by H. A. Nicola
She was most proud of the fact that she had paid particular attention to the accessories and finer details. The touches that many gave little thought to. The majority of homes she had come across seemed to consider the wall accessories or lighting fixtures as rather an afterthought. She had seen far too many bare bulbs and casually placed mirrors. She was not ashamed to admit that she had acquired the accessories long before considering the main furniture she would need. Thankfully, the children were very trusting of her process and barely pressured her with expectations. She discovered some bronze and copper ornate mirrors on eBay, and her bronze bust of a romantic couple embracing, and her African inspired wall-feature of a man and woman in hold, seemingly performing some form of creole dance routine and dressed as though they had been plucked from a New Orleans jazz establishment, which all helped create a distinguished atmosphere. She was discovering how fulfilling it was to come across unusual finds for a fraction of high street prices, and she was amazed to discover that she appeared to have a knack of knowing exactly where to position her acquisitions.
Taking pride of place on the far wall of the living room was the large mahogany-framed mirror that was one of only a handful of items that she had insisted on bringing from the previous house in Torquay. In fact, they owed their arrival in London to this mirror. It had provided the vision board for their quest into the universal law of attraction, on which they pinned images of the capital and wrote positive affirmations to help keep them focussed on their plans and desires. They had even resorted to scribbling potential moving dates on there with permanent marker pens, which would be hastily scrubbed away and rewritten as each deadline passed.
Now they were here. Looking at the exact same mirror in their desired city. The same mirror in which she now scrutinised her workout gear before heading to her daily gym classes.
Laura, pronounced Lou’ra, which Cayenne assumed was the authentic Hispanic pronunciation, was the instructor for the abs classes. Cayenne soon learned that Laura had the gift of making the classes seem rather like punishment. Quite often she would bark out orders for them to execute 50 repetitions of star jumps only to command, “More, 50 more,” in her clipped accent. Just as they were on their last legs and panting with exhaustion, she would command, “50 more.”
The class would look at her incredulously assuming that they must have misheard what she had said, only to be met with,
“Come on, quick quick! Speed up, speed up!”
Even the venomous glances she received when she insisted upon 300 push-ups, failed to deter her enthusiasm. Though she may not have exactly led from the front in her classes, Laura could often be seen putting herself through her own punishing routine around the gymnasium in between classes, which almost always involved heavy weights or kettlebells, as she squatted her way down the length of the gym. Her hard work had certainly paid off as evidenced by her well-developed physique. All 5 feet of her was hardened muscle. What she lacked in personality, she certainly made up for with her drive and focus.
Another trainer that Cayenne failed to establish a rapport with was Adam Feeney. Tall, good-looking, something he clearly didn’t doubt; he was of slim-build, not at all muscular, much to his chagrin. He seemed pleasant enough on the surface, but she often felt that whenever she attempted to challenge herself, he didn’t appear to like it. She wasn’t sure why it should threaten him, but he even exclaimed rather harshly when she selected a heavier ball than he had indicated for a squat throw challenge,
“Let ME challenge you.”
He was not averse to making snide comments, usually singling out one of his favourite minions and pointing out their virtues, which were hidden to Cayenne. She considered that he singled them out because of their barely disguised admiration for him, and he in turn bolstered their esteem with his high praise, creating some sort of co-dependent appreciation alliance and to her mind, exposing their insecurities.
Often when he considered that striking potential conquests were present in the form of tall, lithe model-like blondes, he would momentarily lose his military resolve and seem distracted and unable to divert his attention away from the source of his desire, leaving the rest of the class feeling as if he had no interest in their overall progress.
Cayenne came to the decision that she would only participate in the classes that made her feel good. The ones that she considered nourishing and inspiring. To only give her time to the classes that rewarded her commitment in some way.
She hadn’t particularly enjoyed her second personal training session with Eddie at the gym either and had rather hoped to avoid him for a while. That was until she was returning from the school run with Sugar one afternoon and happened to bump into him. The local Tesco metro backed onto the square where she lived, and on this particular occasion, he appeared around the corner on his way to the store; and she couldn’t help but notice the cigarette stub wedged between his fingers which he quickly discarded of, she suspected rather sooner than he would have liked. She knew she really shouldn’t, but couldn’t help feeling sorely disappointed at the realisation that many trainers did not pursue a career in personal training out of passion for fitness.
“Free for a PT this week? I’m free on Wednesday afternoon and Friday morning.”
Feeling decidedly put on the spot, Cayenne found herself agreeing to the Friday appointment.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Sugar enquired, “Who was that!?”
“The guy from the gym. The one I do the personal training with.”
The expression on her daughter’s face was comical.
“What?” she enquired already formulating an idea of what was on her daughter’s mind.
“He’s just not what I expected, that’s all.”
When Cayenne had asked exactly what she had meant, knowing full well what remark to expect, as Sugar was fast becoming a chip off the old block, Sugar had simply used her hands to emphasise the size of Eddie’s stomach.
After the third session, Cayenne still wasn’t convinced. Predictably most of it was taken up with chatting, generally about his favourite subject—himself. Before long, she was well-versed in the unfortunate events of his childhood, reliving the severe bullying owing to his being inherently on the large side and nature’s failure to balance it out with his height. His descriptions of being beaten repeatedly seemed to run into each other, and it was difficult to follow the chronological order, but he had clearly been shaped by the perpetual nature of these experiences. Whilst on the surface, Eddie had come across as relatively confident and self-assured, he was soon confessing to chronic low self-esteem and bouts of depression, which she presumed he was attempting to bolster with his multiple extra-curricular endeavours. Many in the class had been encouraged to follow his semi-professional journey via Instagram, which showcased his weekly training schedule, and his success or failure in various competitions he participated in. She noted quite quickly that he would caption many of his videos with excuses as to why he may not have been able to complete his attempts at various challenges or by way of excusing poor technique, almost as though he anticipated critical responses. He would seem to pre-empt the potential reprovals that the videos would attract from fellow enthusiasts, by apologising in advance for his substandard form.
It wasn’t long before Cayenne began to question just how effective these one-to-one sessions were for her, when she knew she had sufficient motivation to push herself, and she was beginning to suspect that many of the trainers simply used PTs as a way of subsidising their salary. She definitely felt that she was challenging herself more in the classes which seemed to create an accountability and an expectation to give of your best and often left her exhausted in a sweaty heap on the floor. The one-to-one sessions began to feel like a weekly catch up with a mate, rather than a unified, focused voyage toward her fitness goals. Therefore, the sessions soon fell by the wayside. They were still on friendly terms however, often exchanging jokes when passing each other at the gym or sharing stories refl
ecting un-politically correct humour that they both seemed to enjoy.
That was until one particular night when Cayenne had turned up for boxing class on a Monday evening which was usually undertaken by Frank Garming, the resident boxing expert, though other instructors were qualified to teach the beginners boxing program in his absence. Unbeknownst to Cayenne, this was one of those times. Even though they were on friendly terms, Cayenne would have probably opted out of boxing had she known that Frank was on leave that week, and especially if she had been alerted to the fact that Eddie would be taking this particular session. Moments into the class, had she been paying attention to her instincts, she would have hot-footed it out of the gym forthwith.
As she descended the metal staircase down to the basement and approached the boxing ring, a few other members had begun congregating around the base of the elevated ring waiting for the class to start. Cayenne successfully disguised her disappointment at Frank’s absence and quickly made the mental adjustment necessary before Eddie could discern her mood. She nodded a few ‘hellos’ to a few people that she recognised, mostly regulars of previous classes and introduced herself to a young Japanese couple that she hadn’t met before. She noticed one individual who was limbering up inside the ring, away from the others, with the fervour and intensity of a world-class heavyweight champion. He was an older gentleman; she would have guessed that he was around 50 years old, though he was in particularly good shape and looked very strong. She remembered seeing him in another class, and he had seemed pleasant enough.
As the class began, an ever-discerning Cayenne could have sworn she could sense that Eddie was a little unnerved by the pro-boxing energy emanating from the ring. She remembered during their talks, masquerading as personal training sessions, him telling her that he had begun boxing at the age of eight years old, and she had presumed that he had continued some form of participation or other since then.
“Has anyone done any form of boxing before?” The question was directed to the whole class, though Cayenne noticed that Eddie’s head appeared to be trained in the direction of the boxing champ who had by now climbed down from the ring and stood towards the back of the assembly—his broad shoulders taking up the width of two people. His hands were clasped slightly defensively in front of him, and his piercing eyes were fixed straight ahead at Eddie.
Most of the class raised their hands in acknowledgement of the question, and a few individuals shook their head to confirm that this was a new endeavour. Cayenne remained silent as she was too busy reading the subliminal signals that were crisscrossing the battleground. The boxing champ, who it transpired, wished to be addressed as Mo, raised his hand too. Cayenne was about to question in her mind whether Mo was short for Mohammed, as in Ali, when she heard Eddie enquire,
“Oh, what kind of boxing ’ave you done then, mate?” Raising his eyebrows expectantly with what Cayenne discerned as a hint of cynicism.
Cayenne wondered why Eddie hadn’t directed the question at any number of other possibilities. Or whether the question even needed to be asked. This was a beginner’s class after all. Anyone mistakenly looking for a WBA full-contact combat facility would surely soon realise their mistake, and kindly excuse themselves at the first opportunity.
“I’ve done some kick boxin’ and thai boxin’…”
Before Mo the champ could elaborate further, an unrestrained laugh escaped from Eddie’s mouth, laced with a decidedly mocking intonation.
“That’s not boxin’, but they are contact sports,” shrugged Eddie seeing the need to state this conclusion in a matter-of-fact manner, simultaneously extinguishing any conjecture and perhaps to reassure himself at the same time.
Cayenne could almost see the testosterone circling around the two men in a cosmic vortex, as their chests puffed out, and their shoulders broadened visibly. She daren’t look directly at them and felt a sudden urge to diffuse the rising tension. If only she could think of something to say. Soon they were being paired up. Never in a million years could Cayenne have imagined that she would soon be face-to-face with the indomitable white Ali. An angry Ali, a fucking pissed-off Ali. An Ali with a point to prove.
During Frank’s sessions, he generally intermingled with the whole group throughout, giving advice where needed and demonstrating what he expected from them in each individual round, often bringing the group back together as a whole intermittently before dividing them back into their pairs to execute his next instruction. However, Eddie remained in the elevated ring for the entire session making full use of the height advantage.
Whilst boxing wasn’t necessarily her favourite class, Cayenne did appreciate the cardio element, and the way in which it developed stamina, as well as the self-defence aspect of it. However, the pairing with the various characters that boxing tended to attract, namely those who considered, at least in their own minds, that they had formerly been one tournament away from turning professional, was by far the hardest and least enjoyable part; and unfortunately, tonight’s bout was no different; as by a process of elimination, she had ended up in the Cassius Clay firing line.
Immediately she felt the brunt of Ali’s frustration. A vexation that she could only imagine was exacerbated by the competitive energy between himself and Eddie. She could tell that Ali wasn’t intending to cause her pain, it was clear by the glazed look in his eye that he was barely aware she was there. All of his focus was directed towards the elevated boxing ring and it’s albinistic occupant.
Every forceful punch imploded into her boxing pads with venom as Ali grunted, growled and manoeuvred his way around his hapless opponent, mauling her as though she were a helpless lamb in the mouth of a hungry carnivore; with such ferocity that at one point, the pad flew out of her hand and landed feet away. As she crouched to retrieve it, she could feel the empathy of the iron-pumping congregation nearby. Part of her wanted to petition them to intervene, but instead, she blinked her glistening eyes and reluctantly made her way back to the hostile arena. Ali, however, displayed no such sensitivity. If anything, she could have sworn that she could detect an air of triumph at this vicious display. She clocked his split-second glance in Eddie’s direction, as though he was secretly hoping that the trainer had witnessed the leather pad soaring through the air as testament to his supernatural strength. Cayenne would have thought this might prompt the instructor to intercede, but to her disappointment, if he had witnessed anything, he was disguising it with aplomb. The rounds continued apace, and Cayenne, who usually considered herself a relatively strong woman and at the very least a competent beginner in class, was inwardly pleading for a viable escape. At every opportunity, she shot a desperate glance at Eddie, fixing her eyes on him directly now, any prior abashment quickly dissipating. She felt sure he would pick up on her non-verbal pleas, having gotten to know her a little over recent weeks, although truth be told; even a patient passing through on a stretcher, barely conscious, would have had little difficulty in reading her distress signal.
She was convinced that Eddie, whilst obviously registering her plight, was in no mood to come to her rescue. It was plainly obvious that she was beginning to drown amidst the torrent of jabs and uppercuts that she was attempting and failing to bob and weave her way around. The barbaric display only served to diminish Eddie’s already fragile ego; and every punch that Ali threw her way seemed to metaphysically affect Eddie, rendering him defenceless against the psychological ropes.
She soon gave up sending him signals, as he was clearly overwhelmed by the situation and determined to further ensconce himself into the devoted mentoring role for the two Japanese girls that were paired up in the ring with him. Even in such difficult circumstances, she could certainly understand why the beginners warranted so much of Eddie’s attention, this being their first boxing lesson. Unfortunately, anyone else who may have required Eddie’s surveillance that day were to be sorely disappointed, as they would have found themselves vastly out of the vicinity of his comfort zone.
Not soon enough, the o
rdeal was over. On autopilot, Cayenne packed her boxing gloves into their case and returned the borrowed pads to the large tarpaulin basin tucked away in the space beneath the stairs. Without a backward glance, let alone a thank-you and goodbye, she walked zombie-like towards the yoga studio at the other end of the basement. She usually liked to get there a little early in order to calm her mind and prepare herself for the zen state that yoga required, following the high intensity of the boxing class. However, on this night, she was late to arrive, and the room was almost already full of attendees resting in Savasana in the semi-darkness. Cayenne carried her wounded soul over to one of the two remaining unoccupied mats after discarding her things against the wall as quietly as she could, as there was nothing worse than trying to relax only to have one’s sense of tranquil and serenity abruptly interrupted. Bringing her mind into submission for what was usually one of her favourite elements of the practice was proving difficult as she tried desperately to ignore that it was clearly still wrestling and in utter turmoil. It was as though she had subconsciously stifled her feelings about the boxing ordeal whilst it was ongoing; and now that she was in the safety of this eastern sanctuary, all of the subdued emotions suddenly rose to the surface.
She made another attempt to bring her consciousness to yield, but to no avail. Before long, she felt the sting of tears prick her eyes and felt the warmth of its trail running down her cheeks—the droplets sinking into her mat. This was not on. There was no way she was about to lie there and dissolve into a dribbling wreck. With her cheeks burning in competition with her eyes, she rose before the practice could get going and raised her hand to excuse herself. Céleste the French instructor, who was poised at the helm casting a critical eye over the resting mass, nodded in acceptance; and she quickly grabbed her items, pushed her feet into her open trainers and without waiting to fasten them, darted out of the darkness, straight into the noisy brightness of the bustling basement. Somehow, she would have to make her way through without anyone detecting her upset. Racing up the metallic stairs of the underground warren up to the ground level reception, she kept her head down and pulled her hood over her face and raced through the main door into the dark, rainy street.
