Don’t You Forget About Me (32 page)

‘So you think you’re fit?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘Well, I won’t say fit
exactly
, but I do walk to work every day and my flat’s on the fourth floor and we don’t have a lift . . .’

Well I don’t want him to think I’m totally hopeless.

‘Go on then, show us five press-ups, right now.’

I look at him unsurely – he’s got to be kidding?
Right?

‘What? You mean, like,
right now
?’ I stammer nervously, looking around me to gauge the reaction of everyone else, but no one else is listening, they’re all forming groups and being led out onto the grass by the other instructors.

‘What do you think?’ he fires back like ammunition.

What do I think?
I think I can’t even do one press-up, let alone five, that’s what I think.

‘I . . . um . . .’ I’ve been reduced to gibberish.

‘No worries, we’ll let you warm up first,’ he interrupts before I can formulate an answer, and I feel a rush of relief. Thank god – for a moment there I had visions of me face down on the tarmac being bawled at by a drill sergeant, like in
Private Benjamin.

‘OK, so you need to choose a bib,’ he continues swiftly. ‘There’s three different colours, all based on levels of fitness. If you’re not sure of your fitness, go for the blue. If it’s decent and can hack hard exercise, take the red. Only take the green if you think you’re a serious athlete.’

‘Right, OK,’ I nod. Crikey, I wonder which one I should choose? I glance across at the Blues doing warm-up exercises and some are struggling to touch their toes. Well, I’m not
that
bad. So I should probably go for the red.

Then again . . .

‘Well, we haven’t got all day,’ he barks impatiently. ‘Come on, move it! MOVE IT!’

Sod it. I grab the green. I know it will be tough, but I need to get in shape fast. Seb thinks I’m super-fit and ran ten miles the other night, remember? I don’t have time to be in the Reds, I need to go for the more intensive approach.

Plus, c’mon, how unfit can I be?

For a moment I’m sure I see a flash of surprise across the instructor’s face, but then it’s gone again and he’s yelling, ‘OK, that way!’ and gesturing in the direction of the Greens that are already sprinting off towards the end of the park.

Throwing my coat and rucksack in the minivan, I pull on my bright green bib with a number thirty-four on the back and set off running across the grass. It’s freezing, and I feel the icy cold blasting into my lungs as I suck in deep, hungry breaths.

‘Get a move on! Don’t let your team mates down,’ he yells after me as I race, stumbling across the park, towards the Greens.

Only instead of getting closer, they seem to be moving even further away. It’s like a mirage. Or a rainbow. Only there’s no pot of gold at the end of this – just sit-ups, squats and something called burpies. Which sounded fun and interesting from the warm, ergonomic comforts of my office chair, but now seem a lot less so in the cold darkness of Wimbledon Park.

Finally, when my lungs feel as if they’re going to explode out of my chest, I reach them, and that’s only because they’ve stopped running and are lined up on the grass doing press-ups. Spotting the instructor, I raise my hand in a sort of Native American ‘how’ greeting. I can’t speak. My body’s gone into shock at this sudden, unexpected blast of exercise, and I double over, trying to catch my breath.

‘Enjoy your little stroll?’ roars the instructor right in my ear, as he bounds up behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. Except I don’t have the energy.

‘Sorry . . . I was trying to catch up . . .’ I manage to gasp, but he cuts me off.

‘Fifty sit-ups!’ he commands gruffly.

And I thought Woody was tough.

Dropping to the grass, I flop onto my back. It’s barely been five minutes and I’m already exhausted. All I want to do is lie here, but I can’t. I have a very scary instructor standing right above me already counting:

‘One . . . two . . . three . . .’

OK, I can do this. It’s only fifty sit-ups. It’s not like it’s going to kill me. Putting my hands behind my head, I take a deep breath and start crunching . . .

I take that back. I think
it is
killing me.

Twenty torturous minutes later and I’m going to throw up. And this time it’s got nothing to do with spicy food, but because it didn’t stop at fifty sit-ups. Oh no. I’ve been doing relay sprints, press-ups, burpies – which involve squatting down, kicking your legs back and standing up again, and which are, quite frankly, excruciatingly painful. Not to mention jumping jacks, lunges and crawling around the edge of the park on my elbows.

No, I’m not kidding.

And yes, I did pay good money to do this.

I’ve never been so exhausted. If you fall behind you’re only made to do more, so I try my hardest to keep up, but there’s fitness
and there’s fitness
. The rest of the Greens are like Olympic athletes. At one point we have to partner up and act as if we’re soldiers and one of our squadron has been wounded in a bomb attack and we have to carry them to safety. I get Gary, a six-foot IT expert who competes in triathlons ‘for fun’. Suffice to say, when I have to give him a piggyback to our ‘bunker’ I nearly keel over.

Which is why I’m now hiding behind a tree. Well, I’m sorry, but I had no choice. Our instructor told us to do laps around the park and my legs are like dead weights. I can barely walk, let alone sprint. And to think I could be at home watching the TV. Or having a glass of wine. Or lying in the bath. Or even doing my hand-washing. Do people really do this for pleasure? Of their own free will?
Several times a week?

Peering around the trunk, I watch as several green vests go whizzing by. They’ll never notice I’m gone. I’ll just stay here for a few minutes, have a rest, get my breath back, then just slip back out and join them when they go past again. What a brilliant plan! Closing my eyes, I sit on the damp grass and lean back against the tree.

‘Number thirty-four! Where the hell are you?’

I snap my eyes open.
Oh fuck
.

‘Number thirty-four! I want to see you! Right. Now!’

Fuckity-fuck.

My chest tightens. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with it. Even in the dark, those instructors have eyes in the back of their shaven heads. Nothing gets past them.

‘Number thirty-four!
’

He’s really yelling now and I peek out round the side of the trunk and see him standing a hundred yards away. A huge rectangle of a man in army fatigues, like a large fridge-freezer painted in camouflage colours. Oh crap. I’m never going to be able to escape from my hiding place. He’s going to catch me slacking and punish me with about a million burpies. I’m doomed. I’m just going to have to come clean. I’m—

A loud barking interrupts my spiralling thoughts and I see a big golden retriever bouncing towards the instructor. Briefly he turns to pat it.

I’m making a break for it.

Seizing my chance, I charge out from behind the tree and start sprinting across the grass. Only within seconds I suddenly feel the most intense pain in the back of my leg. ‘Ouch!’ I shriek, clutching it and hopping on the other leg.

Hearing a scream, the instructor twirls around and, seeing me, races over. ‘Are you all right? What’s happened? Let me see.’

If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d be impressed by how swiftly he scoops me up and carries me to a bench, where he sets about inspecting my leg. ‘Looks like your hamstring,’ he says knowledgably. ‘I think you might have torn it.’

‘Torn it?’ I repeat, alarmed.

‘Either that, or you’ve just pulled it. I’m not sure, but you’re going to need to go home and put some ice on it.’

‘What? Right now?
Without finishing the class?
’ Forget the fact that I might have a serious injury, I’m almost heady with relief at the thought of being able to go home.

‘Yes, right now,’ he nods gruffly. ‘I’d take a couple of ibuprofen as well; it will help with the swelling.’

‘OK,’ I nod obediently, feeling suitably chastised. Easing myself up from the bench, I start hobbling over to the van to collect my things.

‘Oh, and there’s one more thing . . .’

Mid-hobble, I turn to see the instructor watching me, his arms folded.

‘Next time, I think we should get you into the blue bibs. Beginners,’ he adds, raising a tufty eyebrow and giving me a pointed look.

Damn. So there goes my brilliant plan.

‘Um, sure . . .’

Well I’m not going to disagree with a burly six-foot-something instructor with guns the size of mini-tanks, am I? Only I know something he doesn’t.

There isn’t going to be a next time.

Dear Diary,

Haven’t had a chance to write in my diary as I’ve been so busy, what with the wedding (and that row!), the trip to the beach and the concert (remind me next time to take earplugs!!) – it’s been manic! And then of course there was the meeting between Seb and Gramps!! EEK!! That was a bit nerve-wracking, and didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped . . .

But anyway, I have to write as I have big news . . . drum roll please . . .

I’m in LOVE!!!

Chapter 26

Luckily my torn hamstring turns out to be just a pulled muscle, and the next couple of weeks whiz by in a nonstop montage of successful dates with Seb.

For example, there’s the night we go to the concert. Like I said, it’s one of his favourite indie bands and, just like before, it’s lots of shouting and clashing guitars. Only this time, instead of spending the whole time with my fingers in my ears for fear of tinnitus, I’m prepared, with my extra-strength Fiona-orgasm-proof earplugs, and merrily join Seb in the mosh pit, pogo-ing around by the speakers with the best of them. It was brilliant; I couldn’t hear a thing!

Including Seb talking to me afterwards, as I’d wedged them in so far they got stuck and I had to spend the whole journey home in the car trying to lip-read. Which was quite stressful as he was driving and kept looking forwards so it was difficult to see his mouth moving. At one point I nearly got busted when I thought he was accusing me of being lazy and I got all defensive, before realising he actually said the band were
crazy
. I swear it was like a bad game of Chinese Whispers.

Then there’s the wedding. Usually I love a good wedding, but this time I go as a marriage sceptic and do my best to have a terrible time. The bride looks beautiful, but instead of oohing and aahing over her dress, I bite my lip. I even remain dry-eyed when they say their vows (which is
a lot
harder than I thought as I always cry at weddings, but thinking about my Visa bill really helped). As for the bouquet . . . this time when I catch it, I throw it straight back.

Admittedly I feel a total killjoy, as weddings are supposed to be a joyous occasion. Still, at least Seb and I are on the same page this time around, and instead of rowing, we get along like a house on fire, sharing little digs about how people must be crazy to get married, and rolling our eyes at each other during the ceremony. It works a treat, even if I’ve never been so miserable at a wedding before!

Then when Seb declared he missed the ocean, we drove down to the coast after work one evening, back to the same beach we went to the first time we dated, where he found me the piece of driftwood and went paddling in the frozen sea. Except this time, instead of staying on dry land, I rolled up my jeans and joined him. See, I’m not a chicken!

‘
Achoo!
’

Fast-forward to Friday and I’ve caught a cold. Moonlight paddling on the Sussex coast might seem romantic, but have you any idea how cold the English Channel is in January?
It was freezing!
I nearly died of hypothermia. In fact I think I’ve still got frostbite in my toes.

‘Bless you!’

I look up from my desk to see Sir Richard walking through the office with his red setter, Monty. Apparently he and the soon-to-be-ex-Lady Blackstock have agreed to share custody and, as it’s his weekend, their driver has dropped him off.

‘Oh thanks,’ I sniffle, looking up and blowing my nose. Since his bizarre behaviour with the computer I’ve barely seen Sir Richard, as he’s had lots of meetings out of the office, but he seems to have really perked up. In fact, I’d go as far as to say he’s undergone a bit of a transformation.

Gone is the old, shiny brown crumpled suit, scuffed ancient brogues and his alma-mater tie from his college days at Oxford. In their place is a brand-new charcoal grey suit that looks suspiciously designer, with the only creases being the ones down the front of his trousers; a pair of loafers which Kym swears are Paul Smith, as apparently there was a photo of Jude Law wearing a pair in
Grazia
, and – get this – no tie! Instead he’s wearing his shirts open-necked.

Open-necked! Sir Richard? What next? A T-shirt? An earring?
Stubble?