Out Late with Friends and Regrets (4 page)

 
“O-T-T-shirts?” enquired a voice.
 
“Great. Thanks for bringing them along.”
 
Business transacted, the customer carried away his purchase.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw the girl clip a microphone pack to her waistband and connect it to a headset worn casually, like a doctor’s stethoscope, around her neck.
 
She watched her stride away from the desk with further mock admonitions to the receptionist, and push through one of the portholed doors leading off the reception area.
 
“Studio 2” read the sign above it.
 
After a few minutes’ hesitation, looking around to see if anybody was watching, Fiona wandered across the busy concourse, casually moving up to the porthole to look inside.
 
The instructor was conducting an aerobics class, it seemed; and Fiona watched, fascinated, as the girl performed and demonstrated, lunging, leaping, pointing; and apparently giving a running commentary of instruction, full of smiles and exhortations to spur on her charges to greater effort.
 
This was accompanied by music unheard from outside, but with a thumping bass she could feel through the soles of her feet, making her heart pound.

“Thinking of having a go?” asked a friendly voice at her side. She jumped, with a sudden intake of breath. Michael, Senior Leisure Attendant, said the laminated badge.
 

“Oh sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, “I’m not actually supposed to frighten off potential clients!”

She tried a smile, and swallowed. “I don’t – I don’t think so,” she said. “Too old. Too late. I couldn’t do –” she nodded at the porthole – “
that
.”

Michael’s eyebrows raised, and she thought for a moment he was about to laugh at her. But his voice lowered confidentially.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but one of the regulars in that class is pushing seventy. And she only started coming this year.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose I
could
try it.”

“Wonderful!” said Michael, sounding genuinely pleased, “You’ve nothing to lose by having a go, have you?”
 
A fitness missionary, evidently. “Come over to the desk and I’ll get you signed up; we’ll book you a fitness test and you’ll get a card you can use for all council facilities.”

“Oh, maybe I won’t bother, I’m a bit busy.”

He looked her in the eye, and put his head on one side. Despite the good footballer’s legs and broad shoulders, Michael had a slightly camp way with him, the mobile eyebrows enhancing his enthusiastic manner, and Fiona warmed to him.
 
It was nice to meet a nice man. She giggled, feeling stupid, and said, “OK, then, could we get it over with now? I know I’ll be terrible.”

There were lots of tests. When she finally emerged from the MOT room, function and flexibility pronounced above average, Michael took her over to the desk to fill in forms, then waved as he left her.

“What’s that teacher called?” she asked the receptionist, “The class in Studio 2?”

“That’s Lynn,” said the girl, folding back a copy of the activity programme and pointing at “Freestyle Aerobics”, they’re due out now, why not have a word with her?”

At that moment, the portholed door opened, and class members streamed out, followed by Lynn, patches of sweat darkening the pale blue kit, and her face glistening. She strolled towards the desk, as Fiona stared.

“No!” she said, looking away, then added, “I’ll just book, thank you. What other classes does she do?”

If I stayed at the back, she thought, no-one would notice how rubbish I am...
 
I want to be fit again, like her… How good would it be to
look
like her… move like her...

Reluctant to wait a week, Fiona opted for another of Lynn’s classes two days later, a weights class.
 
She followed the other participants, picked up the same equipment as they picked, selected a corner spot, spoke to no one.
 
Surprised by her own strength and potential power, to see forgotten muscles working in the studio mirrors, body under control, breathing under control, was surprisingly enjoyable. Yes, she did look weedy, but she had worn joggers to hide the long white legs, and she would improve. Oh yes, she would improve. Her eyes followed Lynn’s every movement.
 
The girl was in pink this time, a colour for which Fiona had a particular dislike, but on Lynn it looked good.

Instead of going straight home, Fiona stopped off at the High Street, and bought a set of weights and a DVD.

Aerobics day came round again, and this time she would be part of it. She found it unexpectedly taxing; she was embarrassingly unfamiliar with the moves, and reached the limit of her stamina rather sooner than expected.
 
So that’s what “out of condition” meant.
 
Perhaps she had been too hasty in thinking it was for her. But Lynn didn’t seem to focus on the mistakes, but encouraged everybody in an engaging, jokey way. Watching her was mesmerising, albeit to the detriment of Fiona’s already poor performance.
 
Lynn’s outfit was pale grey, in the same clingy material as before.
 
She could not possibly be wearing anything under those trousers, not even a thong.
 
Perfect, proud posture.
 
A vision of beauty and strength.

“Grapevine right!” roared the vision.
 
“Box step right and left! Shoulders and hips square to the front, and KEEP THOSE KNEES SOFT!”

Fiona floundered through the session, and at the end, dribbling with sweat, vowed that next week she would not be the class klutz.
 
Several participants, she noticed, appeared to be coasting through the harder moves, and she suspected she could be better than that. She would go for a run every morning before breakfast, that would help. Rosemary was right; she had been good once. She recalled how it felt; it would be really something to feel like that again. Almost three weeks before she saw Rosemary; she could improve quite a bit before then. It would be great to be able to tell someone how she was doing. Someone who was interested.

Rosemary looked very nearly the same, although the plump, pink-cheeked bloom had gone, as had the tumble of unruly fair hair, now in a short, neat style.
 
But the excitment in her eyes was identical to the mental photograph in Fiona’s memory.

“Stick your coat on the hook and come through,” said Rosemary, “we’ll sit in the conservatory for a cuppa before lunch. Oh, this is Donal.” He was tall, angular and tweedy, with a lovely smile, and had a breath of Ireland in his voice. No wonder Rosemary had fallen for him. He shook hands and disappeared to the kitchen, bringing in the teatray before retiring to his computer upstairs.

“This is comfortable,” said Fiona, settling into her armchair, “your garden’s lovely.”

“Small, but it suits us,” said Rosemary, “do you still take a heaped teaspoon of milk in your tea?”

“Oh. You remembered!”

“So. How have you been, stranger?” asked Rosemary.

“I, yes, very well, thanks.”

It sounded strange and forced, even to her own ears. Her best friend, once, and it was like trying to speak a long-unused language. It had been OK on the phone, but that was with Rosemary leading the conversation from a distance.

“So did you manage to get to the gym?” asked Rosemary with a smile.

“Yes, yes, I did. And you were right, it’s brilliant.”

“Tell me,” said Rosemary, as she poured.

“There’s this instructor called Lynn who’s totally wonderful, and I’ve been doing a run round the lanes every morning. I’m sure it’s
made a difference, I can feel it already.”

“Told you,” said Rosemary, “I knew you’d soon get back into it. It always helps to have a good teacher.”

“God, yes, Lynn’s very pleased with me, I think, not that she’s said much, it’s the way she nods at me, although I know that sounds ridiculous. At least I’m not keeping to the back row any more. I can’t wait for class days.”

“Hey, now that sounds more like the Fiona of old. Got your competitive spirit back!” said Rosemary.

So much easier, now.

“It makes you want to be good, when you’ve got someone who really inspires you. I can’t tell you how much I dreaded going into that place for the first time, but she made me feel so part of it all.”

“That’s Lynn the paragon, I take it. What’s she like?”

Fiona cleared her throat, and swallowed.

“Beautiful. Gorgeous, in fact. Her figure, the way she moves, and well, everything. One of those smiles that makes you feel good for the rest of the day. And fires you up.”

“Yes, so it would seem!”

“Oh, you’re laughing at me, Rosie.”

“Only in a good way, honestly. I think you needed to come out of your shell a bit.”

“Thank you for putting the idea in my head.”

Fiona wondered if she should ask for a second cup of tea, or if she should wait for Rosemary to notice that the cup was down to the bottom.

“Pleasure.
 
How are you managing otherwise? Without Paul, I mean. You don’t mind me asking, do you?”

Fiona shifted in her chair.

“Could I have another cup, please? Thanks. Well. Some things are actually better, if I’m honest.”

 
“Oh really? What sort of things?”

Fiona gazed into the golden tea, breathing carefully.

“It’s all right, I’m sorry,” added Rosemary, “I’m being very nosy.”

“It’s OK, really. I’m finding it easier to manage – financially, I mean. There were debts. Quite big. Comparatively speaking, that is. But they’re all sorted now. I know exactly where I stand, these days.”

Traitor. Telling tales over his dead body. He’d have gone apeshit. But God almighty, he was so bloody extravagant when he was in one of his exuberant moods, and it had taken dogged determination to chip away at the unweildy sum on their joint credit card. Now she loved having control over her modest budget, the freedom from that perennial worry. That and others: in the evenings she could put in an unhurried hour or so on her designs and commissions, without the pressure of knowing she was stealing from their Quality Time in front of the telly, and the nag of how much drink he’d have got through before she could join him.

But Paul
had
cared for her. She was everything to him, as he often told her, the love of his life, the most important thing that had ever happened to him.

“Well, that’s good,” Rosemary was saying, “I think being your own boss suits you.”

“I miss him in some ways.”

Rosemary eyed her, without speaking.

“He could be a laugh at times. I helped him rewire, plumb and repair everything in the cottage when we moved in. We were like mates, a lot of the time.”

It was true. Her favourite times, the jokes, the bawdy language, the send-ups and the familiar tennis of exaggerated insults. More intimate than sex.

“But I don’t seem to be much good at the grief bit,” she added, “maybe it’ll hit me with a bang some day, but meanwhile – comfortably numb, I guess.”

Not that she’d dream of burdening anybody in any case. People didn’t want to be embarrassed. Having mastered the art of iron self-control over the years, she could handle it, if it happened.
 

“Everybody’s different, Fee. You don’t have to howl and tear out your hair.”

“Not a good look,” Fiona agreed, with a wry smile.

Rosemary got up and came over to Fiona’s chair, and kneeling, gave her a hug.