I didn't recognise the song but I decided to make up my own words to get me through the next three minutes:
Don't pee, don't fall, don't pee, don't fall, up, down, up, down, up, down, don't pee, don't fall. This isn't so bad.
The rhythm was hypnotic, the beat was strong and I was keeping up. I assumed there would be a break in between sets and a wind-down bit so it reassured myself that the whole thing would be over soon.
I am totally kicking ass.
I could feel my shoulders loosen with the build-up of the music and it was fabulous. My ponytail came loose but I didn't care, I shook my hair free and kept up with the rhythm. It's amazing how freeing this all was and I wanted to kiss Elle for giving me this gift.
“Right, bitches, the beat is going to drop and you know what to do!” she shouted.
I found myself screaming with my boogie sisters in agreement and waited for whatever was next.
Then all hell broke loose.
This ‘dropped beat’ we were waiting for turned my oneness with the universe into complete anarchy.
What the hell were these people doing? Why are her arms like that? What is this? Jesus, they're all doing it. Does she seriously expect me to do a turn? Are you serious?
I am in hell.
I did my best to keep up but I was at least three seconds behind everyone else. I could feel judging eyes on me. Their zen was being destroyed by a rhythmically challenged arsehole in their midst.
I wanted to punch Elle for putting me through this.
The next forty five minutes continued along the same lines. I could feel my face burning with shame and general sweatiness. There were no breaks, there was no wind-down, there was just bouncing; so much bouncing.
I swore to do my pelvic floor exercises religiously if I could just make it out of this class without accidentally urinating on myself – that really would have been the crowning achievement of this experience.
“Right, guys, this is the last routine of the morning and I can feel the energy has been slacking in the last few numbers so just get yourselves together and let's smash this!”
Her words were greeted with more cheering.
For goodness sake don't they ever get tired of cheering? What the hell is there to cheer about? I'm dying here.
“I'm looking at you Amy, you're going to give this your all, ok?”
I managed a thumbs up while scowling at her direction. At least I think it was her, there was that much sweat in my eyes I just hoped I was facing the right direction.
All that stood in between me and freedom was this final routine, so I resolved to get through it in one piece.
The thumping of the electronic bass started up again. This time I recognised the melody – or what it used to be before some overzealous DJ tore it apart and stitched it back together in some Frankenstein's monster mash-up of an eighties classic.
My hair was matted with sweat and kept sticking to my shoulders or my face when I tried to copy the turns of the others. The song was marginally slower so I could just about keep up. I couldn't decide if I was starting to enjoy this or if I was starting to hallucinate due to dehydration.
I attempted a type of high kick, bounce combination and felt a sharp sting of pain against my hip.
Great, not only have I endured this, I may also need a hip replacement at the end of it all.
I made my bounces less enthusiastic after that but caught a glare of disapproval from Elle when I wasn't ‘giving it my all'. Out of fear, I upped my game again in the hope she would eventually get bored and look away.
Keep going, you can rest when she turns away.
Her gaze remained firmly on mine and I worried she was taking this drill sergeant routine too seriously.
She kept bouncing and then she added in a few new moves to the mix. Something involving her arms reaching down – the sweat in my eyes was making it ridiculously hard to see. It looked like a move I was never going to be able to do without falling head over heels so I ignored her and kept to the simple, safer, bouncing.
She kept this up for another ten seconds before finally flinging her arms in exasperation and shouted into her headset:
“Amy! Pull up your drawers! This isn't that kind of party.”
It took a few seconds to register that I was actually living a recurring nightmare of being naked in public. In my rush to regain some dignity, I managed to smack my lip off the handrail of the trampoline and fall over onto the woman on my right.
“Amy!” Elle shouted as she bounced elegantly off her trampoline and rushed down the steps of the podium.
“When I said give it your all I didn't quite expect this?”
“Cuth you full uf my trofthers?” I pleaded.
“What?”
“Uf, uf!”
“Do you want me to help you stand up? Hang on, you'd better get your trousers up first. You're a little rebel, Amy, I'm well impressed with this free body vibe you've got going on but maybe ease the rest of us in first, yeah?”
“You're noth finny!”
“Ah, you're all right, Princess. Let's get some ice for that lip.”
I watched as the other ‘sisters’ of mine left the class, trying not to laugh in my direction. I sat on a barstool with a towel full of ice on my lip feeling very sorry for myself and glaring in Elle's general direction. My lip felt puffy but wasn't bleeding and I managed to regain my speech so I didn't feel like a complete idiot by the time she was locking up the door after the last of the boogie bouncers had left.
“Alright, Lady Godiva, how are you recovering over there?”
“Piss off.”
“Ok, I think I deserve that one, but seriously Amy, you did really well for your first class and now you should feel happy you were able to share so much of yourself with others. I mean, maybe a bit too much.”
I groaned and replied: “I want to go home and bury myself under my duvet for the next year.”
“Wise up, I'm kidding. Honestly, no one noticed.”
“No one noticed? You announced it over the sound system!”
“I had to! You were looking right at me when I was trying to get your attention and warn you that your pants were on show, but you just kept bouncing.”
“The elastic went,” I explained, “I'm not a flasher.”
“Well, I figured that, I didn't think you were into public nudity.”
“I thought you were a painter?”
“I am. I do this to keep the old bank account ticking over. It's a fad, but I'll make hay while the sun shines. Now, let's get you something to eat, at Joseph’s, and you can scowl at me from across the table.”
I attempted a smile but my lip felt like it was going to burst.
“I could sue you know.”
“I know, but what would you to do with art supplies and thirty tiny trampolines? I'll give you one of the twins if you like, they're doing my tits in at the minute.”
“No thanks, I don't know what to do with girls. I mean, what do you feed them?”
“Mostly unicorn piss and marshmallows,” she said, nonchalantly.
“Sounds about right.”
We both laughed and suddenly my lip didn't hurt that much anymore.
Over carrot cake and coffee we chatted more about our lives.
Her husband was her first long-term relationship and they fell in love at a music festival in Dublin.
“He was there trying to pretend he wasn't so uptight and I think I was meant to be some festival fling that he forgot about when he got back to civilisation. To make a long story short, we ended up just staying in this crappy tent for like three days, barely coming up for air. It was pretty hot when you look back on it. Now it's all chaos and work and adult rubbish but I still make us go camping on our anniversary. He pretends to hate it but I know it's the only time he lets himself breathe. I love him, but he is wound so tight I think he might keel over and have a heart attack. God knows the life insurance money would be handy. Oh! I could open a studio that has the rig
ht kind of new age vibe that's bordering on pretentious.”
“I think you've gone a little off topic.”
“Have I? That tends to happen when I think about getting rid of my husband. I have the whole funeral planned, even my outfit. Is that a bit mental?”
“No, it's ok. I've written Ben's eulogy a few times.”
“Oh really? What does yours die of?”
“It depends on whether or not he's pissed me off that day. Good days, it's like some lingering disease that just sort of makes him sleepy – no pain. He gives this lovely speech about what a wonderful wife and mother I am before he goes to sleep and doesn't wake up; it's all very moving.”
“That's some romance novel shit right there. What about the bad days?”
“Meh, that changes too. The other week, when we hugged and our bellies touched he said we were starting to look like sumo wrestlers because of all the takeaway food we’d been eating. I think he meant in a cute, cuddly kinda way, but it didn't come across like that. I wouldn't speak to him for the rest of the night and just imagined tiny fish – the ones people use to eat the dead skin off their feet – just going to town on his junk.”
“Well… that's dark.”
“Yeah. Just all up in his penis.”
“I like you, Amy. You're weird.”
“I like you too, Elle.”
Chapter 10
I got back to pick up my youngest cretin later than agreed but Arthur was busy helping my father in the garage. I came in to see him hand tools over that Dad never asked for and generally messing up any system of organisation that was previously in place.
James Galbraith did not like a mess, especially around his car. While other families went to the seafront in the summertime to enjoy ice cream and a view of the water, Mum and I had to stand outside the car on a windswept beach until all remnants of ice cream were gone. To this day I don’t let ice cream in the house because it brings back memories of hypothermia and tension.
“How are the men?” I asked.
“We are grand, love. Oh. That’s a nice outfit.” he said, blinking.
I’d gone a whole half hour without hearing about how hideous my outfit choice was.
“Eh yeah, it's just activewear; all the young ones are wearing it.”
“Hmmm, that’s nice, love.”
He wasn’t convinced but turned his attention back to Arthur who was getting suspiciously close to an electric saw.
“I’ll just go in and ask Mum to put on the kettle, are you coming Arthur?”
“No,” he replied with utter conviction.
“There might be biscuits…”
“Bye, Granda.”
I smiled at my fickle child but realised I would probably follow anyone who offered me biscuits too. It wasn’t a habit I grew out of after childhood.
I once dated an awful boy for six months longer than I should have because he worked in a corner shop and would bring leftover buns to my house after work. He dumped me when he noticed I was getting ‘heavier’ and accused me of eating my feelings.
I think he was just pissed off that I was more interested in eating his baked goods than eating him. I don’t even remember his name.
“Mum?” I said.
“Yes?” She barely took her eyes up from her computer as I came into the room.
“Can you remember the name of the boy I used to date? The one who worked in the shop, up the road.”
She peered up from behind the computer, suspiciously.
“Why?”
“He popped into my head, that’s all. Couldn’t remember his name, I thought you might.”
“Why would I? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than be interested in your dating life?”
“It was just a question.”
“Well, I don’t know. Ben perhaps?”
“No Mum, that’s my husband.”
“Oh. Thought I had it there. Anyway, how was your time off from your motherly responsibility?”
“It was great, I busted my lip and flashed a room full of strangers.”
“I thought your mouth looked a bit puffy but you know me, I’m not one to pass remarks on others.”
The incredulous silence was lost on my mother and I decided to let it slide while I hunted for biscuits for Arthur.
“So?” she asked.
“So, what?”
“How was it? What are you wearing?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“Language, Amy!”
“Sorry, I’m just going to burn this bloody outfit when I get home.”
“Yes, that’s probably best. I don’t even think the homeless would want that. Where were you?”
“I was at an exercise class with a mum I know, then we went for a coffee after.”
“That sounds pleasant.”
Apparently, that was all the conversation she fancied so she got back to her computer screen and returned to ignoring Arthur and me.
“I think we’ll just head on home, Mum. Thanks for having Arthur.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. He’s a darling. Out helping Granda and making sure he wasn’t smoking, weren’t you poppet?”
He didn’t answer, he was too busy shoving the third biscuit in his mouth before I could wrestle it out of his hands.
I popped my head into the garage to say ‘bye’ but Dad was busy trying to reorganise the tools that Arthur had ‘helpfully’ mixed up, I decided to leave him to it before he realised there were more tools on the ground beside the door
By the time we made it home, Arthur had fallen asleep in the backseat of the car and I managed, to successfully get him onto the sofa so I could enjoy the silence for a few minutes. Silence, in this case, meant scrolling mindlessly through my phone. By the time I rummaged through my bag to find it, there was already a missed call from Ben and two messages from Elle.
Elle: What are you doing tomorrow night, bitchface?
I assumed that was a friendly term on this occasion. I clicked on the second one.
Elle: I have a great idea for us to do and it’s totally going to help you be your old badass self.
I didn’t like the sound of this already so I decided to ignore it for a while and hoped there wasn’t some read notification attached that she could see. I phoned Ben instead, I was certain he would be on edge waiting to hear about my ‘date’ with another actual adult.
He picked up within two rings.
“Well? How did it go?” he asked, eagerly.
“It was fine.”
“Fine? Oh, that doesn’t sound too good. I’m sorry, sweety. There’s always plenty of other mummy fish in the sea for you to hang out with.”
The sympathy in his voice was enough to help me make my decision a lot quicker. I would not be pitied by my husband. Yes, I had been injured and lost some dignity, but that’s what ‘getting out there’ was all about – or that’s what I told myself.
“No, I liked her fine. We’re going out on a girls’ night tomorrow in fact.”
“Really?” he asked, sounding surprised. “That’s great news. You know tomorrow is my gym night don’t you?”
“I forgot, I’ll reschedule.”
“No, sweety, it’s fine. You never go out and do things for yourself. One week off the gym won’t kill me. Just don’t make a habit of it, little lady.”
“Please, don’t ever call me that again.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Don’t tell the kids of the shame I’ve brought on the family,” he replied.
“Go away and earn money. I want to eat chocolate without sharing before Arthur wakes up.”
I spent the next while trying to word a breezy-sounding friendly message. It was harder than I thought. I’ve never been a very ‘breezy’ person. I’m more bare-minimum-to-get-through-the-conversation or I give far too much information within the first sixty seconds of meeting someone, there is no in between.
Amy: Hiya babe
Babe? Who the hell am I? delete. Keep up the banter, Amy. She called you ‘bitch
face’.
Amy: Hiya dickhead
Seems unnecessarily harsh. Delete.
Amy: Hi Elle-belle
No, we’re not at the nickname stage of our relationship yet.
Just as I was deleting my fourth attempt at an opening line, the phoned buzzed.
Elle: What the hell are you doing over there, writing the Magna Carta?
How did she know? I didn't have to wait long for an answer to my question.
Elle: Those three bloody dots keep popping up like you’re writing something and then disappearing. It’s doing my head in. Are you in or out for tomorrow? Just say ‘yes’. It’s easier that way.
Even in text form she was bossy.
I weighed up the pros and cons of the situation. Did I really want to go with the pushy stranger to something I know I’m probably going to hate, or should I just sit with my husband and endure an evening of sympathetic looks?
Amy: I’m in.
Elle: Good on ya. I'll pick you up at your place at 8 p.m. Wear something nice and not something that's visible to the naked eye from space, you twat.
I replied with my address and decided to forgo any type of emoji or well-meaning profanity. It was better for everyone if I kept it short and sweet. The next obstacle was trying to figure out what to wear on my next outing with this formidable force of nature.
Dinner was the usual affair of forkful negotiations with the boys. I don’t know when I became a hostage negotiator but dinner was always stressful.
“Just four more Arthur,” I pleaded.
“No. It’s yucky.”
“You liked it last week?”
“No. It tastes like poo.”
Laughter erupted around the kitchen table, including from Ben. He received a swift kick to the shin under the table.
“What?” he asked, shocked at the unexpected violence. “You live in a house of boys, and to boys the word ‘poo’ is always going to be funny. Poo, poop, poopy pants, poo head…”
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 9
