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When fifteen minutes have elapsed, my sympathy for her, my guilt because I kick-started our almost sex and abandoned it midway, are gone. I stand up and turn to the remaining four reporters, or bloggers, or whoever they are.
‘Sorry, folks, I guess she couldn’t handle two weeks after all.’
‘Oh, wow! Sorry I’m late.’ Just then, Izzy walks in and dumps bag after bag of what look like shoe boxes and clothes in the corner of the room. ‘There was an enormous sale in Prada.’
She finally meets my eyes and there is fire in her own. But not like the flames between us last night. No, these are satanic flames.
‘My apologies, Mr Adams, I made a unilateral decision to change something we had already committed to.’
I feel my eyes narrow. ‘That’s how you want to deal with this?’
She clears her throat, her focus moving from pressing a remote control in the direction of the large projector screen back to me. ‘I’m sorry, this?’
‘Wow, you really do only know how to get your own way, don’t you? Screw doing the right thing.’
She lets out one angry laugh. ‘Screw. That’s funny. You don’t seem to screw much.’ She dumps the remote and moves to the wall by her bags, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest. ‘I’ve decided you can dance the Charleston today, Mr Adams.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
I’m no dancer but I do know this is that ridiculous, freakin’, Gatsby-era dance.
She turns on the fakest smile I have ever seen. ‘I most certainly am not.’ Glancing at the reporters, she tells them, ‘You might want to get your cameras ready for this.’ Then she hits play.
I take a breath that fills my lungs to the max and bite down hard on my cheeks. She wants me to dance the Charleston? I’ll give her a Charleston.
After five minutes of on-screen Izzy – a much-improved version than the reality – I’ve got the two basic moves. Step and tap, back and tap. Stay on the toes. Swivel, swivel, swivel.
It’s not so bad. I look like a fool but it’s just the feet that have to move. And it’s actually working up my heart rate. Screw you, Izzy Coulthard.
On-screen Izzy steals my attention. ‘Now, we’re going to introduce the hands, like this, side to side.’ I growl under my breath. I am starting to look like a bigger fool now with twinkle fingers. ‘And the last thing we’ll add is a subtle wag of the head, like this. Let’s put it all together to music.’
‘I’m not wagging my head,’ I snarl at the real-life Izzy.
‘Oh, but Mr Adams, it’s all part of the deal. Unless, of course, you can’t keep up with my plan?’
Fuck you. Fuck you so fucking hard.
‘Fine.’
The music starts and I’m like a dancing goddamn bear on cocaine in the 1920s. I just need a striped suit, a twirling mustache, and a cigar.
Blanking out the snorts and laughter of the reporters behind me, I dance to the end of the music. Then I make a quick exit from the room, but not before coming to a stop, face-to-face with the Devil.
‘You think that’s funny, Izzy? Making a bigger dick of me than I already look?’
‘From what I saw last night, you weren’t a big dick at all.’
I curl my fingers into a claw, fighting the urge to wrap them around her neck, and ram the side of my fist into the studio door to open it.
Thirty minutes later, Izzy is wishing she never played hardball. I’ve increased her interval training in speed and length. I increase her weights and number of reps. To finish her off, I put her back on the treadmill and give her ten more minutes of sprint training.
By the time she’s done, she hits stop and rolls back off the belt. Her legs wobble beneath her as she tries to walk to the mats.
‘Stretch yourself,’ I tell her, before retreating to my office, so incredibly pleased that I stopped what almost happened between us in that shower.
* * *
Sitting around two old whisky barrels in Rocky’s Sports Bar, I’m wedged between Madge and Sarah, both of them relentlessly asking questions about Izzy and me.
