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Yes, fine.
I wasn’t fine, obviously; I was lonely. I was lonely because I couldn’t talk to a single human being about what I was feeling. Not one. Not even by text. I was so lonely that I even stooped to asking poor-me Ingrid to come to spinning. I wasn’t going to but she was out in next door’s garden on the Sunday afternoon, sitting in their swing seat with a fag on the go, and a gin and tonic by the looks of it. I wondered whose gin she’d used, whose tonic.
As for me, I was bringing in the washing, nothing new there.
‘I don’t like exercise,’ she said when I asked her – typically tactless. I almost suggested she might need to stretch her legs given that she was getting a lift to work most days with my husband.
‘Me neither,’ I said instead, humouring her. ‘Endorphins, that’s what I’m after.’
She took a long drag of her cigarette. ‘I would, but working full-time is tiring me out.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
The sarcasm was lost on her.
I parked up and was on my way in, but just outside the leisure centre I had to stop due to an eruption of heat inside me. I leaned my hand against the wall and did some deep breathing, and slowly it passed.
At reception, I had to cough theatrically to be seen. Obviously. Even when the girl – and she was a girl – did look at me, it was with the kind of unfocused stare you see in ruminating cows. After following the world’s most lacklustre directions, I reached the gym and performed an amoeba-like progression around the perimeter wall before clambering onto one of the bikes at the back, just about managing not to fall off the other side. Once aboard, so to speak, I spotted a woman two bikes down, about my age, hair the colour of a pomegranate. I smiled doubtfully, the way we women do, and was grateful when she threw her eyes heavenwards and blew at her fringe as if to say,well, here we are. Here we are indeed, I thought. Fighting off deterioration.
Her hair was so cheery, I thought, bracing myself against the handlebars for what lay ahead. I wasn’t keen on the actual shade, but it was, as I say, bright, and I made the decision there and then to go to Shapers in town the following week and get a decent cut and colour, even if it meant going without the Saturday takeaway. Sod it, maybe I’d dye it pink! That’d put the cat among the pigeons!
I’m only telling you this because I want you to know I was getting better. I was. I had no idea I was on any kind of edge, certainly not one so sharp with such a deep, deep drop.
The teacher was a shouty lady of about thirty with one of those bodies you can bounce coins off. Seriously, not a scrap on her. Neck veins like cables, deep folds round her mouth. To lose weight she’d have to dig out an eyeball… you get the picture.
‘Faster,’ she kept saying. ‘Let me see those legs pumping.’
I’ll pump you in a minute, I thought, but I kept my head down, avoided eye contact at all costs. The rest of the women were younger by at least ten years, and I noticed that the woman who’d smiled was keeping her head down too.
Sometimes we want to be invisible.
When the first drop spotted the gym floor, I thought the roof was leaking, until I realised it was me – me, dripping sweat in great fat drops. I’d got my fitness up with my evening walks, but this was proper aerobic exercise. What had I been thinking, seeking out something that would make me even hotter? Honestly, I was sweating like a drug smuggler going through customs by the end. I didn’t dare look in the mirrors. I knew I’d be redder than a cranberry at Christmas.
As everyone filed out, there was a mass move towards the showers – but one step at a time, sweet Jesus. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’d face the women’s changing room when I was good and ready and not before.
I clambered off my bike, and my God, the pain. My undercarriage felt like it had been kicked by a goat.
‘Ow,’ I whispered to my own knees and grabbed my towel.
‘Are you OK?’ the teacher called after me. ‘Lady with the red towel, are you OK?’
I ignored her and hobbled for the exit. I had to get into the cold air. Outside, it was dark. The woman who’d smiled at me was standing in front of the main entrance, drinking water from a proper sports bottle, one hand on her hip. She too was still in her kit and looked as red as I imagined I must be. Nearer purple, if I’m honest, and that made me warm to her even more.
‘Jan’s tough,’ she said. ‘But it’s a great workout.’
‘Wear-out, more like. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the hoo-hoo.’
She laughed. ‘It does hurt at first. I’ve been coming for six weeks. Should have seen me week one – I was crimson.’
I wondered what colour she thought she was now, but she prattled on as if she’d read my mind.
‘I mean, I’m crimson now obviously, but it’ll go down quicker. Six weeks ago I looked like an aubergine and I was still red the next day. Seemed like it anyway. Was it Bette Davis that said ageing’s not for wimps?’
‘I don’t know. Sounds about right, though.’
She held out her water to me. ‘Do you want some of this? If you don’t mind germs.’
I accepted it gratefully and took a sip, even though I could’ve downed the whole lot. ‘Ta. I’ll remember water for next week.’
