by Laura Carter
“Have a great time in NYC. I know you’ll be fabulous.” She finishes with her trademark killer smile.
“I wish I had a dose of that confidence.”
“Nonsense.” She checks her Rolex. “Right, must dash. I will see you in a couple of weeks. Text me when you land in the Big Apple. And don’t be afraid to bring me back something divine. For the record, I adore this season’s Mulberry frame bag.” Before my door closes behind her, she calls, “Powder blue.”
I lean over to my music dock and press Play. Cher’s version of “The Shoop Shoop Song” comes through the speakers and I sing along as I finish packing for all eventualities. There’s no way this bloody case is going to be under twenty-three kilos. I’m used to wearing yoga pants and sports bras every day but my book tour is going to mean promotional interviews and reader signings. I’m going to need dresses and smart clothes. Things I don’t wear often these days at all. I’ll have to wear makeup.
Since I got my book deal twelve months ago, and for the two years before that when I was desperately trying to build a brand of fitness training and nutritional advice, I’ve concentrated on my career and not much else. My boyfriend dumped me—brutally and by phone—although, he was a pretentious arsehole, so I should probably count my lucky stars. Friends stopped inviting me places because I (apparently) made them feel fat by ordering the egg white omelet, butterless vegetables, and fruit instead of chocolate pudding. It’s not often I allow myself to drink alcohol, and I hold evening fitness classes six days a week in any event, so my previous existence as one of London’s notorious Chelsea socialites, well, it died a slow but very definite death.
Sighing, I sit back on my haunches and assess the mountain of clothes, shoes, and accessories that made the first cut. Time to get tough. I tie my mass of blond locks into a ponytail and start taking anything that is not an absolute must from the piles, throwing the discarded items across my king bed to the other side of the room.
I give up two belts, one pair of ankle boots and a jacket by the time the landline phone rings. Damn it.
My sister and I live in a two-floor apartment in the Chelsea and Kensington Borough of London. It is two floors of a large white terrace house. You know the type, quite typical of London seen in movies. Old house, high ceilings, inordinately expensive rent that Mum and Dad still currently supplement for Anna and me. I’m hoping I’ll be able to change that soon.
I hop over my case, leap the clothes strewn around the cream-colored carpet, and bound downstairs for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Isabella, darling, it’s Mummy.” She says it in a way that’s almost comical. As if she’s been asked to perform her best impression of the Queen, but for a theatre audience, so she has to shout it in a sing-song kind of way. I swear, when I was a child she was well spoken, but she was Mum, not Mummy; grass was pronounced grass, not graaas. As my father’s cracker business—as in cream crackers and cheese, not Christmas crackers—skyrocketed, Mum became “Mummy” and Dad became “Daddy.” We had always mixed with the middle classes but my parents started to mingle in higher society. Anna and I were moved to a “posher” posh school. Mum slowly began to exaggerate her spoken vowels and always used our full names, Annabella and Isabella.
“Hi, Mum, what’s up?”
“Oh, darling, I do wish you would speak properly.”
Rolling my eyes for no one’s benefit except my own, I tell her, as politely as possible, “I’m packing, Mum. I have to leave for New York in a few hours.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about your little trip.” I grip the phone so tightly I feel like my knuckles might pierce my skin. “I wanted to invite you to the Savoy for tea next week for Granny’s birthday.”
“I won’t be back from the book tour then. I’ll take her somewhere when I’m in London again.”
“Well, how long is this book tour?”
“I’ve told you all about it. Two weeks. I have some signings lined up and a couple of interviews.”
“Hmm. Right. Well, at least then it will be over and you can start concentrating on more important things. Like—”
“How many times do I have to tell you before you’ll accept it? This is what I do, Mum. I’m a fitness instructor. I teach nutrition.”
“That’s wonderful, darling, until the latest exercise fad has been and gone. There is no ladder to be climbed in the profession of fitness. You have the highest class of degrees from a highly respectable university. You could be anything you want to be, Isabella. The world is your—”
“Oyster. Right. Except, this is what I want to do, Mum. I have to go. Enjoy tea with Granny. Tell her I said happy birthday.”
Hanging up the phone, I feel like pulling my hair out. Actually. But I really don’t have time for that. I must pack for New York.
* * * *
“Izzy! Over here!”
I see a paper sign marked in…is that lipstick?…with my name. Then I see Kerry’s head popping around the side, where her perfectly painted pink nails are gripping the paper.
That’s my publicist. Flawless and fabulous Kerry. I have no doubt her leather pencil skirt and pink blouse—which matches her nails exactly—and those excruciatingly high black heels, are all designer. But the fact is, with her figure and looks, it wouldn’t matter if the clothes had been dredged from a gutter. She would still look 100 percent a-mazing. Of course, the look is all part of her job. “You have to know how to promote yourself if you want to be able to promote others,” she always tells me. I’m pretty sure that’s a play on the saying about loving oneself before you can love another—you know the one. Anyway, she’s a fearless beast when it comes to flaunting her clients and that’s what matters to me.
“Kerry, hi!” I let her fold me a little too zealously into her arms and we perform the perfunctory air-kiss routine.
She sets off walking and talking, so that I am left trudging after her with my suitcases, dragging one in each hand. I managed to sleep for a few hours on my night flight but I’m still yawning as I walk.
“You have a magazine interview tomorrow,” she announces. “Your book signing on Thursday has been shuffled to five thirty at Barnes & Noble. We’ll get you there at five. It will be set up ready for you, of course. Oh, I’ve booked you a radio interview for next week. We have various things lined up next Tuesday for publication day, although most of the promo is online.” She stops and turns quickly, making me crash into her swinging shoulder. As if the bump didn’t take place, she continues. “What are your thoughts on holding one of your Salsa Yourself Slim classes in the city?”
“Ah, yeah, that sounds great.”
“Good. Because I’ve started to put some feelers out with production companies. I was thinking we could film the session.”
“Well, I already have classes on YouTube.”
She laughs at me in a way that makes me feel like a small child. “No, not just YouTube videos, Izzy. I’m talking real production, for a DVD or an online course. Interactive exercise.” She takes a high-gloss brochure from her bag and hands it to me. “Here, take a look at this. I’d love to get you into this gym. A guy called Brooks Adams owns it. You might guess that from the name, ha. Who names a gym after himself? Anyway, he’s the man everyone in New York wants to be trained by right now. Let me know what you think.”
She spins on her devil shoes and heads out of the “Arrivals” exit. I follow her to a parked black Cadillac and finally turn over my suitcases to a suited driver.
Kerry continues to talk but when she tells me she will handle everything and that she’ll ping me a full schedule by e-mail, I allow myself to zone out.
I have been to New York a number of times, with my parents, with my girlfriends, once with a boyfriend. Regardless, the view of the city never gets old. I smile at the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, set against the morning’s sky. When we get closer to the city, the high-rises force
me to take a breath so deep my chest rises. The Chrysler Building. The Empire State Building. The general buzz and hum of the busy streets. Even the endless streams of yellow cabs.
It’s all busier, brighter, bigger than London. I love it. I love it so much I think maybe I was a New Yorker in a past life. Then again, maybe I was a squirrel or a hippopotamus or some such and now I just happen to love this city.
Chapter 4
brooks
I’m sitting in my office sampling new products—currently eating a gluten-free, high-protein bar, and reading the related marketing paperwork from the supplier—when there’s a tap on the door.
“It’s open,” I call.
The door opens onto the mezzanine balcony of the gym and my friend Sarah, in her sweaty gym wear, is leaning on the door frame. Even with a red face and her dark hair tied into a knot on the top of her head, she looks good. Don’t read into that. I am 100 percent friends with Sarah and no more. That’s why I can tell her, “You look in good shape,” even when she’s wearing tight-fitting Lycra.
“I ought to. I spend ten hours of my life in this place each week. I avoid carbs like they’ll give me the plague, and I can’t remember the last time I gorged on a tub of my favorite thing…BJs.” That’s her code name for her best guys, Ben and Jerry. She plants a hand on her hip in an oh-so-Sarah way. “I’ve actually just been to the Zumba class. I’ve gotten into the idea of dancing to stay slim since that new fitness girl came on the scene. You know, the British one. She does some dance-yourself-skinny kind of thing. Anyway, I’ve seen one or two of her YouTube videos and thought I’d give Zumba a try.”
I lean back in my desk chair and swivel. “Did you rate it?”
“It was cool. A nice change from being in the gym. That woman you have instructing is kind of crazy, though. Said she’s been divorced something like ten thousand times and, hell, for a middle-aged woman, she rocks the twerk.”
“Nice critique. I’ll be sure to rate her high in the box that says ‘twerking’ in her performance review.”
She laughs, something I love to hear from her. Despite her tough bravado, behind closed doors, Sarah can be really down. I mean, who can blame her when she was widowed in her thirties, but I get a kick out of seeing her happy.
When I realize I’ve paused to reflect on her smile, I break our silence. “Hey, I’m almost done here for the night. Don’t suppose you’d indulge in some Monday night wings?” I would usually use the guise of Monday night football to cover my obsession with wings but it’s out of season.
“Wings?” She gestures to herself, pointing from her head to her toes. “And ruin this? Actually, I might have to go back to the office. Drew is pulling an all-nighter. Another time.”
She drops a kiss to my cheek, comments on how bad she must smell, and leaves. It’s funny to remember that Sarah and I actually met because Sarah is Drew’s legal secretary. Drew introduced us more years ago than I care to remember. Now, Sarah’s a pretty close second to Drew in my best friend rankings. Although she did just lose points for refusing wings.
With Drew at work, I call a few of my other friends. Kit refuses on grounds that his wife, Madge, won’t let him out. Madge is pretty awesome, for the record, but Kit is like a big kid and since they have two young children now—the real kind, not the thirty-odd-year-old, hairy kind—sometimes she has to enforce a few rules with him.
I call Edmond. Also known as Super-chef and the owner of the swanky restaurant Becky works in. You might remember him from that reality TV show Sweet Tooth, where he was a judge. It’s a long shot because I know, if he is free, he’s probably spending his rare night off with his wife and kids. Sure enough, he answers the call and tells me that because the restaurant is closed on Mondays, he’s having a quiet one with his family.
I try Marty, the other half of Statham Harrington law firm, alongside Drew. He’s taking some clients to a boozy dinner—code for schmoozing.
On the “good friends” front, I’m all out. I can’t really be assed to make small talk with the guys from the gym. Even when we’re out for drinks, I always get the sense they see me as their boss and don’t fully relax.
The proverbial lightbulb suddenly shines bright in my mind. Jake.
I mentioned I went to school with Drew. Grew up with him, really. Our families both lived on Staten Island when we were kids. His mom all but adopted me when my folks decided to get a divorce and were gunning for each other’s blood every night. Well, Jake is Drew’s kid brother. He’s a twenty-five-year-old man now, but to me he’ll always be Drew’s kid brother—who we tortured for fun but always loved. He’s doing well for himself these days, working for a hedge fund in London. He flew over here so we could all celebrate Drew making named partner at Statham Harrington. As far as I know, he’s still in the city. I hit his number in my phone.
“Brooks, my man. How you doing?”
“Jakey. You still in New York, buddy?”
“Not for long but I am right now. I’m currently watching some bullshit game show with my folks, going out of my mind.”
“Is your mom in earshot?”
“She sure is. That’s why she just tossed a sofa cushion off my head. Hang on.” I hear him in the background: “I’m going into the other room, relax. You wouldn’t have answered that question right anyway. Ouch! Stop throwing cushions!”
I’m shaking my head but can’t help smirking when I hear a door close and he comes back on the line. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“No worries, man. You want to escape for beer and wings? We can’t do Monday Night Live but we can catch some football reruns. I doubt you’ve seen them in London. You can stay at my place.”
“I’m on the next fucking ferry to the city.”
* * * *
“All right, guys, I got one Texas smoked burger with sweet potato fries, and one extra-large stack of firecracker wings.”
Jake has his head tipped back to drain the dregs from his bottle of Samuel Adams, so I tell the waitress, “The burger is his. Wings for me. Thanks.”
She puts the plates on top of the sticky bar we’re perched at. There’s something about a sticky wood bar in a sports joint that just works. And Mitch’s Sports Bar happens to have the best wings in the city.
“You want another two beers, Brooks?” That’s Mitch. Second-generation Mitch, who now runs the bar since his old man died a few years back.
I’ve wasted no time in getting my first wing to my mouth, so I nod with a mouthful of hot sauce.
Jake is already chomping through his first bite of burger like he hasn’t been fed for a decade. “Fuck me, they don’t make burgers like this in England. In London it’s all about presentation and good British beef. Screw that! I want good, hearty, mess-on-a-plate pulled pork. I don’t give a crap where the meat came from, I just want the thing to be smoked properly with a solid barbecue sauce. This is a burger. I ought to take a picture of this and tweet it to the Queen.”
I wash down my first wing with a swig of beer and subtly swallow the belch that threatens to pop up. “I don’t think the Queen is on Twitter, man.”
He takes another bite that has me in awe of the man. Showing me the half-chewed contents of his mouth, he says, “Yeah, maybe I should just eat it. Should you really be eating this stuff, Mr. My Body Is a Temple?”
“Are you kidding? I work out so that I can eat this stuff. You can’t starve yourself and build muscle. Wings are good protein.”
Jake gives me a disbelieving look from behind his beer bottle. “I’m sure that’s not what goes in those nutrition plans you’ve got every New Yorker raving about.”
I ignore his comment and work through another wing. I know my fitness brand has taken off. Damn, I have a wait list of hundreds for PT sessions and nutrition advice, but I feel weird when the guys blow smoke up my ass. They just know me as Brooks. Not Brooks “Trainer to the Stars,” as one magazin
e put it recently. I like being just Brooks.
I drop my bare chicken bone on my plate and jump from my stool when the Jets score a touchdown. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! Pay up, Jakey-boy! I told you there was a touchdown left in this quarter.”
“It’s a fucking rerun. You’ve already seen it.”
“I told you when we made the bet I hadn’t seen it. Pay up.”
“Ah, fuck. Here, have your five bucks. I can’t spend it in London anyway.”
I tuck his money into my back pocket and sit. “Ahh, are you sore, Jakey? Good luck to your hedge fund clients. With the bets you place…”
He thumps me in the arm but does it with a smile on his face. When the quarter ends, the television switches to commercials and I take a chance to really focus on working down my mammoth plate of meat.
“See, Brooks, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” I follow the direction of Jake’s pointed beer bottle to the large screen behind the bar. “This woman is selling fitness and not eating barbecue wings.”
I watch as a skinny blonde on the TV dances in front of a class. The words “Salsa Yourself Slim” flash up on the screen. The shot moves to an image of the same woman wearing purple yoga pants and a neon sports bra on the cover of a book. The voice-over says, “Look and feel great with Izzy Coulthard’s new book, Be Green. Be Clean. Learn her top tips to salsa yourself slim, and try delicious, detoxifying recipes.”
I suck the firecracker sauce from my fingers. “No way. Clean eating, all that raw carrot shit, will get you skinny. No doubt about it. But if you want to really be healthy from exercise and a good diet, you’ve got to eat. You can’t eat like a rabbit and put in a good workout. You need protein to repair your muscles and give you the strength to put in a solid session for your heart and lungs. I concede, maybe I don’t encourage sugar- and salt-laced barbecue sauce in my nutrition plans, but I do push eating meat.”
