by Murray, Lee
‘So no live-in sex slave then?’
‘Would you settle for occasional sex-goddess?’
‘You’re not saying no to us altogether?’
‘No, I’m not saying no, not ever. I’m saying no, not yet. If I could get through the reality series, raise my profile and see what sort of opportunities open up for me?’ Jack gives me a little nod.
‘Okay. So just to clarify, you’re definitely not saying no?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘And not maybe either, because maybe means no.’
‘Jack!’ He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulls me to him and kisses me on the forehead.
‘Okay, then. If it’s what you want, I can be patient. It’s not every day a decent candidate for live-in sex slave comes along.’
‘Jack? This project is really important to me. I’m going to need help.’
‘Mel, I stand to gain a life-long sex slave. You can count on me.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, ‘Not because you’ve got sex on the brain, but because I don’t have a clue how fit the other contestants will be. I’m determined to get a head-start on them. Starting tomorrow.’
‘Then starting tomorrow I’m going to help you achieve your dream. I’ll be like your personal coach. I’ll motivate you, plot some run distances, record some peppy inspirational music on your iPod. What do you say to some Anika Moa tracks, maybe some Hoodoo Gurus? I’ll pick you up some running magazines…’
‘Could scrub my running shoes and wash my stinky socks, too,’ I mock ‘maybe you could be my personal slave. Mmm. Slave, stop hogging the blanket! Slave, hand over that cheesy cracker!’ Jack smiles.
‘You know, what else Mel? When you get back from your training sessions I’m betting you’ll be tired and sore. You’ll need someone dedicated to soothing away the fatigue and rolling out the kinks. Someone who knows how to massage you, smooth your shoulders, caress your back, and stroke your shapely legs which…’ he lifts up the blanket and appraises my legs, ‘…which look to me as if they could already do with some serious body work.’
Then, eyes twinkling, he burrows under the blanket.
16
…for More FM’s Rooster Booster today, Baha Men…
WHO LET THE DOGS OUT? WHO! WHO! WHO! WHO! WHO!
‘Honey.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Honey, the alarm.’
Silence.
‘Mel. You said you wanted to get up.’
‘Ten more minutes.’
‘Mel.’ Jack drags the duvet to his side of the bed.
‘Okay. I’m getting up. See?’
I might as well get up because without the duvet it’s freezing. I make a dash for the bathroom. Although it’s early, I’m keen to try out the new peach-hue sports bra and matching cropped short, temporarily borrowed from Sportzgirl’s wardrobe department. Tons of stuff in there never gets worn again because you can’t always put items back on the shelves if the tags have been removed or they’ve been soiled during a photo-shoot, particularly if Annalise has me posing on a soccer pitch or on the beach or some other meant-to-be-authentic sports venue. Since I’m the sole Sportzgirl catalogue girl, everything in the wardrobe department is theoretically my size. I take in my reflection in Jack’s full-length bathroom mirror. This peach outfit is nice, if a teensy bit tight. I’ll have to make do with my old trainers though. There’s a hole where my big toe is starting to poke through the mesh on the tip of my right shoe but no-one will notice if my shoes are shabby. Not at this time of the morning. I pull my hair into a tight, high pony-tail and then swivel about to check out my rear in the mirror. My bottom looks peachy. This colour suits me. Finally, I strap on a GPS watch, a top-of-the-line must-have running gadget Frank from Purchasing suggested I try. When I put it on, the strapping is too loose and the watch immediately swings around to the underside of my wrist. I pull it back round and tighten the buckle. Now what did Frank say? Something about satellites seeing in triangles. They’ll need a moment to find me. A question appears on the tiny screen.
Have you travelled hundreds of kms since last use? I punch the up arrow for YES.
Are you currently indoors? Quickly, I step out the front door onto the porch, then press the down arrow for NO. Instantly, a black horizontal bar comes up on the screen beside a little picture of a turning satellite dish. The little bar wobbles backwards and forwards. Apparently, the satellites are trying to locate me, 20%, 40%, 90%...wow, they found me.
Now, all I have to do is press START and according to Frank this device can tell me where I am, where I’ve run, how fast I’ve run, how far I’ve run, how long it took me to get there, my current pace, and the average pace it took me to get there. If I’m the competitive sort there’s even a tiny virtual runner inside this watch who will race me over any distance. This watch is so smart, I bet it can tally up last year’s tax return. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It’s not that smart. Though it can probably extrapolate my bust size based on my wrist measurement – I haven’t read the instruction booklet yet. To be honest, I’m not fussed with techno-gadgets, but it was generous of Frank to offer it to me so I owe it to him to give it a go. I check the strap again as I step off the porch.
Now I’m out the gate and running toward Pillans Road. How hard can this running be? I’ve been running since I was two. Toddlers are so cute when they run, their chubby feet splayed outwards and their toes curling under as if to hook themselves to the ground. Waddling steps wide enough to get their chunky, ringed thighs past the nappy obstruction.
I wonder if Cushla has photos of my first wobbly steps? Probably not. Debra has photos of Jack, though. Her Horowhenua farmhouse is peppered with framed photos of the boys at various ages: Jack and Nigel swinging out over the creek on a dusty tyre swing; Jack and Brendan, both preschoolers, washing their feet on the back porch in an enormous soup pot; Jack, Brendan and Bruce one behind the other straddling a sleepy horse; and Jack’s winning long jump leap in the school athletics sports. And there was one of toddler Jack running past the doorway in a blur. It’s the sort of photo that wouldn’t get printed now with digital cameras. It should’ve been deleted along with the headless aunties, over-exposed sunsets and blurry shots of the hapless photographer’s nose. When I asked Debra about why she’d kept that particular photo her eyes crinkled up with affection.
‘Trevor took it when Jack was on another one of his flash trips to the bathroom,’ she said. ‘He’d dash down the hall and into the bathroom and stop himself against the bath. Being the youngest, Jack couldn’t bear to be left out of anything his brothers were up to. The saying about not being able to run before you can walk didn’t apply to Jack. He never walked once he saw something he wanted. Unfortunately, he wasn’t good at slowing down and stopping.’ At the time, I got an instant mental image of a miniature Jack careering around in circles on the swirly carpet in Debra’s front room.
Debra laughed. ‘Jack used to use the side of the bath to stop himself. We’d leave the bathroom door open especially. It’s a wonder he never fell in.’
I take a quick peek at the GPS system on my wrist. What? I can’t possibly have only run 200 metres! Blimmin’ gadget! There must be something wrong with it. I give it a shake, then worry that I might distort the reading, so I stop. What if I’m not moving my arms enough? Perhaps I have to hold my arm up more toward the satellites so they can locate me. How are they supposed to see me the way down here?
On the corner of Goods Road, outside the medical centre, a man is smoking a cigarette while waiting for the bus. Doesn’t he know smoking can kill you? All those pollutants clogging up your healthy lung tissue and preventing you from breathing. And come to think of it, he’s verging on overweight. He needs to get out and get some exercise, instead of standing around waiting for buses.
I inhale deeply as I run past him, my back straight, my head up and my right arm over my head so as many satellites as possible can find me. I want to be sure the reading is precise. It isn’t easy to run with one arm up ov
er my head. My arm is either too floppy or too stiff so I keep bashing the side of my head with the inside of my arm. I persevere with the arm in the air thing for a few more driveways before I give up and let it drop to my side. So the final output might not be entirely accurate. It’s just to give me a rough idea of the distance, anyway.
At the end of Goods Road, a steep concrete path runs downhill to meet the Daisy Hardwick Walkway, part of the trail circling the western stretch of the harbour inlet. I run down the hill, feeling the weight of my body in my thighs, and at the bottom I turn left and follow the track across a grassy meadow. From here I should be able to see the trucks heading for the port and the CBD commuter traffic building up on Takitimu Drive on the far side of the harbour. But at this early hour, the expressway is quiet save for the odd workaholic trying to arrive at the office before the boss. Sunlight, not yet warm, glints off the harbour. It’s restful and quiet. A strand of hair drops out of my ponytail and flicks in my eyes. I swipe it away.
A couple walking their Labrador smile and greet me as I pass. I smile back. Whoops, they look a little taken aback. Perhaps my smile came over as more of a grimace. At the far end of the meadow a sturdy wooden bridge crosses a tiny creek. Swiping that stray hair out of my face again, I dash over and don’t look down. The wood creaks as I pass.
I’m getting tired now and the tops of my inner thighs are stinging where the seams of my peachy shorts are rubbing against my skin. I ignore the chafing and keep on. The next section of the track meanders through a leafy glade of native trees at the water’s edge. Mount Maunganui cuts a blocky silhouette against the pale blue of the sky. I’m tired now. My legs feel as if someone has stuffed them full of plaster of Paris. Still, if I’m going to be part of this reality show, I have to get fit, and there are no quick fixes to fitness or fame.
Determined not to give up, I tell myself I will run-walk to the end of the track. I will run the inward curves and walk the outward curves. That seems fair. So now I’m run-walking along the track at the edge of the water, the cliff on my left leading up to the posh houses with city and harbour entrance vistas which are owned by real estate agents and city councillors, and Jack’s three bedroom bungalow across the road on the less fashionable side. Bloody hair. I flick it away again.
The track weaves in and out here hugging the cliff face. I can see the cafés on the opposite bank. A drink would be nice. Suddenly, my tongue feels as if it’s covered in chicken feathers. Why didn’t I have a drink before I left? Thinking back, I’m horrified to discover I haven’t had a drink since last night, nine hours ago! I could be dangerously close to dehydration at this point. I don’t have any money on me, so there’s nothing for it but to head back to Jack’s.
Where the track meets Maxwells Road, the shallow rise nearly does me in. I heave myself up the last incline and come face to face with the pinnacle of Maxwells Road hill. My shoulders droop. I stop dead in my tracks.
Then I think: I can do this. I flick my stupid hair out of my eyes again and steel myself for the upward onslaught. Step by step, I haul my body forward, my breathing more laboured with each forward movement of my thighs. The slog upward is interminable. Lungs and legs burn. Only my stubborn streak keeps me moving forward. I hope no-one sees me, because I’m sure I’m florid, pale or puce. Whatever, it won’t be a good look. These ridiculous peach shorts are chafing my thighs. Why would anyone make shorts with a seam right at the flabbiest part of your thigh? Unless you’re a Chinese Circus acrobat, certain bits will always rub together.
Step and heave. This incline looks manageable from a car. It’s funny how you lose all perspective from behind a pane of glass. From my current perspective, this hill is much less manageable, and not at all funny! I’m bent so low that an ache creeps into my lower back.
Near the top of the hill, the road levels off by the primary school. A boy in gumboots is riding his trike on the smooth inky asphalt of the teacher’s carpark.
‘Hey, lady. Have you got assma?’ he calls. I’m too close to asphyxiating to answer, so I shake my head no.
‘You look like you got assma. My brother Sean has assma. His face goes pink and he breathes loud.’ I wheeze in.
‘Yeah, like that,’ says Gumboot Boy. Bent over, I’m trudging slowly, slowly uphill toward the crest. If I wasn’t wheezing so much I might sob. There’s no way I can do both. I’m in serious oxygen deprivation.
‘When Sean makes those huffing noises Mum takes him to the hostible and I have to go next door to Mrs McGechie’s house.’ He screws up his face in distaste. There’s a milk moustache on his top lip.
‘Mrs McGechie has china dogs on the windowsill. They’re creepy. But she lets me have a biscuit while I’m waiting for Mum to bring Sean back from the hostible.’ At this point, I’m doubled over, my hands on my knees, slurping in air like a goldfish.
‘S’okay. I’m fine,’ I rasp, each intake whining as if the last dregs of bathwater are being sucked into the drainpipe. Through a gap in the fence I can see the primary school’s concrete swimming pool painted in cool Thomas the Tank Engine blue. I think back to my school swimming lessons with Mr Mills standing on the concrete edge in his steel-capped boots and his bellowy army officer’s voice. I concentrate on that voice telling me to breathe in and breathe out. Inhale. Exhale.
‘You’re still making assma noises,’ says Gumboot Boy.
‘I. Do. Not. Have. Asthma.’
‘I’m going to get Mum.’ There’s a scrape of wheels as he turns his trike around and pedals off toward a neighbouring house.
‘I’m FINE!’ Shoot, better go before an ambulance turns up, sirens blaring. I take a few steps forward on heavy legs. Wow, I hadn’t realised how hard it was to get going again once you stop. It takes me several more driveways for my legs to warm up again and for my breathing to return to normal. I get back into the flow of it. I haven’t got much further to go now. I can see Jack’s roof from here. This running thing isn’t all that bad once you get into it. It looks like I could be a natural. I could’ve inherited genes for running. Some talents skip a generation, which would explain why Cushla and Colin never showed any aptitude for it.
Suddenly, I see a vision of myself several months into the future; my muscles sculpted and toned, haunches lean and rippling like a greyhound racer, each stride of my lean legs propelling me forward, my arms pumping in long graceful arcs, and skin faintly bronzed with sweat. Apart from the Maxwells Road hill, which surely even an experienced runner would find challenging, it hasn’t been too demanding. Invigorating.
I look about the deserted street. I’m probably one of only a handful of people awake. That is, other than radio announcers, newspaper deliverymen and those irritating start-on-the-dot-of-seven lawn-mowing contractors. Imagine the lazy non-runners who are at this instant hauling themselves out of bed, padding to the bathroom to examine their tired, sallow unexercised faces in the mirror. While they’re ambling about getting themselves ready for their day, filling their faces with hot buttered toast and steaming coffee, I’ve been out activating myself for a new life challenge. I can already feel the smug vibes surging through my bloodstream. I feel alive and tingly.
At last, I’m back on Jack’s driveway where I perform a little warm-down ritual we runners like to carry out to stay limber. I walk about in a circle blowing hard for a minute and then, using Jack’s letter box for balance, I stand on one leg and pull my foot up behind me to my bottom to stretch out the front of my thighs. I’m quite impressed with my flexibility. My thighs are considerably less impressed. They feel rubbery and achy. When I look, I get a shock because they’re mottled and red and they’re itchy, too.
‘Mel.’
It’s Jack. His hair is still tousled and he’s sitting on the front steps wearing an old Jimmy Barnes concert t-shirt and fraying washed-out jeans. His usual gorgeous self. He’s holding two cups of hot tea. Keeping the cup with the tea-stained chip for himself, Jack passes me up the Bunnings Warehouse cup and a crinkly morning grin. I hunch down
on the step beside him and sip my steaming tea. Lovely.
‘Twenty-five minutes. That’s great, Mel. Not a bad effort for a first time out.’
‘I did walk a bit,’ I say quickly.
‘You’re right to. You probably shouldn’t overdo it at this early stage. Especially, since you haven’t been on much of an exercise programme before.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And it will be harder to go out tomorrow if you’re too sore.’ Tomorrow? That soon? And what does he mean too sore?
‘So where did you go?’
‘Oh, all over. The Daisy Hardwick Walkway, the Boardwalk.’ I curl my ponytail around my index finger.
‘Mel that’s great. The Boardwalk. Fantastic.’ There’s the tiniest pause before he says, ‘It’s almost a ten kilometre circuit.’
‘Well, obviously I didn’t do all of it.’
‘It’s still great, honey. Hey, don’t get cold out here, will you?’ He rewards me with a soft kiss on the cheek. My heart does a high five. Jack’s kisses are as magically medicinal as mother’s kisses. Not Cushla’s. Some other mother. His kisses never fail to make me feel better. He goes in and I hear the sound of the shower being turned on.
I wrap my hands around the tea cup because I’m starting to cool off, and as I do I catch sight of the fat watch on my wrist. I’d forgotten about the GPS. I examine the screen output enumerating my effort.
Bum.
2.8 km.
17
Martine, our account manager, returns from the clothes rack and holds up another cut-away singlet. Looking up from her clipboard, Annalise rejects it with a tiny shake of her head. Her dismissive movement makes me want to scream with frustration. We’re planning my wardrobe for the television series. Well, Martine and Annalise are making the decisions while I’m playing the role of the human clothes’ horse. My feet hurt and my legs are aching, probably the result of this morning’s boardwalk workout. I wouldn’t mind popping to the loo either. I wish they’d hurry up and make up their minds. It’s nearly lunchtime.