Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  Charlotte, who regarded the gym with the same disdain she reserved for teetotallers and anyone on a diet, was no help at all, and Stanley just said, ‘Oh my God!’ again when I told him I was going to be given a work out.

  I’d had a quick peer in the sports shop and not only did everything cost a fortune but it was all in that sort of slinky, shiny black Lycra that was guaranteed to make someone like me look even more of a lard arse.

  In the end I’d put on my least clapped-out pair of jogging bottoms, a white T-shirt and my heftiest bra.

  ‘You don’t want to go getting joggers’ nipple, love,’ had been Charlotte’s idea of support while she was munching her way through my biscuits that morning and laughing as I sipped at my mango juice with raw carrot.

  Now, lying on the floor with a series of little pads and wires attached to me, I began to wish I’d started my starvation regime a lot earlier – like about 1986.

  ‘I am going to carry out a bioelectrical impedance analysis,’ Nicola, the scary-looking personal trainer, had announced sternly.

  ‘A BIA,’ she added importantly, for the benefit of the camera, ‘will pass a small electrical charge through your body and will determine how much of you is fat.’ Had I imagined it or had she put a particular emphasis on the last word? ‘And how much is water, muscles and lean tissue.’

  She herself had no breasts and arms like steel cords. ‘To do the calculation, we need to programme in your gender, age, and weight. You haven’t got a pacemaker, have you?’

  The thought of my fat ratio being read out to the entire film crew plus Cal was making me cringe already.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I asked feebly, wondering if I could get out of it by claiming a low pain threshold and then fainting.

  Nicola gave a booming laugh. ‘Oh, you won’t feel a thing. Well, not until I get you doing crunches anyway.’ She cackled sadistically and everyone else laughed too.

  I looked up at the circle of grinning faces. Being spread-eagled on the floor with a camera hovering above my stomach, a mike close to my nose, and Cal and Russ guffawing in the doorway wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I’d signed up to improve my self-image.

  ‘Right!’ said Nicola, flexing her biceps. ‘We are looking at 29 per cent body fat. This puts you just inside the acceptable limits but is pushing at the boundaries as far as risk assessment is concerned.’

  ‘Could you analyse that for us?’ said Cal. ‘What does it mean in layman’s terms?’

  Nicola looked down at me disapprovingly.

  ‘She doesn’t want to get any bigger.’

  ‘You will be amazed,’ she said, as the crew lugged their equipment across the floor and Matt and Russ began to set up some additional lighting around one of the treadmills, ‘how your body will change shape if you follow this programme. I am going to give you a combination of aerobic and resistance exercises so you are both burning calories and building muscle. This, coupled with good nutrition, will bring about an increase of lean tissue and help you burn fat …’

  There was something about her tone that told me it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

  ‘OK, we’ll start you off slowly,’ she said, with deceptive sweetness, as she pushed me onto the treadmill. ‘Head up, arms loosely by your side, nice heel to toe action. Off you go …’

  Ten minutes later the sweat was starting to drip from my forehead, my lungs felt as though they were about to burst, and my legs were two pieces of soggy bread. I grabbed at the handlebar as I stumbled slightly and almost fell off.

  ‘Don’t hold on,’ barked Nicola. ‘I need you to do this for five more minutes, can you manage that?’

  No. I do not think I can.

  I was allowed about 30 seconds’ respite, during which time I mopped my face and drank half a litre of water before being put on the cross-trainer. This was even worse. It felt OK for about the first minute then my legs got that leaden feeling before beginning to seriously ache.

  ‘I–cannot-do-this,’ I gasped. Everyone laughed.

  The step machine was like an escalator except that instead of carrying you along effortlessly, it went down while you went up so you had to keep trudging or be deposited back on the floor. It was like being in the worst sort of nightmare from the moment it started moving. One of those where you’re desperately trying to get somewhere but your legs won’t work.

  I clung to the handrails, every muscle from calf to thigh screaming in protest. ‘I can’t,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Bit faster,’ said Nicola, unmoved.

  The second step machine was even more torturous. This time you had to do all the work yourself – a foot on each plate and step up and down. I couldn’t even get the plates off the ground. Nicola switched it down several levels, shaking her head.

  ‘This will burn 500 calories per hour if you do it properly,’ she said, as I sunk to the floor whimpering. ‘And is very good for toning the legs and glutes.’

  ‘Your bum,’ explained Tanya helpfully.

  I’d given up all idea of replying. I could hardly breathe. My whole body was pulsating. God only knew what I looked like.

  ‘That’s probably almost enough for today,’ said Nicola. ‘I was going to do some weights but I think she needs to get a bit fitter first,’ she explained, talking over the top of me as if I was incapable of speech, which was almost true. ‘We’ll just do a few little sit ups.’

  She led me to a curved frame thing and lay down in it herself, sliding her shoulders under the two bars and then gripping them with her hands. ‘And then you simply rock forward and sit up,’ she said, doing 20 rapid sit-ups while explaining how this would tighten my abs.

  ‘I suggest you start with three sets of twelve,’ she said, still propelling herself up and down at alarming speed. She stopped and sprung to her feet, her breathing perfectly normal, cheeks not even flushed. I could feel my hair in clammy tails against the back of my neck, while a glance at the mirrored wall showed my face was a boiled beetroot. ‘Now you try.’

  I lay down in the frame as she had and allowed her to push and prod me into position.

  ‘Grip here, that’s it, and up!’ I attempted to heave myself into a sitting position. Nothing happened. ‘Up!’ she said again.

  I heard Tanya snigger. I pushed myself back, feeling the frame roll slightly and made another supreme effort to propel myself upwards.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘That’s it,’ cried Nicola encouragingly.

  ‘Ouch, ouch, oh, my stomach, this seriously hurts,’ I squeaked back.

  ‘Three,’ cried Nicola. ‘Four, five …’

  I collapsed in a heap. ‘And if I keep doing this, I’ll get a flat stomach?’ I panted hopefully, thinking that maybe if I could stand it, the pain might be worth having, for the first time in my life, an abdomen that did not resemble a steak and kidney pudding. I prodded the soft layers – my finger sunk inwards for some inches.

  Nicola looked at it too. ‘It will strengthen the stomach muscles beneath the layer of fat,’ she said briskly. ‘But if you want to lose the fat itself, you’ll have to eat less.’

  While I was digesting this inspiring news, the others discussed some sort of ‘power plate induction’ – whatever that was but seeing as I could now barely walk, the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that we could call it a day.

  ‘She should incorporate the power plate into her routine, though,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s very effective at toning the muscles and building up strength. Madonna’s got one,’ she added, as if this clinched it.

  ‘We’ll do that when we come back to film the classes,’ said Cal.

  Classes?

  ‘You’ve done really well,’ he said, shining one of his smiles on me. ‘You go ahead and get in the shower and we’ll be down to join you shortly.’

  ‘You’re not going to film me in there, are you?’ I asked in alarm.

  Cal grinned. ‘Sadly not. We’ll get you coming out though – with that virtuous glow, bursting with vim and end
orphins.’

  It wasn’t exactly as I’d have described myself as I looked in the changing room mirror. My face was still scarlet and my T-shirt clung damply to all my bulges. Beside me a long-legged, toned, 20-something was vigorously towelling her naked body. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her tanned body. I stared at her perfectly flat stomach in awe. How long did it take to look like that?

  In fact, the two of us together would be a fitness equipment manufacturer’s dream. They could photograph both our stomachs for their before and after pictures. The girl saw me staring and smiled uncertainly.

  ‘I was just thinking how good you looked,’ I said, still unable to take my eyes off her perfect proportions. ‘Has it taken loads of work and dieting?’

  She looked embarrassed. ‘I um, I sort of look like this generally,’ she said. ‘Though I do work out, of course.’

  Of course . ‘Well, you look fantastic – you really are gorgeous,’ I said, giving her a big smile.

  She smiled back while edging away from me and I suddenly realised she must think I was either deeply weird or chatting her up. I blushed at the thought of either and busied myself with my towels. ‘I, um, didn’t mean …’ I mumbled.

  ‘That’s cool,’ she said, edging away a bit further.

  They had the camera set up in the corridor when I came out. ‘Can you walk jauntily?’ Cal said. ‘Put a spring in your step, looking pleased with yourself? That’s great. That’s fabulous – keep smiling.’

  Tanya muttered something to him. ‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘We’ll do it both ways.’

  He turned back to me. ‘And then, Laura, just come out normally – looking a bit knackered maybe.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult,’ I quipped. When I’d worn out the corridor carpet alternately skipping and trudging up and down it for the benefit of the camera, Cal finally called a halt. ‘We could do lunch here,’ he said. ‘Then we could film that too.’

  We all trooped into the café area. At least they were going to feed me today, I thought, as we sat down at one of the plastic tables. I really wanted a panini with ham and cheese and preferably some crisps on the side – I was absolutely starving after all the exercise – but they were all looking at me, so I ordered the tuna salad from the high protein/low fat section of the menu and had an orange juice.

  Matt took some footage of me munching, panning in on the lettuce leaf balanced on my fork until I felt like a celebrity rabbit.

  Cal laughed when I said this, so I put two fingers up against my head like ears and twitched my nose. He laughed some more.

  Tanya swigged at her Diet Coke and spoke dryly. ‘You won’t be able to do that by next week.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘It’s only your forehead you won’t be able to move,’ said Cal, ‘but if you don’t fancy it, you don’t have to go ahead.’

  We were on our way to see someone they referred to as “Mr Botox” and I was trying to decide if I was excited or scared.

  ‘I know it’s another long day but then we’ll take a couple of weeks off,’ Cal said, twisting round in the passenger seat to look at me, while Tanya drove. ‘If you can then follow the programme – I think you look fab as you are but it would be good to show you really glowing and how exercise does work – we can film you again, and by then, if you decide to have it, the Botox will have kicked in and you’ll be looking all super-smooth too. Is that OK? Are you happy with all that?’

  Cal looked into my eyes in a way I half-wished he wouldn’t. He probably did it to everyone but it did funny things to my stomach.

  ‘Yes, that’s absolutely fine.’ I said weakly, although I still wasn’t sure about having all those needles in my face. When he’d turned back to the road ahead, I got a small mirror out of my handbag and had a surreptitious look at my wrinkled bits. On the other hand …

  The clinic was in Canterbury – not far from Roger’s office, I realised, as the van drew up ahead of us in a back street near the cathedral. As I got out of the car I scanned the road in both directions in case I spotted him wrapped around Hannah.

  Now, while the others set up their equipment, I sat in a room studying various before and after posters of sagging, blotchy, vein-riddled faces, miraculously transformed. I wondered what it all cost. A lot, no doubt. I was pretty lucky to be getting a go at it for nothing, I told myself.

  ‘Have you had any of this done?’ I asked the receptionist – an oriental, line-free beauty of around 30.

  She looked offended. ‘Not yet,’ she replied with a tight smile.

  ‘Of course,’ I said hastily, ‘you’re much too young.’

  ‘I’m 32,’ she said. ‘We have many women come at this age.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what this proved so I lapsed into silence and read a leaflet about laser treatments you could have in your lunch hour, until Tanya put her head round the door and said they wanted me upstairs.

  Dr Carling was in his late 40s with silver hair and an improbably smooth, tight, shiny forehead. He wore a pin-striped suit and a pink shirt and had, I noticed, extremely white teeth – even whiter than Austin’s, the Cook around the Clock presenter. I wondered if I could suggest teeth-whitening as one of my treatments. Though perhaps not quite that bright. It did look a little unreal. I found I was keeping my mouth closed a bit more than usual as we said hello and shook hands.

  ‘What we’d like you to do,’ Cal said to the doctor, ‘is to run through the sort of procedures you could offer Laura to make her look younger. Laura, you ask whatever questions you’d ask – how much it costs, how effective the treatment is, how long it lasts and so on. Try to forget we’re here. OK, let’s go.’

  Dr Carling and I surveyed each other across the table.

  ‘Er, how could you make me look younger?’ I said lamely. Behind me I heard Tanya sigh.

  ‘Just carry on.’ Cal’s voice was reassuring. ‘We’ll do it again at the end.’

  Dr Carling leant back in his chair and had gazed at me.

  ‘It all depends, really,’ he said eventually, ‘what it is you’re most unhappy with and what you are trying to achieve.’

  ‘Well just being older and looking younger, I guess,’ I said, cheerily, thinking that perhaps it served the film’s purpose to state the bleeding obvious. ‘You know – I’ve got these lines and crow’s feet and my neck’s not what it was. I keep slapping on the old anti-wrinkle cream but it still seems to be downhill all the way …’

  Dr Carling shook his head. ‘Collagen creams? Not worth the money. Collagen can’t get through the skin. The only way you can get more collagen is by having it injected and that’s where the collagen filler comes in. Fillers can make a difference to lines and wrinkles by plumping them up from below. Fillers and Botox are our most popular products.’

  I nodded intelligently. ‘Which is best?’ I asked, pleased with my interviewing technique.

  ‘It’s a case of horses for courses,’ said Dr Carling importantly. ‘We would use fillers for deeper lines – those that are really ingrained.’ He looked pointedly at my mouth. ‘And Botox to soften fine lines, although you can find even quite deep ones disappearing once you can’t make the movements that’s caused them.’ He handed me a mirror.

  ‘Frown,’ he said. I duly scowled.

  ‘You see? Doing that has caused this .’ He directed a manicured finger at the crease between my eyebrows. ‘Botox will immobilise those muscles so you can’t do that any more. It will take 10 to 14 days to get the full effect but then that should be entirely smoothed out. Show me what else you’d like corrected.’

  I looked back at my reflection. ‘Where shall I start?’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘This is new.’

  I showed him the line above my upper lip where I screwed my mouth up when I didn’t like something. ‘Can Botox sort that too? And look at my eyelids. They never used to be hooded like this. Do you know I found a photo of myself when I was 22 – well, my friend Charlotte found it actually – and my eyes were really wide open. Now I look l
ike Old Mother Hubbard.’

  Dr Carling looked quizzically at me, while I wondered where on earth that had come from. What did Mother Hubbard look like anyway – was she the one who had all the children in a boot? Or the old crone whose cupboard was bare? That was probably what had brought her to mind – my fridge was a barren wasteland once more. I really must go shopping …

  ‘Sorry?’ I suddenly realised Dr Carling was talking to me.

  His eyes twitched in what I imagined would have been a frown if his forehead had been able to move. ‘Lipstick lines,’ he said. ‘Some people get very strong lipstick lines but your mouth is quite good. Your lips are still full –’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘We could probably usefully employ 15 or 16 units of Botox around the forehead down round the eyes, but I wouldn’t recommend it around the lips. You have to be very careful there because it could change the agility of the mouth – and if you were a trumpet player or a singer that wouldn’t be too good.’ He smiled.

  ‘I’m not either of those things, but I do talk a lot,’ I said helpfully.

  He nodded. ‘But we could pop in a little bit of filler there – ’ He pointed to the corner of my mouth. ‘When you’re getting a little bit older, the corners of the mouth turn down slightly.’ I looked into the mirror – I’d never noticed it before, but so they did. ‘If we inject a little filler here, it will lift it slightly.’ He leant across the desk and hitched up the side of my mouth with his finger. ‘It’s a very subtle effect but it can be quite pleasing.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I cried, gazing into the mirror and seeing how instantly and miraculously it took years off me.

  He was still prodding my face. ‘A bit of hollowing here can pull the cheeks down a bit, so on some women we plump up here too, but I wouldn’t say you need that yet. A little work around the forehead, eyes and mouth, that’s all.’

  I used my own finger to lift my droopy mouth up again. ‘How much does it all cost?’ I reeled as he told me. ‘Really? And how long will it last?’