by Laura Carter
Her eyes flicker toward Steve Sitwell and I know she’ll agree. “Fine. They look delicious.”
I follow Izzy, Steve, and my breakfast back to their table. I’m forced to swallow my drool as I watch Izzy eat my perfectly poached eggs, while Steve interviews us about our plans for each other.
* * * *
After lunch—if you can call a plate of cucumber and arugula lunch—my grizzly has been sufficiently tamed for me to tackle my first workout session with Izzy.
We’re in Studio A, the dance studio where Izzy filmed her Salsa Yourself Slim DVD. It’s a decent-size space, with a wall of windows and three walls of mirrors, meaning it’s bright and uplifting. In part due to the light, in part because there are so many Brookses reflected in this room. Izzy doesn’t seem to find that entertaining when I say it aloud.
Izzy is standing at the head of the room, flicking through tracks on her iPhone. Satisfied, she sets it in the dock and Latin music fills the room.
I stand in the middle of the space in my shorts and T-shirt, wondering what on earth I am going to be doing. “My plan is to show you some basic moves today; then, because I’m only allowed to follow your workout plan, you’ll have to use my YouTube videos. I spoke to Charlie and she’s getting a projector in here for you.”
You spoke to my staff? I bite my tongue, literally.
“Great. Let’s get going, then.”
“Not so fast, bulldog. You need to stretch. Arms up.”
Following her lead, I stretch out my core, my arms raised above my head. But when she folds from her waist to touch her toes, my testosterone gets the better of me. I stare unashamedly at her Lycra-clad ass, thinking how much I would like to get my hands on those cheeks.
“Brooks, seriously, focus!”
Oh, she’s hot and she knows it.
I bend to touch my toes. Once the stretching is done, Izzy comes to my side and shows me some basic salsa steps. I watch her first as she steps forward and back, her hips rolling with each move. I don’t have to imagine how good she’d be at grinding down on me because she’s showing me all her moves. My hands ache to take hold of her waist and pull her to me.
A cough at the doorway steals my attention and forces my lascivious thoughts back into their cage. Steve Sitwell is standing on the threshold with a lady I don’t recognize. “You don’t mind if we sit in, do you? This is Elaine. She’s from Diet and Fitness Magazine.”
Elaine looks short next to Steve, perhaps because he’s so tall. She holds up a hand in a short wave. “I’d like to get some shots of you training, make a few notes. Kerry sent me along. We would like to run an article in the magazine about your competition.”
It seems bizarre that there is interest in this. Perhaps they can already see that these fourteen days in Izzy’s company are likely to end in murder, and definitely blue balls, but I’m hoping that’s not so obvious.
The music gets going and Izzy tries to incorporate the few steps she has shown me into a routine. I feel like the biggest dick in the world—in a bad way. Seemingly, if it isn’t running or team sports, I have two left feet. Try putting two left feet, rigid hips, and no fucking clue what I’m supposed to be doing to a Latin beat. You’ve got the image. It’s like King fucking Kong stopping in the middle of city destruction to do a badly coordinated Riverdance. At one point, I’m fairly certain Elaine snickers.
“This is ridiculous. How much longer do I have to do it? I haven’t even worked up a sweat.”
Izzy clicks off the music. “We’ll go through it one more time. The reason you’re not sweating is because you’re overthinking. If you forget the steps, just keep moving. It’s a great workout for your core and legs, as well as cardio. You just need to stop hating for long enough to actually work out.”
She misses the roll of my eyes as she turns back to the music dock. “From the top.”
Grrrr!
* * * *
Standing in front of the mirrors in the weights section of the gym, I don’t have enough fingers to count the pairs of male eyes watching Izzy.
“Brooks, these are four-kilogram dumbbells. I can lift more than this. I’m not a five-year-old.”
“Could have fooled me,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’m starting you off light. I don’t know how strong you are yet. But we aren’t going to lift heavy weight. You don’t want to bulk up; you want to be strong and toned but still feminine. To do that, you need to do more reps of lighter weight. So, quit moaning and get to it. You had me dancing around like a fool for an hour; you can listen to me now.”
“It’s not dancing like a fool, it’s—”
“Goddamn it, Izzy, just give me a break. You’re exhausting.”
She scowls but starts her first set of bicep curls.
“Roll your shoulders down and back. That’s it. Can you feel the difference?”
As well as rolling her shoulders she rolls her eyes. “I know how to do bicep curls.”
“If you knew how, you could have started correctly in the first place and saved me having to tell you.”
Something that sounds very much like bugger off leaves her mouth. I’m beginning to think of it as a term of endearment.
Once we’re done with weights, I set her off running sprint intervals on the treadmill. By the time I’m done, she’s slumped on the end of the tread belt, her head between her legs.
“Are you all right? Izzy?”
“Yes. I’m good.”
“If I push you too hard, you have to tell me.”
“I said I’m fine, Brooks,” she snaps.
I hold up my hands. “Let’s stretch, then. Do you need my help?”
She shakes her head and rises to her feet. I leave her to stretch but keep an eye on her. I know I pushed her hard but right until the last, she seemed to be able to take it.
When she’s done, I leave her wiping down her face and topping off her water bottle, and I make my way up to my office. I’m starving and the worst part is that I have vegetables and more vegetables to look forward to for dinner.
I flick on the light as I step into my office and do a double take. My desk has been moved to one side of the room, flush up against the wall. A new, second desk, with that goddamn pink laptop and a new box of pink tissues, takes up the other half of the office space.
“Izzy!” I shout, moving out to the balcony. She’s not tired anymore; she’s laughing hysterically, bent over her knees. “You think this is funny?”
She holds up a hand as she tries to speak. “I ca…I can’t…I can’t even…”
“It’s not staying.”
Everyone in the gym has turned to look from me to Izzy; even those wearing headphones are taking them out. “I need somewhere to work, Brooks.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I bought it online and had it delivered.”
“Well, have them collect it again because it is not staying.”
I storm into my office and pace the floor until she comes upstairs. “What a stupid waste of money,” I snap.
She’s not laughing anymore. “It’s not a waste. I’ll use it while I’m here. Plus, it’s my money to do what I like with.”
“You know, I had you pegged from the moment I saw you. You think the world owes you some kind of favor because you have money.”
“Excuse me. You know nothing about me. Don’t lay into me over a bloody desk. What about you? Mr. Fucking Miserable Obnoxious Twat. Who made you hate the world, huh?”
“You need to get out. I’m hungry. I have a raging headache. And you…you are just not my kind of person.”
“Bloody ditto, Brooks. But we’re in this thing together so you need to just suck it up.” She opens the drawer of her new desk and pulls out a hardback book. “Here. If you’re hungry you can pick one of the main courses from
my book. Those are your options for tonight. And I will know if you cheat.”
I snatch the book from her hand. “More rabbit food. Fantastic.”
She turns on her heel to leave. “Grow up, Brooks.”
“Me grow up? Me? Enjoy your steak tonight, princess.”
“Oh, I will. Enjoy your tofu.”
“I definitely will!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
* * * *
Just when I think my day can’t get worse, I’m filling a basket with tofu and bok choy in my local store, and then my cell phone beeps.
OMG DAD. SAW THE PICS OF YOU DOING SALSA. WTF?
I put bean sprouts into my basket and reply as I head to the cashier.
DO NOT USE WTF IN MESSAGES TO ME. I MAY BE OLD TO YOU BUT I KNOW WHAT IT STANDS FOR.
Another beep.
BUT SERIOUSLY. YOU’RE A DANCER NOW, TWINKLE ADAMS?
She’s just about the only person who could make me smile right now.
ENOUGH OF THAT. IT’S A PR THING FOR 2 WEEKS.
Beep.
I READ ABOUT IT. NOT LIKE YOU AT ALL. ANYWAY, CHECK THIS OUT…
Typing…
And my day can get worse. Infinitely so. The twelve-week scan of Alice’s new baby stares up at me from the screen. FML.
I’ve been so concerned with Izzy and work that my mind hasn’t been on Alice and the baby. Cady’s text plunges me right back there.
I manage to reply to Cady that I’m happy for them all. I guess on some level, I am. As I walk home, I try to imagine how life would have been. Alice, Cady, maybe another kid or two. We could have been happy. But her parents, their background, and their need to marry their daughter off to some rich kid ruined us.
Instead of cooking food I don’t want, I pick up my guitar and slump on the sofa. When my cell phone tells me I have another message, I contemplate ignoring it, but I could never ignore Cady.
HOW’S THE TOFU?
Izzy.
STILL SITTING IN A PLASTIC BAG. I SEEM TO HAVE LOST MY APPETITE. HOW’S THE STEAK?
Beep.
ABOUT TO GO IN THE PAN. IT’S FILET. HOW LONG SHOULD I COOK IT FOR?
Ah, that’s the last thing I want to hear.
DON’T TORTURE ME. YOU GET TO EAT STEAK AND YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN IT.
Typing…
HOW ABOUT WE CALL A TRUCE LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO MAKE YOUR TOFU EDIBLE AND FOR YOU TO COOK ME A STEAK?
As I ponder the options, my cell announces another text.
I HAVE HOT OIL IN THE PAN…
Fuck it. Even Izzy’s company beats the hell out of dwelling on what could have been.
ON MY WAY.
Chapter 14
brooks
Day 2.
I admit, the tofu wasn’t so bad when Izzy cooked it with Thai spices. She’s a good cook. I say that with surprise because I got the impression she has had a butler to do her cooking all her life. I’ll also confess, it was nice having company. That’s maybe the truth behind why I’m knocking on her apartment door right now, under the guise of making her eggs for breakfast.
“Hey, come in. Sorry I’m not dressed; you’ve got me up a hell of a lot earlier than I’m used to.”
I follow her tiny bed shorts and white T-shirt to the kitchen, not sorry at all. “What culinary delight do I get today?” I ask.
“You get a blueberry smoothie. Don’t look like that. It has banana in there; it will fill you up.”
“If only that were true.”
Sticking her tongue out, she puts the lid on the blender she has already filled and sets it whirring.
“You’re going to wake the whole damn building up with that thing.”
“What?”
“You’re waking my cock up wearing those tiny things.”
“I can’t hear you!”
Chuckling to myself, I move around her and take eggs from her fridge. We shuffle past each other, finding glasses, pans, and cutlery as we each make the other breakfast. When she doesn’t have an audience, she isn’t so bad, I suppose.
“You’re very messy in the kitchen, mister. Haven’t the women in your life ever taught you how to clean as you go?”
“Careful, Coulthard, I could still spit in your eggs at this stage.” She nudges my shoulder. “No, to answer your question. The only woman I’ve ever lived with is my mother, and she was really more of the take-out type.”
Izzy stops clearing the counters and turns to me. “You haven’t lived with anyone? I assumed maybe… Never mind.”
“Go on.”
She shrugs. “I just thought…I mean, you’re thirty-five and, you know…” She gestures from my toes to my head.
I fight back a smirk. “I don’t know. Go ahead.”
“Shut up. You know you’re not exactly unattractive.”
Now I have to laugh. “High praise from Her Royal Highness, Izzy Coulthard.”
“If you’re going to keep saying things like that, it would be much more entertaining if you used my Sunday name, Isabella.”
“No way.”
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“The shoe, or should I say the crown, fits, that’s all. Isabella, Claribella, Crystabella, Arabella, Marybella. The bellas are a posh group of names.”
She only half smiles. “Yes, well, it’s part of Mummy’s show for the outside world. My sister is Annabella. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You sound like someone I used to know very well.” Someone I loved. The mother of my child.
Her eyes narrow, as if she’s waiting for more. Getting into deep and meaningful is not my thing. It is definitely not my thing with a woman whose goal in life seems to be driving me nuts publicly.
She nods, as if she’s accepting my unwillingness to go on.
“So, let’s get back to your saying I’m good looking.”
She shoves me in the shoulder and sets about pouring us each a glass of water. “I said you’re not unattractive. There’s a difference. And I just figured you were maybe divorced or something.”
“No. No divorces. No relationships long enough to move a woman into my place. How about you?”
She takes a seat on a stool while I finish making her breakfast. “Ha, no. Two longish, or medium-term, relationships. One with a pretentious wanker my parents wanted me to marry. One with a guy I dated to piss my parents off…shaved head, tattoos, working class.”
I keep my eyes on the pan in front of me but clench my hand around the wooden spoon. She really is just another Alice.
“Brooks, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense.”
“No, hey, none taken. You obviously didn’t mean me because I don’t have a shaved head.”
I force myself to smile. She offers a meek curl of her lips in return.
* * * *
Studio A is becoming the bane of my existence. Today, our audience has grown to four reporters. The two new additions are “important bloggers in the fitness circle,” to quote Madge.
Izzy has put one of her YouTube classes on the big screen in the room and she’s standing to one side, her arms folded across her chest, her back pressed to the mirrored wall, one foot casually resting against glass, distracting me because the glass was just cleaned this morning. I decide to choose my battles and this is a small one that wouldn’t give satisfaction worth the effort.
Instead, I focus on Izzy on the big screen; there’s a smile on her face as she dances. She looks happy, an infectious kind of happy that makes me want to smile. Thing is, I can’t because I’m too damn frustrated trying to get my feet to do what I know in my head they should be doing.
“Just keep moving,” Izzy tells me. So, yeah, I end up doing some kind of Chandler Bing dance that isn’t even in time to the music, all in a bid to work up
a sweat.
Laughter bursts from Izzy first, followed by the reporters.
“That’s it. I’m done. This is ridiculous!”
Izzy comes to me in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I think it’s your stiff hips.” She drops her hands to my waist and turns me to face her. “You need to get more rotation here when you’re doing Latin dances. It will help you keep your rhythm and it will stop you from looking like such a tit.”
I scowl down at her and see her amusement in her shining irises. “Put your hands on my hips.” I do and she starts to salsa, her hip bones rotating under my palm. “Can you feel that movement?”
Yeah, in my groin.
She shifts position so she’s in front of me, her back pressed to my chest, her head against my shoulder. She takes my hands again and places them on her hips. I feel every movement through her yoga pants as if she’s wearing nothing.
“Let’s do it together. Ready? Forward on the right. One, two, three, pause. One, two, three, pause.”
I move with her, my hips pressed to her ass, her shoulders moving over my chest, her scent filling my nose, her hair tickling my neck.
“That’s it. You’ve got it.”
Her hands come up to meet mine on her hips and she interlaces her fingers through mine as we dance.
“Let’s take it to the side on the next count. One, two… That’s it.”
I’m lost in her. The roll of her hips. The feel of her soft skin; a contrast to my harsh, weight-lifting hands. We move easier, more freely. When she turns to face me, I keep my feet moving as she taught me and drown in her gaze, as if plunged into serene, warm waters, floating weightlessly through a new world.
When the track ends, we’re brought back abruptly to reality. A camera flash makes her squint and I remember the reporters in the room. Clearing my throat, I tell her, “I think I’ve got it.”
She wipes imaginary dust from her leggings. “Right. Yep. I’ll just be…you know…over there.…” She waves a hand through the air in no particular direction, then sets off for the right side of the room and turns, switching to the left side with a nervous giggle.
Well, fuck me. Dancing can be hotter than screwing. I really am feeling hot and sweaty now.
