“We look like a workout-themed circus act,” I say.
“Perfect.” Georgie adjusts her roach clip. “We’ll blend right in.”
Wewill absolutely not blend in.
The pets have wisely decided to stay behind. Fish is perched on the reception desk accepting treats from passing guests, Sherlock is sprawled in a patch of sunlight, and Biscuit Gravy has discovered that if he sits near the café entrance feigning innocence, people give him bacon.
Lots and lots of bacon.
I’d rather greet guests and accept treats than voluntarily participate in exercise,Fish mewls as we leave.
Same, girl. Same.
Running is for when someone’s chasing you or holding food,Sherlock adds.This is neither.
No, it isn’t.
The drive to Seaview takes twenty minutes through summer traffic. Mom has her eighties playlist cranked up—Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, something that involves a lot of synthesizer—and Georgie keeps adjusting her feathered roach clip in the visor mirror.
I’m wondering if this is a terrible idea, but it’s too late to back out now.
Sculpt and Slay Studio is less gym and more luxury spa masquerading as a place of physical exertion. The building is all glass and steel. The lobby features marble floors and a waterfall feature that’s probably supposed to be calming but just makes me need to pee. The air smells like eucalyptus and money, and everyone inside looks as if they shower in expensive activewear and consider kale a personality trait.
We stick out immediately.
The receptionist—young, fit, with the kind of judgmental eyebrows that could hurt you—tries very hard not to stare at Georgie’s bedazzled kaftan.
“Can I help you?” Her smile is professional but strained.
“We’re here to see Tamsin Rowe,” I say.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“We’re friends,” Georgie lies smoothly. “It’s a surprise visit. I brought lobster.” She holds up her purse and both Mom and I groan.
The receptionist looks skeptical but checks her computer. “She should be in her office. Down the hall, last door on the right.”
We navigate the pristine hallway—more marble, motivational posters about pushing limits, the distant sound of weights clanking—and find Tamsin’s office at the end.
The door is closed.
I knock.
No answer.
Try the handle.
Locked.
“Maybe she’s on the gym floor?” Mom suggests.
We backtrack through the lobby, and I’m about to suggest we check the main workout area when Georgie’s roach clip catches on a decorative plant.
“Ow! Hang on?—”
She yanks it free, but the clip goes flying. It bounces across the marble floor with a series of metallic clinks, the peacock feathers fluttering dramatically, and rolls toward the back exit like it’s making a break for freedom, that or taking flight.
“That cost me twelve dollars at a craft fair!” Georgie takes off after it.
