by Matt Dunn
‘Right. Could you stand up, please? Let me get a proper look at you.’
I do as ordered, thankful that the waitress has disappeared, and that we still seem to be the only customers. Sam looks me up and down, and I find myself blushing again, especially when she pokes a finger into my lardy stomach.
‘Take your shirt off, please.’
‘What?’
‘Your shirt. Take it off.’
‘Why?’ I look around, somewhat self-consciously.
‘I need to be able to assess the base point. Get an idea of your current physique, fitness levels, that sort of thing.’
I’ve read about this in the copy of Men’s Fitness I flicked through in the office this afternoon. Body-fat percentage, skin-fold callipers, working out my ideal weight and all that.
‘Here?’ I can hear the gurgle of my self-respect disappearing down the drain.
Sam nods. ‘Don’t be shy. No one’s looking.’
As she rummages in her sports bag, presumably for the callipers, I slip off my jacket and tie, and pull my shirt off over my head. Unfortunately I haven’t undone enough of the buttons, and it gets stuck around my neck. When I eventually manage to get it off, I notice Sam’s holding a Polaroid camera, and before I can stop her or put my shirt back on, she’s taken my picture.
‘What are you doing?’ I say, blinking from the flash.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she replies, putting the photo down on the table to develop. ‘Now, let me show you how we can work out how overweight you are.’
‘Don’t you need to take some measurements?’
But Sam’s testing procedures are less sophisticated than that. She turns me to face my half-naked reflection in the cafe window, grabs me by the shoulders, and shakes me from side to side, producing a rather unpleasant ripple effect, particularly for an old couple walking their dog outside.
‘Watch closely,’ says Sam. ‘It’s quite simple really. If it jiggles, it’s fat.’
As I look at my reflection, I jiggle. Everywhere. In fact it reminds me of one of those fairground mirrors that distort your normal appearance. Only trouble is, this is my normal appearance.
‘Right,’ says Sam, making another note on the clipboard. ‘You can put your shirt back on now.’
‘And what was the photo for? Blackmail?’
Sam smiles, and hands it to me. ‘Motivation. This is for you to stick on the front of your fridge. Every time you feel like snacking and you go to open the door, I want you to look at it and remind yourself why you shouldn’t.’
‘Point taken,’ I say, slipping on my tie and buttoning my collar up. ‘So, have you ever trained anyone with the same goals as me?’
‘To get women?’
‘A woman,’ I correct her. ‘Singular.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Sam. ‘Almost all of them. Except the gay guys, of course.’
I’m a little surprised at this. ‘You mean there’s been other people this has happened to?’
‘What—been dumped, want to get back in shape? Yes, a few. But in general, you men are only after one thing, if you’ll excuse the phrase.’
‘You’re kidding?’
Sam shakes her head. ‘People come to me for a variety of reasons—to lose weight, tone up, get fit, improve in a particular sport—but really, it all boils down to the same motivation.’
‘Which is?’
‘They just want to look good naked.’
As I do my tie back up, Sam puts her clipboard down, and meets my gaze.
‘What?’ I look back at her, nervously.
‘You’re sure you want to put yourself through all of this? For a woman?’
I swallow hard. ‘Can it be done?’
Sam folds her arms. ‘Well, I’ve seen worse. Not much worse, mind. And while I won’t be able to turn you into Brad Pitt, you might at least get to see your toes again. You may even be able to touch them. But you’ll definitely be a better shape. And you’ll certainly be in better shape.’
‘Great. So, how often do we need to, you know, do it?’ I ask, nervously. ‘I was thinking maybe twice a week?’
‘Edward, by the looks of things, twice a day would be more appropriate. But I don’t want to kill you.’
I laugh at this, but then I realize Sam’s not making a joke.
‘So, when can we start?’
‘Well, we’ve only got three months, right?’
I nod. ‘And counting.’
‘So it had better be tomorrow. We’ll go for an introductory session and see how we get on. How does seven o’clock sound?’
I look at my watch. ‘I should be home from work by then.’
‘No. Seven a.m. You know, in the morning,’ she adds, just in case I haven’t understood.
‘Isn’t there another time we can do?’ I say, conscious of the whining in my voice. ‘A little, er, later?’
Sam pulls her diary out of her bag and consults it. ‘Well, I’m pretty booked up at the moment. Unless you can spare an hour during the day?’
I can just see me getting that past Natasha. ‘Er…my boss doesn’t normally approve of me taking a lunch hour.’
‘Right. Well, seven a.m. it will have to be.’
‘Okay. Seven it is, then.’
‘And then there’s the small matter of my fee. It’s forty pounds an hour.’
I swallow even harder. ‘Fine. And I’d like to pay you up front every month, if that’s okay?’
Sam looks a little surprised. ‘That’s more than okay. But why?’
‘Because I’ve got a feeling that I’m not really going to enjoy this. Any of it. If I’m paying you on a daily basis, I might be tempted to stop, and at least if I’ve already paid you for the whole month I’m more likely to keep going.’
Sam shrugs. ‘Whatever works for you. Oh yes, and you’ll need to give me a key to your front door.’
I frown. ‘On top of the money? What for?’
Sam smiles back at me. ‘Because you’re going to find this hard, and there will be mornings when you won’t want to let me in. If this is going to work, you can’t afford to miss any sessions. And I mean, any.’
While she packs her things away into her rucksack, I settle up with the waitress, then walk Sam to the door.
‘So,’ I say, ‘see you tomorrow, then.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ she calls, as she jogs off into the cold night air. ‘Seven o’clock, don’t forget. On the dot.’
7.04 p.m.
When I get back home after my chat with Sam, I bump into Mrs Barraclough in the hallway.
‘Sorry Mrs B,’ I say, picking up her shopping bag, which she’s dropped in the encounter.
‘Pardon?’ She peers up at me through her thick bifocals.
‘I said “sorry”. For bumping into you. Can I help you upstairs with your shopping?’
Mrs Barraclough only lives one flight of stairs above me, but at her age, it seems to take her the best part of an hour to negotiate them, particularly when she’s laden with her weekly shop.
She smiles sweetly at me, revealing that she’s forgotten to put in her false teeth.
‘You wouldn’t be a dear and help me with my shopping, would you?’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Pardon?’
I suddenly worry that I’m in danger of having this conversation for the rest of my life. ‘Your shopping,’ I say, pointing to the carrier bag I’m holding. ‘I’ll help you.’
Realization dawns on Mrs Barraclough’s face. ‘Oh, silly me,’ she says, fiddling with her hearing aid. ‘I like to turn it down when I go out. Because of all the noise.’
‘That’s okay,’ I shout, which makes Mrs Barraclough jump, because she’s obviously turned the volume up too high.
While she adjusts it back down to a less eardrum-shattering level, I start up the stairs, but when I get to the first-floor landing, I look behind me, and she’s only managed to get about a third of the way up. I’m faced with the awkward dilemma of waiting
for her to reach the top, which by my quick calculation might take about fifteen minutes, or leaving her bag outside her flat and then trying to get past her on the stairway, thus running the risk of knocking her all the way back down again. I decide on the former.
‘I’ve left your bag outside your front door,’ I say, once she’s finally made it to the top.
‘Thank you, Edward,’ she replies, leaning gratefully on the banister. ‘I’m sorry to keep you. I’m not as young as I used to be. And this cold weather…’
‘You should let me do your shopping for you. When it’s as cold as this, I mean.’
She thinks about this for a minute, still blocking my escape route. ‘You’re a good lad, Edward. That Jane’s a lucky girl. Will you stay for a cup of tea?’
Ah. She obviously hasn’t worked out that Jane has, in fact, left me. Possibly because I told her otherwise, of course.
‘Well…’
Mrs Barraclough’s face lights up at the idea. ‘Only I don’t have much company nowadays. Not since my Arthur died.’
Oh God. I’d forgotten that Mrs Barraclough must have had a husband once, but then I suppose she is called Mrs Barraclough. Now I think about it, she’s been living on her own since Jane and I first moved in, which means she must have been without him for nearly a decade. As she shuffles towards me along the landing, I realize that I can’t possibly refuse.
It takes Mrs Barraclough a further five minutes to find her keys in her handbag, another two minutes to actually open the door, and by the time I’m sitting in her lounge waiting for her to make the tea, I’m starting to worry I’ll miss tomorrow’s appointment with Sam. I’ve never been inside Mrs Barraclough’s flat before; it’s a similar layout to mine, but where my flat is currently empty, there’s not a single space on Mrs Barraclough’s shelves, mantelpiece, or inside her glass-fronted cabinets that isn’t covered or filled with ornaments, photographs, or souvenirs. Digby from Where There’s a Will would have a field day in here.
Eventually, Mrs Barraclough appears in slow motion through the multicoloured plastic ribbons that hang down over her kitchen doorway, and deposits a tray bearing two cups of tea onto the table in front of me. The tea is slightly orange in colour, reminding me a bit of Dan’s skin tone, and thick enough to stand a spoon up in—again, a phrase that I could use to describe Dan. Not wanting to hang around, I drink it quickly, a task made not that difficult given the fact that it isn’t particularly hot, although as I swallow, I prefer not to think about what the lumps are.
As we sit there, Mrs Barraclough tells me all about Arthur; how lucky she was to have found him, how close they were, and how she misses him every day.
‘You know,’ she says, resting a wrinkled hand on my arm. ‘The day he died, I held him in my arms, and told him I’d see him again soon. And I’m just waiting for that day, now.’
As I swallow the last mouthful of tea, there’s a lump in my throat for a different reason. Maybe she does know about me and Jane splitting up after all, and perhaps this is her way of trying to tell me something? That time together is precious, possibly, and you have to make the most of it, because who knows how long you’ll have? I resolve to remember this, particularly if things get tough over the next few months.
Finally, there’s a long enough pause in the conversation for me to make my escape. As I stand up to leave, Mrs Barraclough retrieves a photograph from the mantelpiece, and hands it to me.
‘Who’s this?’ I say, blowing the dust off the glass-fronted frame to reveal a picture of a younger Mrs Barraclough, holding a large tortoiseshell cat in her arms.
Mrs Barraclough looks up at me, a confused expression on her face.
‘Why, that’s me and Arthur, of course.’
Friday 21st January
7 a.m. On the dot.
I’ve set my alarm for 6.30 this morning, giving myself just enough time to shower, dress, and force down a bowl of cereal, and I’m ready when Sam rings the doorbell, zipping up my workout top as I let her in. She’s wearing a green version of the tracksuit I saw her in yesterday, matching green gloves, and carrying the same small rucksack on her shoulders.
‘So, what are we doing this morning?’ I say, showing her through into the lounge. ‘I’ve cleared a space in the front room.’ In reality, of course, I haven’t had to clear any space in the front room. Jane took care of that for me.
Sam takes me through a few basic stretches, then throws open the curtains and peers out into the blackness. ‘I thought we’d start with a little jog. Along the seafront.’
‘Outside? But it’s freezing this morning.’ As soon as I’ve said this I realize how whiny and pathetic my voice sounds.
‘That’s fine,’ replies Sam. ‘It’ll stop you passing out from heat exhaustion.’
‘But…’
‘Come on, Usain Bolt. Follow me.’ And with that she’s off, along my hallway, through the front door, and jogging down my street towards the seafront. I trail along after her, enjoying, briefly, the sight of her taut buttocks bouncing up and down in front of me, until I remember just how out of shape I am, and concentrate instead on putting one foot in front of the other.
We head across the road, down onto the promenade, and along past the angel statue. I’m a little surprised that I’ve made it this far without stopping, but that’s probably because Sam seems to be a little bit more sensitive to my fitness levels than Dan was. As I struggle to see where I’m going through the fog my breath is making, Sam jogs easily alongside me, urging me to pick up the pace a little as we near the pier. And maybe it’s the fact that Sam’s a professional, or more likely it’s because I didn’t stuff my face with pizza and beer last night, but funnily enough, this doesn’t actually feel so bad.
7.10 a.m.
Even in my relatively inexperienced state, I understand that there are ways to make a good impression where women are concerned. Being sick in a bin on the seafront in front of Sam isn’t one of them. And what’s worse, it’s one of those bins with only a side opening, so I have to try and aim horizontally through the relatively small and not particularly clean gap. I fail miserably, managing to splash the tops of my new trainers with this morning’s regurgitated cereal.
Sam jogs back over to where I’m using the bin for support, removes a packet of wet wipes from her rucksack, and passes me one.
‘Do you want to rest for a bit?’
I stop heaving and shake my head. ‘No. Let’s keep going. I don’t think I’ve got anything left to sick up.’
Sam grimaces. ‘That’s comforting to know.’
I’m mortified. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, wiping my face.
‘Don’t worry.’ Sam puts a supportive hand on my shoulder. ‘It happens to everyone their first time.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not quite everyone.’
‘I thought I could do a bit better than this.’
‘You will. It’s all about setting yourself goals and monitoring your improvements. For example,’ she points a few hundred yards further along the promenade, ‘by the end of next week, I want you to be able to get to that bin over there before you feel like throwing up.’
We start off again, Sam maintaining more of a leisurely pace as I struggle to keep up. By the time we get level with the end of the pier, I’m moving so slowly that an old couple out on their motorized wheelchairs seem to zoom past me.
We follow them along the seafront, then, as they disappear into the morning gloom, turn up Preston Street, finally stopping outside a doorway between a pizza restaurant and a kebab house. Ominously, the sign above the entrance reads ‘Swetz’.
‘Come on,’ says Sam, as she shows me inside. ‘Surprise for you.’
I already have a feeling that I’m not going to like Sam’s surprises. Problem is, I’m breathing so hard I can’t actually ask what it might be.
We make our way up the stairs, Sam taking them two at a time, whereas I need to pull myself up by the banisters. By the time we get to the top, my wors
t fears are confirmed—it’s a gym—and what’s worse is that manning the reception is Arnold Schwarzenegger’s larger, younger, better-looking brother. He’s tall, tanned, wearing a pair of those baggy multi-coloured trousers that only bodybuilders and Rastafarians can get away with, and displaying a ridiculously muscular pair of arms from his cut-off-sleeve sweatshirt.
As we walk in, he looks up, ignoring me at first, and flashing a set of perfect teeth in Sam’s direction.
‘Well, if it isn’t the lovely Samantha.’
‘Morning, Simon.’
‘And who’s this?’ says Simon, flicking his eyes across at me. ‘Another lamb for the slaughter?’
I hate him instantly. ‘Edward,’ I say, holding out my hand.
This is a mistake, because when Simon shakes it, I suddenly feel like my fingers are trapped in a Black and Decker Workmate. And a clammy one at that.
‘Call me Sy,’ says Simon.
‘Can’t stand around and chat,’ interrupts Sam, leading me through an archway and into the exercise studio. ‘Mustn’t let Edward cool down.’
Cool down? I’m sweating like a pig, and feel like I’m running a temperature. Once we’re out of earshot, I turn to Sam. ‘Who on earth was that?’
Sam shakes her head. ‘My ex-boyfriend, would you believe,’ she says. ‘Simon owns this place. He still lets me bring the occasional client here.’
‘Ex-boyfriend? Why did the two of you split up?’ I’ve resolved nowadays to always ask questions like this when I get the chance. Plus, it means I might get a slightly longer rest. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
Sam looks back at Sy, who’s standing at reception tensing his scarily big biceps in front of the full-length mirror.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Er…’
Sam rolls her eyes. ‘Why do you think he calls himself “Sy”?’
‘Because it’s short for ‘‘Simon’’?’
She nods. ‘Yes. But also because that’s what he thinks the girls all do when they see him.’
‘But he’s…Huge.’
‘And so is his ego,’ laughs Sam. ‘Anyway, like I said, enough chat. This, Edward,’ she says, leading me into the centre of the room, ‘is a gym. And that’s spelt g-y-m.’