She looked at me hopefully. ‘He’s not so young anymore, but he’d like to marry you.’
What?I might have audibly gasped. The internet had gone gaga for the vicar inFleabag, but Father Michalis had aZZTop beard and was no Andrew Scott. ‘He’s a priest, Mum!’
She frowned. ‘Well, yes, who else would do it?’
I mentally thumped my forehead. Of course. He didn’t want tomarryme, he wanted toperformthe ceremony.
Mum hadn’t noticed, and continued: ‘He’s nearly eighty, you know. He baptised you and he’ll be very upset if he dies before you decide to get married.’
This conversation was getting more and more surreal – and not one I particularly wanted to be having at the office. I would have bet good money that Lucy and Gav were eavesdropping around the corner.
‘Getting married is the last thing on my mind,’ I said, hoping to end the discussion.
‘How is Simon?’ came Dad’s voice from the floor. ‘Will you be bringing him round again?’ Mum grinned. My parents were a formidable double-act, sometimes. Dad may as well have enquired when Simon planned to propose. But I knew better than to indulge their fantasies.
‘How’s the dishwasher coming along?’
Dad shuffled upright. ‘All fixed. It was the outlet pipe. Run it empty a couple of times, then it should be fine.’
Well, that was one piece of good news. ‘Thanks, Dad. I feel awful for hurrying you, but I’ve got a meeting in a couple of minutes.’
They didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that I was blatantly chucking them out. Sometimes they needed reminding that I wasn’t a teenager anymore and was in fact –shock, horror– a grown woman. Although admittedly one that appreciated having a dad who saved her money on fixing broken kitchen appliances.
With Dawn at her kid’s piano recital, I was tempted to skip the gym that evening, but the idea that Simon might be seeing me naked in the near future made me drag myself to spin class.
Except when I got to the gym I was informed by the chirpy, tanned receptionist that the spin class was full. Dawn usually remembered to book us in; it had completely slipped my mind to do it myself.
‘We’ve got Boxercise starting in a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s great for cardio, great for muscle tone. You’ll love it.’
His sales pitch worked, because fifteen minutes later, having changed into my lycra gym gear, I was standing in a circle with about ten other people doing jumping jacks.
The instructor, who had arms like a spinached-up Popeye, had introduced himself as Carl, and was now shouting peppy platitudes at us over a soundtrack of nineties dance music. Fitting, because 2 Unlimited always made me want to hit something.
‘You guys are awesome!’ he declared. ‘Feel your blood pumping – doesn’t it make you feel alive?’
Actually, Carl,I wanted to say,it makes me feel like I’m about todie.
We were only about five minutes into the class, but my heart was hammering like a four-armed drummer and my limbs felt as heavy as granite. I bet evil dictators used jumping jacks as a torture technique.
‘Okay,’ cried Carl. ‘Now let’s start running on the spot.’
This was only slightly less taxing, as at least I could rest my aching arms, but Carl kept encouraging us to ‘get those knees up higher’ like a deranged drill instructor. Any higher and my knees would be knocking my fillings out.
After what felt like fifteen hours or so, Carl decided we’d earned the right to move round in a clockwise direction. Everyone around me had mad grins on their mugs. Were they actually enjoying this, or had they all been smoking something before the class started?
‘And now anti-clockwise.’
The circle now starting jogging in the opposite direction. I was just about getting into the swing of things when Carl reversed the direction again.
‘And double time!’
What?
I was practically tripping over my own Nikes, trying not to get overtaken by the person behind me. My lungs were burning and sweat was pooling into my sports bra. Thank God I was wearing black. Although how I looked was pretty low down on my list of cares. Topping that particular list was:Help, I’m about to pass out.
I could tell I was suffering from oxygen deprivation because a bloke who’d just joined the class looked a lot like Nick Jones.
He high-fived Carl, who slapped him on the back, and joined the circle opposite me. I rubbed my eyes, because clearly this couldn’t be right.
