by Murray, Lee
‘I don’t know, Martine,’ Annalise says, ‘that azure and orange top is stunning.’
‘This one?’ says Martine, holding up a teeny stripe of fabric. Annalise swats at invisible flies in front of her face.
‘No, no, the other one. With the keyhole opening over the bust.’
Martine has already dived into the small mountain of discarded items and fishes out a second azure and orange top, even skimpier than the first. She holds it over my bosom and pulls it down at the edges.
Annalise puts down the clipboard and smoothes perfectly-manicured bony fingers down her pencil skirt. She shifts her weight to one leg and contemplates the scrap of fabric stretched across my boobs.
‘Yes, that’s the one. It’s the exact shade of orange as the Sportzgirl warehouse accents, important for subliminal programming of the consumer.’
‘Exactly my thoughts,’ Martine enthuses.
‘I see this as the signature piece,’ says Annalise. ‘Possibly for the marathon event at the end of the series.’
‘Yes, I agree. It’s the perfect choice. It’s the glamour event of the series. And keep in mind the marathon challenge is scheduled to air during the semi-final of the Super 15 rugby tournament. We need any incentive, however trifling, to induce viewers to switch channels.’
‘Mel’s cleavage might be okay, but I think we’ll need Scarlett Johansson to draw seriously dedicated rugby fans…’ They titter rudely, as if I’m not standing half naked in the room with them, but I’m not offended. Truly, I’m not. After all, it was a combination of my boobs and Winston’s stinginess that got me this job.
I started out here as a student in the last year of my management degree at Waikato University. To graduate I needed to complete a 499 project: a sort of mini-thesis for undergrads based on a real-life business problem in a real-life business. The 499 is extolled by the university as a win-win situation where the students win essential practical experience and the businesses gain fresh-faced, newly-trained expertise to tackle tasks permanent staff don’t want a bar of. What they omit to specify is the third win; wherein the university gets to wash its hands of the annoying little upstarts.
Sportzgirl offered ‘an exciting 499 opportunity in the head office of a national retail chain,’ but as the pay was miserly (not sufficient to fund a marijuana-filled post-graduate tour of London or Turkey) I was the sole applicant. My essential practical experience consisted of packing pamphlets in boxes, sharpening pencils, counting inventory and getting in the coffee. One day, about two weeks after I started, there was a minor marketing catastrophe. Either an administrative mix-up or a deliberate double-booking (no-one is sure which) meant the team of gorgeous Queen Street models failed to show up for our scheduled photo-shoot. When I arrived back with everyone’s morning dose of take-out coffee, the furore was in full swing. Carol-Ann (Martine’s predecessor) and Annalise were fluffing about, cooing as they tried to placate a thunderous Winston, who’d come charging down to the fake gymnasium set ready to eviscerate someone, and (brave) Craig the photographer was roaring about paying peanuts and not even getting the monkeys. I set the coffees on the desk, taking care not to leave coffee rings on any important documents, and was about to creep back to the stockroom when Winston looked over at me, took in my breasts in a single sweeping stare, and said, ‘What about her? She’s got the right body parts.’
‘But she’s the student, sir.’
‘Then she’ll be cheap, won’t she?’ And that’s how I got this job. The job that is finally going to launch me into fame and fortune and the cover of Belle.
The tittering dies away, and Annalise sighs. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘This is the definitely the best choice. The problem is if Mel doesn’t make it to the final episode, it’ll be entirely wasted.’ I look up at her from my daydream. Not make it? Martine straightens up, the little top still stretched between her hands like a skein of wool.
‘I know! What if we reverse the order, so the best outfits are seen first? She could wear this azure-orange décolleté in the first event, the five kilometre one. We know she’ll be in that race, and then if she’s eliminated afterwards at least our key piece will have been seen…’ Obviously, they don’t know I’m already in training and I’ve got a clear head start on the others.
‘Yes, but Martine, it’s such a short event, maybe only half an hour of actual running. ‘That kind of exposure isn’t going to get the sales Winston wants. And don’t forget there’ll be more contestants in the first event.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Martine is crestfallen.
‘Exactly. The television footage will be shared more or less equally amongst the competitors in each event, and this is a very short event, so Mel might only be seen in this outfit for a few minutes. Maybe less,’ Annalise summarises.
‘And if Mel doesn’t show any promise most of her coverage could end up on the cutting room floor.’ Martine shakes her head sadly, the tiny top now scrunched into a tight wad in her hands. That’s not fair! I have promise. I don’t want to end up on the cutting room floor. I need as much exposure I can if I’m to have any chance of rivalling Karen Ropati. And there’s also the little matter of keeping my job (and my apartment) in the meantime.
‘You know,’ Martine says, ‘it’d be okay if only she could make it to the marathon because by then some people will have been eliminated. Fewer contestants and a longer event would mean the garment would get maximum exposure,’ she says.
‘Ha!’ Annalise grunts. It’s not a ladylike sound.
‘Anyway,’ I pipe up huffily, ‘what makes you think I won’t make it to the final event? What makes you think the others will be better? They’re supposed to be ordinary New Zealanders, not marathon superstars.’
Martine seems startled, as if she’s only now noticed that I’m eavesdropping on their conversation, but Annalise looks at me with pity in her eyes.
18
Right now I’m staring at a 40 kilogram mass of iron, strategically positioned to crush me to pulp. Seated jack-knifed with my legs above my head and my feet braced against a loaded moving platform, all that stands between me and instant puree are two skinny metal pins. And I’m not confident about those pins. They look decidedly dodgy.
My new personal trainer ‘Secret Weapon and Trainer to the Stars,’ Olaf Raaken, has a perfect tan complexion and enormous turnip-shaped calves. I’m not kidding: they’re huge. At present, Olaf is extolling the benefits of this particular apparatus and eponymous exercise – the incline leg press.
‘What we’re aiming for here,’ says Olaf, in clipped eastern European tones, ‘is to stimulate both fast and slow twitch fibres.’ My twitchy fibres are already uneasy.
‘So to start with, Melanie,’ Olaf enunciates my name in three distinct syllables, Mel-lan-nee ‘you must do four slow repetitions, then five fast repetitions, followed by another four slow ones. You will lose some range of movement when you accelerate – try not to worry about that. The objective is to recruit as many different muscle fibres as possible. Concentrate on keeping your knees over your toes. We’ll start off with a light weight to get you warmed up.’ Then he releases the skinny pins and the weight of a small articulated truck transfers through my legs. Cripes! My knees buckle and the weight hurtles toward me, only stopping when my legs are squished against my chest. My left knee bonks me in the nose.
‘Ugh.’
‘Fabulous range of movement, Melanie. Great depth. Right, now push up with your legs. Push! Push!’
It’s not moving.
It’s not moving at all.
‘It might be a little sticky at the endpoint. You need to push through it, Melanie.’
I wonder if this is how it feels to have a baby. The wall mirror opposite reveals a flash of my labour-face as I exert myself to the limit, heaving the weight back toward the roof. My knees take on a life of their own, wobbling left and right.
‘Knees over toes, knees over toes,’ screeches Olaf. I shove harder.
A. Bit
. More.
The weight inches upward. I let out an involuntary grunt, expunging the last air left in my lungs and, thank heavens, the colossus eases over the sticking point.
‘Marvellous,’ beams Olaf, ‘That is one repetition. Now you must do three more slow.’ It’s surprising, but at the top, with my legs straight, the load feels relatively light. That must be why you must warm up before you exercise. This is no sweat once you get going, is it? You just have to start out slowly and give your body time to adapt to the new task. The first repetition is always going to be the most taxing. The rest should be fine. I bend my knees for the second repetition. Once again, iron weights in free-fall pinion me to the bench, the shape of my bottom no doubt indelibly imprinted into the vinyl bench cover.
‘Up, up now. Two.’ At the top again, where it’s easier, I take a mini rest break. Why do people do this? It’s excruciating! I wonder if anyone heard me grunting? I look about quickly. On the next machine a woman twice my age is pumping out a set. I notice she has a very shapely bottom.
‘Not too long at the top, Melanie.’ The mini-break over, I steel my resolve and tell my legs to heave harder.
‘A slow one now, Melanie. Three…’ Another free-fall, followed by another breath-holding herculean push.
‘Four. Now fast, Melanie. Come on now. I know you can do it faster. How do you say it? Shovel it in.’ He claps his hands together like a kindy teacher. I’m the kid in front of the chair-train, the one doing all the huffing.
‘Eight! Slow, slow, slow. Slow and controlled. Work those quadriceps. Work those gluteal muscles. Good. Good.’
I grip my knees to try and stop them from wandering and it helps. Then I cheat as much as I can by pushing with my hands. At this point, I need all the help I can get. Even so, my thighs feel tight and burny.
‘Yes, it’s okay to stabilise your knees toward the end of the set. Your knees will remember the path and it will help to keep your technique correct. We want to avoid an injury, Melanie. Eighty per cent of any sporting success is arriving at the event well-conditioned and injury-free. Nine. Three to go.’
Still three? Bloody Derek! Apparently, I’m to endure an hour of this brutality twice a week from now on. Winston’s henchman deduced (possibly with some help from Annalise) that Sportzgirl’s exposure will be next to zip if I’m eliminated in the first week. For optimal returns it’s in Sportzgirl’s interest to keep me in the race.
I know. I know. All I have to do to avoid all this is get myself eliminated. I’m not forced to put myself through this misery. But then my biggest chance of ever becoming famous will simply evaporate. I’m not about to let that happen. Not without putting up a fight.
‘Great first set, Melanie. I can see you are determined and I like that. It will make my job easier – getting you onto the winner’s podium. This is not idle - how do you say it? - mumble jumble, Melanie. I have trained champions. Very successful champions. Of course, you have heard of Harold Kramer?’
‘No.’
‘He was one of my clients. Mark Warne?’
‘Er, no…’
‘What about Wenji Cheung?
‘Uhm...’
‘No? You don’t watch the ping pong? Giovanna Pausini then? Patel Parminder? You must have heard of Patel. Petanque champion?’
I shake my head.
‘Never mind. The point I’m making, Melanie, is this. If you follow my trademarked training programme, Olaf personally guarantees that you will win. That is my commitment to you. But I will expect 100 per cent effort on your part. One hundred per cent.’ An image of Horton the Elephant pops into my head. ‘You must complete all the strength conditioning exercises I set you and the independent training runs. I will give you a print-out of the training schedule. Am I clear?’
‘Yes.’ I’ve no choice. Fame beckons.
‘Good. I’m glad we’ve got that straight,’ says Olaf. ‘Now, let me add some more weight for our second set...’
The next day, when I wake up, it feels as if Dan Carter has kicked my bottom into touch.
19
I can’t believe how quickly the last three weeks have flown. It’s not just the training (I’m almost up to four kilometres of non-stop running now) and the gym workouts (still gruelling), but there are the extra demands of the reality series, too. Last week, Andrew Plumley and the camera crew from NZTV were in Tauranga to film me and some of my Sportzgirl colleagues for Racing Feat’s pilot show. Personally, I think I came across well. They interviewed me in the gym. I was working out on the pectoral machine at the time – the one where you put your hands up above your head as if Jesse James has hollered ‘Get ‘em up!’ and then you bring your elbows in toward your midline against the resistance of the machine. It’s the classic I-must-I-must-increase-my-bust exercise. I answered the questions, somewhat breathlessly, in between repetitions.
Afterwards, I spoke to Plumley, the show’s producer. He has the most annoying habit of clearing his throat before he speaks. I can’t work out whether he’s doing it for effect, in a plummy excuse-me-I’m-important-so-listen-up manner, or whether he has a lingering case of laryngitis.
‘Ahem. Some good footage there, Melanie. I think we have what we need. Now we’ll be talking to some of your entourage so don’t be surprised if parts of this session don’t make it on to the screen, will you? Ahem, we won’t know what the individual vignettes will look like until all the filming is complete.’
‘No problem,’ I say, as I stretch my arm out behind me and use the machine upright to work out the kinks in my pectoralis minor.
‘You’ll be pleased to know we’ve just secured a top-class host for the show,’ says Plumley.
I stop stretching and hug myself. ‘Can I ask who it is?’
‘Ahem. The paperwork is quite finalised, but she’s high profile, articulate, sporty, knowledgeable…’
‘Lana Coc-Kroft?’ I venture, since the former reality queen of Who Dares Wins was my suggestion on the original proposal, before Derek hi-jacked the idea.
‘Ahem. Oh no. We couldn’t possibly afford her. The liability insurance would cripple us, after her near-death experience on the Survivor series. No, it’s Sabrina Good. Netball, Olympics, the softer side of rugby league. Cutting edge and completely potty when it comes to sport. And she’s keen to do something practical to stem obesity and diabetes. Yes, I think she’s going to work out very well.’
Right now, I have to agree. We’re at my place; Jack, Janeen, Caro, and I. Jack’s friend Shane and his wife Kelly were planning on coming, but their babysitter let them down so they called to say they couldn’t make it. We’re watching the pilot episode of Racing Feat together. I’m glad my friends are here because I’m a nervous wreck. On screen, a perfectly polished Good is pushing the virtues of getting out and active, and doing our part to fight obesity-related disease. She’s stated the case well, giving the hard facts without mystifying the audience with statistics. Nothing makes people’s eyes glaze over like statistics.
‘Now let’s introduce our typical Kiwi candidates to the nation, beginning with Simon Cleary from the east-coast town of Whakatane,’ Good announces. Her Aussie lilt is barely detectable. ‘Remember, each candidate’s text-voting number will be on the bottom of your screens…’ Then onscreen we see a pan shot of Ohope beach. A woman and two children are picnicking on the shore. Alongside two middle-aged Caucasian men are launching a boat into choppy sea from the back of a rusty tractor.
Simon (voiceover): ‘My name is Simon Cleary. I’m 42 and the CEO of Totara Woodproducts. It’s a medium-sized firm based in Whakatane. We supply treated value-added wood products to the building industry. I’m married to Deanne, and we’ve got two kids, Kayden and Anneke, both in primary school. We have a family beach bach at Ohope and when I get a spare weekend I like to pack the family in the car and skive off to the beach so I can muck about in my boat.’
‘I’m a weekend boatie. What sort of boat? It’s a South Star 37 by Salthouse Boatbuilders. Got it for an absolut
e steal. It was the demonstration model at the Auckland Boat show a couple of years back, and I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Every chance I get I’m out on the ol’ briny with Dee and the kids or with my mate Joel sinking a few worms (and maybe a few cans, too.) Not that it’s happened in the past few months, not since my doctor said my blood cholesterol is off the scale. I knew I’d been pushing myself hard at work, not getting enough exercise and doing a little too much wining and dining with clients, but this was a serious wake-up call. I’ve put on a bit of weight since my university days. I used to row back then. Even had a six pack. Now, I have a big one-pack.’ (He chuckles.)
‘Anyway, my doctor says if I don’t get my diet and exercise under control I’m a dead sitter for a major heart attack and where would that leave Dee and the kids? Hell, I don’t want my kids growing up without a dad. So that’s it, really. The reason I’m here. Oh, I forgot - my preferred charity is the Heart Foundation. Goes without saying, doesn’t it?’
Jack puts his hand on my knee and rubs gently along the length of my thigh in a subtle attempt to stop me jiggling. Too agitated to be soothed, I wriggle away and take up a position behind the sofa where I start wearing a groove in the floor, pacing back and forth.
On the television, the scene cuts to an Auckland rugby field where a game of touch is being played. The camera zooms in on a blocky Polynesian in his late twenties sitting in the stands. He’s wearing a blue and white striped rugby practice jersey and his big hands are clasped gently in his lap.
Sione (to camera): ‘I’m Sione. My charity is the Diabetes Foundation of New Zealand. I signed up to do this running challenge because the Mulifanua family has a bad history of diabetes. We’re all big beautiful people and I guess we like our paulusami and sapusui too much. All that coconut cream. (He laughs.) But then my aunty died last year, my mum’s younger sister. She was only 42-years-old. They said her organs gave up. It makes you think it could be you too in a few years.’