The Wake-Up Call(52)

Izzy nods, saying nothing. She hasn’t seen the spreadsheets. She doesn’t know how big a hole there is in the centre of the hotel’s finances—how the amount we’ve raised from selling items has sunk into that pit without even touching the sides. But she’s not na?ve. I can see from her frown that she knows the truth: without a small miracle, there will be no Forest Manor Hotel and Spa by the new year.



* * *



? ? ? ? ?

When we enter the gym, I get worried. Izzy’s shoulders have crept up, and she’s fiddling with the bottom of her crop top, shifting on the toes of her trainers. I hadn’t expected this. The moment I walk into a gym, I feel comfortable. Even the smell relaxes me—that mix of air freshener, clean sweat, and rubber.

It’s clear I have work to do here. I steer her towards the gym mats first. No intimidating equipment, and nobody else there at the moment.

“Some stretches, first,” I tell her.

She brightens. “OK,” she says. “I can do stretches.”

She is not lying. I watch her touch her toes and try to think pure thoughts.

“Why don’t you like the gym?” I ask her as I stretch out my quads. They’re tight from yesterday’s run, but my arms are feeling good. I skipped upper body on Tuesday so that I would be well rested for today. It is critical that Izzy does not find out about this.

“Everyone here is just very . . .” She looks around, still folded over on herself with her hands on her feet. “Like you. Like superpeople.”

I realise this is not intended as a compliment, but I can’t help feeling a glimmer of pleasure at it anyway.

“They’re not,” I say. I look around, seeing what she’s seeing, and lift a hand to wave at a few people I know. “Everyone is welcome at a gym. And if you talk to the people who come to the gym a lot, we aren’t as bad as we look.”

Her expression is dubious, but I’m no longer worried, because my trump card has arrived.

Kieran, the first friend I made in the New Forest, and the best personal trainer I have come across anywhere. He is a small, scrawny white man with no hair and too many tattoos, and he is that very rare thing: a person I liked straight away.

“Lucas!” he bellows, beaming at me and waving with both arms, as though he is directing an aeroplane. “Wow, hi!” he says to Izzy as she straightens up.

“Hi!” she says, slightly taken aback.

A common response to Kieran’s arrival. He treats every day as though he is on set at a children’s television show.

“We’re going to work out!” Kieran says, already bouncing on the spot. “But in a fun way! A really fun way! Do you like beating Lucas at things?”

“Yeah, I do, actually,” Izzy says.

I may have given Kieran some background before booking this session. It cost more than I could afford, but I can already tell that it’ll be worth it.

“I’ll never beat him in the gym, though. Look at the man,” Izzy says, waving a hand in my direction.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Kieran says, rubbing his hands together. “Just you wait and see.”





Izzy


It’s undeniable: I feel amazing. Kieran insisted that I take at least fifteen minutes in the shower after our session, and now, dried off and dressed in my work uniform, I feel like I’m walking several inches off the ground. I can’t remember when I last exercised really hard—did it always leave me feeling like this? It’s as if someone’s just given me a massage, but like, inside my brain as well as every muscle of my body.

Obviously, when the exercise was happening, it was largely quite horrible. But Kieran assures me that it gets better as you do it more, and the aftereffects are delightful.

Beating Lucas was pretty great, too. Kieran wasn’t wrong—there were things I could do better than Lucas. I was better at the skipping rope skills, and I could sprint faster than him on the running machines. And even when we were doing things that were clearly more his ballpark than mine, Kieran never made it feel like losing. Nor did Lucas, to be fair.

It’s been interesting seeing him here. He’s a different man in this context. Everyone seems to know him—they all come over and hug him, and tell me things like “Couldn’t have moved house without this guy,” or “You know what, when my cat died, Lucas was a hero.” I’d like to say I’m shocked to know that there are people who rely on Lucas, but I’m not, actually—I can imagine he’d be a big help if your cat died, or if you needed to move house. If he wasn’t your arch-nemesis.

The main issue I’ve had this morning is Lucas’s unrelenting muscliness. It’s so unavoidable here. The exposed biceps, the impossibly broad shoulders, the sweat. (Why is it that when men sweat, it’s sexy, but when I sweat, I look like I’ve been crossbred with a tomato?) I’ve never been attracted to big, burly men, and actually, if I look at some of the others in here, it doesn’t do it for me at all. It is a Lucas-specific problem. The worst kind.

The only consolation is the fact that I caught Lucas checking me out, too. I looked up when we were doing the warm-down and found his eyes on me in the mirror, low lidded, appreciative. He turned his head away sharply when he saw me looking. No surprise there. After all, he’s rejected me three times now. Lucas may want me on some level, but he’s got cast-iron control, and his brain’s decided he’s not interested, so that’s that. I mean, my brain has decided the same thing.