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Please. You are so celebrity hungry you think you are better than others. You strutted into my gym, upset my staff and clients, and tried to instruct my kitchen staff as to what they should be doing. Who the hell do you think you are?
I know I shouldn’t have sent it as soon as I hit submit.
She replies in seconds.
Who do I think I am? Mr My Way or the Highway!
Angry, I thump out my next response.
You have no idea how I advise clients. Everything is tailored to their needs. Unlike your methods!
Izzy: Ha. As I said in my post, Mr Adams, put your money where your big, rude, ogling mouth is. You didn’t want me in your gym because you were worried your clients would see a better alternative to your methods.
My knuckles are showing white as I type.
I did not ogle you. Nor do I scrutinize my clients in any way other than professionally, when they invite my assessment. You are so up your own ‘arse’ that you think every woman wants to be you and every man wants to nail you.
I’ve completely lost my dignity. Madge will be sitting at home, screaming at me.
Izzy: You are so far off the mark, you can’t even see the mark. If you think your training is more effective than mine, Brooks, prove it. Follow my plan and see how much better you feel. It might even curb some of those tantrums you keep having.
I start to write a reply and stop. I have no intention of following her plan. How would that even work? But she has boxed me into a corner.
Acknowledging that I have already stooped to her level and made myself look like a petulant child rather than a thirty-five-year-old businessman with an adult daughter, I slam the lid shut on my laptop.
* * *
With the windows down and the wind in my face as I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, I already feel better about this whole Izzy situation. I heard nothing more about it on Sunday and refused to look at any more comments. It was a blog post. One silly little blog. It’s done. She’ll go back to England and I’ll forget she ever existed.
Out of nowhere, a yellow cab slams on its brakes in front of me. I hit my hazard lights as I come to an abrupt halt behind it. Next thing I know, a police vehicle comes tearing across the bridge with its lights flashing.
Looks like I’ll be late for my meeting. Not sure what lies ahead or how long I’ll be stuck here, I turn on the radio and shuffle in my seat to take my iPhone from the ass pocket of my jeans.
‘Folks, that was Dobie Gray with “Drift Away.” Now we’re back with Izzy Coulthard.’
I’m about to connect my iTunes to the car when her familiar voice comes through the speakers.
‘Hi.’
‘Izzy, we’ve talked about your new book,Be Green. Be Clean, which releases tomorrow. We’ve discussed your presence online with yourSalsa Yourself Slimclasses.’
‘Yes.’
‘But there’s another element of your online marketing that viewers have been texting in about. You have a blog.’
She clears her throat. I set my iPhone down on the passenger seat before turning up the radio.
‘I do, Steve. I use the blog to give my followers new recipe ideas and fitness tips.’
‘Except, in the last few days, you seem to have used the blog to… how should we put it? Criticize a fellow fitness instructor. For our listeners, we’re talking about Brooks Adams, owner of the Brooks Adams gym. What’s the story there, Izzy?’
‘Well, Mr Adams and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. Our fitness advice differs and our manners certainly do.’
‘Meaning?’
She scoffs. ‘Meaning I have them and he doesn’t.’
Ha! Pot calling the kettle black there, Coulthard.
