I need to do something about this.
I pick up my phone and type ‘West Hollywood gyms’ into Google.
The screen is instantly filled with gym suggestions. Every type of gym you can imagine from yoga studios to bounce classes. There are boxing gyms with neon lights and outdoor Pilates sessions.
Then I notice an ad.
It’s for a brand-new gym called Flexual Healing.
I chuckle at the name as I click on the link, which takes me through to the gym’s Instagram page.
They’ve only posted a handful of photos so far but it looks like exactly the kind of torture chamber that Antoinette would drag me to.
I scroll through the pictures.
And then one catches my eye.
It’s a group shot, a mix of people caught mid-class through a mirror, all solid abs and high-on-endorphins smiles, posted yesterday.
It’s one of the people that makes me pinch the screen and zoom in. Dirty-blond hair, a patchy beard, a band T-shirt that stands out because everyone else is in designer sportswear.
The image is grainy, his head is turned slightly away and the lighting is terrible.
But.
Could it be?
I zoom in even more.
And then I’m certain who I’m looking at.
It’s him.
It’s Aidan Ward.
32
Kitty and Antoinette’s Airbnb, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
‘Antoinette,’ I yell as I run up the stairs, clutching my phone like it’s the most precious thing to me in the world. Which, I suppose, at this moment, it is. ‘Antoinette!’ I pound on her bathroom door. ‘ANTOINETTE!’
Two minutes later she emerges, water from her hair dripping on the floor.
‘What?’ she says. ‘What’s happened? Is it your hip?’
I ignore her comment and thrust my phone into her hands.
‘Look,’ I say.
She squints at the screen. ‘I thought there was a fire or something,’ she says. ‘What am I looking at? Gym selfies? CrossFit bros?’
‘It’s him,’ I say and point at the figure. ‘It’s Aidan Ward.’
Her eyes widen and her lips twist into a smile. ‘Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘it looks like we’re going to Flexual Healing.’