoming, but a demon teacher. She blatantly ignored any whining about not being able to do it. Thank goodness Natalie had arranged a private lesson, as Tiff’s initial efforts were worthy of You’ve Been Framed. She simply couldn’t find her inner table-dancer and her sex-minx had apparently been a one-off.

  ‘Right, put this on,’ Sammi said, handing her an in-flight eye-mask. ‘Wear it and forget about us or the mirrors. Natalie gets one too. Neither of you will see what the other’s doing and you can choose never to see me again after tonight, so let yourselves go.’

  The difference was immediate. No vision appeared to inhibit her inhibitions. She swung on the pole, feet near its base, trailing her free arm behind her. She’d swung like that as a kid and there wasn’t anything stripperish about it. She needed to get the stripper connotations out of her head. Cirque du Soleil used these holds and spins all the time.

  Lifting their eye-masks for Sammi’s demos, Tiff and Natalie were soon pirouetting and trying out the Fireman spin. They were stepping forwards and leaning into turns, hooking feet around the poles and turning while sliding down it. Once Sammi had lambasted them to point their toes and finger tips, Tiff felt almost balletic. By the time Sammi suggested they try an Attitude spin, Tiff ditched the eye-mask altogether.

  She’d never thought she had much upper-body strength to speak of, but Sammi dismissed that as an excuse too. She had them doing Back Hooks, spinning backwards down around the pole and Chair spins, descending as if they were sitting, hands gripping the pole high above their heads. These weren’t positions she’d ever imagined herself in, yet there she was, spiralling at a controlled pace down towards the floor.

  By the end of the lesson Tiff wasn’t sure she could stand. The spins had been linked in a short routine with slow squats down the pole and quick slut-drops. Her biceps ached, her legs bemoaned the awakening of muscles she never knew she owned and her heart was belting. It hadn’t felt like a fast activity, but her blood was pumping. Sammi took pity on them, leaving them conked out on the floor, while illustrating what an advanced class looked like. Sammi reminded the gaping Tiff of Lara Croft as she performed her mid-air Pilates.

  ‘I need this at the gym,’ Tiff whispered pathetically, ‘I know I sucked, but I want to do what you can do.’ They’d been at it for well over an hour, but given they’d been laughing throughout, the time had flown – much like Tiff felt she had, around the pole.

  Sammi joined them on the floor, but sitting pertly rather than flailing.

  ‘You’ll need some poles permanently jacked to the ceiling. You have to have faith people will come, as the studio space will be compromised, but it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘How would the classes work?’ Natalie asked, her voice slightly wheezy. She’d pulled herself up to slump against her pole, swigging from her water bottle as if her life depended on it.

  ‘I’d suggest a mix. Daytime classes for Pole-fitness and dance-based evening classes. Hen-do bookings start as dance classes, but always end up with the more erotic moves. You keep the distinction though, so people know it’s primarily about fitness.’

  ‘And will you teach?’ Tiff asked. She liked Sammi, she liked her style. She’d keep hens under control – and the boxers, once they got wind of what was afoot upstairs.

  Sammi looked at her. ‘I’ll pop over to see the gym next week. My turn to audition you. Sound okay?’

  ‘If you can overlook the demolition going on, then it’s a date,’ she said with a smile, which didn’t vanish at the thought of Mike’s teasing when he clocked her poles.

&n
bsp; ‘You need to relax, babes.’ Tiff wasn’t tense, she was exhausted and aching after Pole-fitness, but she knew better than to bail on this date with Shelby. She’d hunt her down Liam Neeson style. ‘You need a fling,’ Shelby declared and took a swig of her fourth Breezer in the Pig & Whistle. ‘’S’actly what you need. With all the stuff going on at the gym where’s the “you time”?’ Slurring slightly, she didn’t wait for Tiff to answer.

  ‘Honestly Tiff, you need a young virile male to knob your socks off and send your eyeballs spinning like a slot-machine.’ Shelby leaned across the table and waved her finger tellingly at Tiff, ‘And don’t tell me I’m wrong,’ she slurred on, ‘I can tell just by looking at a man what he’s like in bed. Gav’s definitely not on the winner’s podium.’

  ‘He was—’ Tiff began, but was stopped by the flat of Shelby’s hand in her face. She focused on her drink. She was going to need it.

  ‘I said don’t bother. I commend your loyalty, Tiff – I don’t understand it seeing as he ditched you – but I totes get you don’t want the humiliation of admitting you’ve had ten years of lame sex.’

  ‘Shelby!’ Tiff hissed, looking around, ‘Not everyone here needs to know the ins and outs of my sex life.’ Shelby snorted her drink out of her nose.

  ‘Ins and outs. Good one. But bless you, babes, that’s probably all it was, wasn’t it?’ Tiff couldn’t have given an answer even if Shelby had paused for one, mortification locking her jaw. ‘Aww, babes, you have so much to catch up. Time, moves and positions. You must be woefully out of touch regarding current sexual repertoires.’ Shelby’s volume had increased again. Two lads on the next table swung around to look at Tiff, forcing her to give them a sheepish look.

  ‘Honestly Shelb, can we change the subject?’ Tiff pleaded.

  Shelby sighed deeply. ‘All right. But don’t dismiss the random fling idea without proper consideration. Sex is a muscle – gotta keep it in training or it’ll wither. And don’t think I didn’t notice you not denying having a sorry sex life…’