Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  ‘You should give that thing a go. The girls love it. The tummy tamer, they call it.’

  ‘Really?’ I studied the evil enemy. It wasn’t going anywhere near my tummy, which was quite big enough already, thank you, without a bouncy rubber ball adding to its circumference.

  ‘You ever had an assessment?’

  ‘Assessment? For playing with a ball?’

  ‘No,’ he grinned. ‘A fitness assessment. So you know what’s best for you to work on in the gym.’

  ‘Er, no. I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Well, I’d be happy to help you with one. I’m a qualified instructor.’

  ‘Er … I was just …’ I could feel myself shrinking back towards the doorway to make a quick getaway. This sounded real scary.

  ‘No time like the present, Penny. Here, let me show you.’

  He smiled again, flashing unnaturally white, even teeth. Nervously, I looked down at the floor and felt embarrassed at my physical inadequacies.

  Brad suggested I test my fitness level by running through a set of exercises using a selection of the fearsome machines around the room. Oh joy! He beckoned for me to join him beside a complicated arrangement with big pedals.

  ‘It’s a cross-trainer,’ he explained, showing me how to work it. He made it look so simple I agreed to give it a try.

  ‘I can see why it’s called a cross-trainer,’ I puffed after a minute or two of pushing and pulling and stepping and managing to lose my balance several times. ‘I’m getting very cross trying to make these damn pedals go up and down without falling off them.’

  He laughed and told me to keep going — ‘You look like you’re getting the hang of it,’ he said.

  ‘Finish up your time here then try the bike,’ he said. ‘I’ve set the timer for you.’ He went back to his own exercise programme, lying on a very uncomfortable-looking bench and lifting a set of weights that would surely have killed him if he’d dropped them on himself.

  After a few more minutes on the cross-trainer I could feel myself going red and I had a horrible feeling beads of sweat were starting to trickle down my face. And I really did feel cross. Cross with myself for letting myself get so unfit.

  The minute counter ticked slowly over until it was time to go on the exercycle, which gazumped me by slowing down and refusing to respond to my considerable efforts. It took me a while to realise that the big black lines on the gauge in front of me represented the equivalent of cycling up a steep hill. The best bit was whizzing down the other side, though the pleasure didn’t last long. There were more hills ahead.

  I felt I’d cycled a half-marathon before my time was up. Brad noticed I’d stopped and came over carrying a piece of paper.

  ‘Here you are, Penny — your fitness chart.’ Brad held up a row of figures.

  I didn’t know what they meant but I sensed they were dreadful. Not since school had I felt so ashamed of my performance. All these years of comparative inactivity had taken their toll and I figured I’d be in for a mighty telling off.

  But instead of looking stern, he was smiling. ‘I’ve set out a programme for you that should raise your fitness level a little every day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, look at this here. You start with ten minutes on the cross-trainer and work your way round the room, finishing on the bike.’

  I studied the figures more closely and realised my fears were unfounded. He hadn’t marked me on my fitness levels, which was a huge relief. Instead, he’d taken my extreme slothfulness into account and made some suggestions for improvement that didn’t look too hard at all.

  ‘I can do this.’ I smiled up at him. ‘Will you be here this time tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. But why not start now? No time like the present.’

  ‘Er, well …’ I hesitated, looking at my watch as if it might provide a valid excuse.

  ‘You got something else on?’

  ‘Er, no.’ I couldn’t tell a lie. I had absolutely nothing to do until dinnertime. ‘Shouldn’t I get changed though?’

  ‘You look fine.’ He eyed me appraisingly, like Gok selecting his next fashion victim. I felt decidedly tatty next to his colour-coordinated Lycra outfit comprising shorts so tight you could tell his religion and a brief crossover crop-top with a matching pink stripe. I realised that to him, I was nothing but fair, fat and frumpy, dressed in a baggy black T-shirt intended (but failing miserably) to cover a backside that was too large atop legs that were too short, thrust into shorts that were too tight.

  ‘What else would you wear?’ he asked kindly.

  I pointed at the two women, who were by now lifting weights. They too were clad in figure-hugging Lycra.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have something more like that?’

  Brad laughed. ‘Now Penny, you’re not trying to find an excuse to get out of it, surely?’

  ‘Probably,’ I laughed half-heartedly. ‘Okay, Brad, you win. I’ll do it now!’

  It nearly killed me, that first time. I don’t think I’ll ever quite recover from the embarrassment of dropping the dumbbells on the floor with a resounding crash. I’m sure they dented the floor and nearly sank the entire ship. How was I to know they were so heavy? If God had wanted me to pick up anything heavier than a sandwich or a cream doughnut, He would have given me triceps.

  I’d never been so glad to fling myself under a shower as I was when I finished the circuit. I could feel myself developing a sort of love-hate relationship with Brad — I could see he could be an aspirational role model, apart from his decidedly OTT outfit and equally OTT self-flagellating exercise regime. But as the warm water gushed down on me, I suddenly felt an incredible sense of achievement, followed by a rush of enthusiasm for this exercise lark. I could do it! I felt so proud of myself. By God, I’ll do it again tomorrow, I thought.

  Like I said, endorphins make you want to do crazy things.

  And so my daily shipboard routine took on a new activity — going to the gym. Brad wasn’t there every day but, knowing he’d be checking on me and I couldn’t exactly escape him unless I leapt overboard and joined the tuna, I followed his programme and found it got easier each time. Well, some times. I still went bright red in the face and puffed and panted more than anyone else in the gym, but I have to admit, those endorphins — or whatever the good feeling I had afterwards was — drew me back again and again.

  I even made it to the gym on Sunday, our seventh day out of Marmaris, turning up before breakfast so I could fit in my circuit before going ashore. The ship had arranged for a group of us to be dropped off at a tiny port, where we would hire a couple of flat-bottomed boats to take us up the Dalyan River. That was when poor Simon was stricken with a tummy bug. Trudging through the heat to see our umpteenth Roman ruin, he’d lagged well behind, stopping off every few minutes to find a clump of bushes to be sick behind. Back in the boat, he’d leant miserably over the side and thrown up quietly into the river. And we’d gone into Dalyan and onto the mud baths at Ilica while he lay feebly in the bottom of the boat, under the canvas shadecloth. He couldn’t even keep his mineral water down.

  I tried not to let his illness bother me as I immersed myself in the famous mud baths. I could imagine my mate Cleo doing this, I thought, mentally substituting the supposedly beauty-enhancing mud for her usual asses’ milk. I rubbed the mud vigorously into my pores on the off chance that my skin would become as soft and youthful looking as hers was supposed to be.

  Simon was asleep when we returned to Dalyan to pick him up, and he slept in the fog of his own fever most of that night and the next day. The ship’s medical officer said he suspected it was a tummy bug, rather than food poisoning — there’d been a nasty one doing the rounds.

  I felt guilty, abandoning Simon in our cabin to enjoy my usual dinner of grilled sea bass and Greek salad, but neither the feeling nor the dinner lasted. I lost it all soon afterwards as I proceeded to come down with the very same bug.

  Lying in my bed feeling ghastly, I realised I at least h
ad the comparative comfort of the ship with its full on-board medical support — unlike Simon, who’d had to endure an allday sightseeing trip. I stayed in bed with a plastic bowl by my side until I felt I had given it my all — and then some.

  Overnight, I became quite feverish, seeing weird sea creatures I realised later I’d re-created from Pirates of the Caribbean movies. I imagined I was being made to walk the plank and join them in the search for the dead man’s chest.

  Simon, who luckily for me had recovered in time to nurse me, tended to me assiduously, waking me from bad dreams and cooling my fevered brow with wet flannels. I suspect he made a much better nurse than I had.

  And then it was back to the shipboard routine again, eating, reading, sunbathing, swimming in the sea, and filling in time at the gym. Brad became my new best friend.

  Chapter 23

  By the time we returned to Marmaris to disembark and fly back home, I had grown so used to being with Simon every day that I dreaded going home, when we would have to be apart again. We seemed to rub along together very well; even when we’d been ill we’d coped easily with each other’s distress and had taken delight in turn-about nurse-maiding.

  It made me wonder if perhaps living together might not be such a bad idea after all. He’d asked me once, ages ago, and I’d turned him down. Maybe the suggestion would have to come from me this time, if it was going to happen?

  ‘Here’s to us,’ Simon said, raising his plastic cattle-class wineglass as we flew across the Tasman Sea, almost home. ‘You’ve been a great shipmate, Penny Rushmore. I’m so glad you were with me these past two weeks.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon.’ I touched my plastic glass against his. ‘I’ve had an absolutely wonderful time and it was all your doing. I really don’t want to go home.’

  But at least I was thoroughly rested and positively renewed; I felt ready to take on anything my crazy family or clients could throw at me.

  Little did I know!

  I caught a taxi home to find Dad there alone. He came out of his room, greeted me warmly and spent the rest of the evening with me, completely contradicting what the kids had said about him in a series of increasingly alarming emails I’d picked up at an internet café in the Singapore airport transit area. He seemed perfectly normal — chatty when the ads were playing and absorbed, as usual, in Coro and anything else that was on (I was too tired to notice what I was watching). When quizzed, he said he hadn’t seen anything unusual in Adam’s behaviour.

  ‘He’s been good,’ Dad said several times. ‘Came to get me at St Joan’s, fixed me a meal. No, he’s been good.’

  Soon after, Adam came home from walking Tigger. He greeted me with a grunt of recognition — which in his lexicon probably amounted to euphoria — then muttered into the collar of his sweatshirt, with no intelligible information forthcoming.

  Tigger gave me a much better welcome. As soon as he saw me he started rushing around and around the lounge squeaking and wiggling his bottom, before dashing to the kitchen and sitting in front of his biscuit barrel.

  ‘You poor crazy dog, you must have been starved,’ I laughed.

  ‘I fed him heaps. He’s just greedy,’ Adam said.

  ‘I know. Thank you, Adam. You’ve looked after him very well.’

  ‘I even walked him at weekends.’

  I went to put my arms around Adam to thank him but he shrank away.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you!’

  He shrugged and moved further away, safe from human contact. I shrugged back. ‘Have it your way.’

  Later, Charlotte came around from her father’s, carrying two bulging suitcases.

  ‘Charlotte’s brought her washing home,’ Adam teased when she came in.

  ‘At least I do my own washing,’ she retorted.

  ‘That’s nice, honey. You’re coming back home?’ I said.

  She nodded.

  I figured she’d had enough of Steve or Jacinta — or they’d had enough of her — but said nothing. I noticed she seemed unwilling to look me in the eye — to look at me at all actually.

  ‘How have you been? Are you still seeing Peter?’

  She blanched. ‘I can’t talk now, Mum, I’m late for a movie date with Jenna. I’ve gotta get moving.’ She took off like a frightened rabbit, depositing one bag in the laundry and taking the other off up to her room. Moments later I heard drawers being pulled open and banged shut, bathroom noises and finally feet clattering down the stairs. She was off again.

  I thought of waiting up and pouncing on her when she came home, but jet lag took over and I was out to it well before ten. The next morning she was still sound asleep when I left, somewhat groggily, for work. I’d barely been able to scrape the brush through my hair let alone follow my usual moisturising and face-painting routine. The only good thing was that I didn’t have to break my fingernails trying to get my skirt done up any more. The zip slid up easily.

  I smiled to myself. All that pounding in the gym had paid off, but obviously not enough for my kids or father to notice.

  • • •

  My return to Project PR provided a happy diversion from whatever crisis they were busy averting as I handed out presents of Turkish delight and bargain-bin pashminas.

  ‘You’re looking much more relaxed, Penny. And tanned! Lucky you,’ Nicky said.

  ‘Did you bring back any young Greek gods for me?’ Ginny said, wistfully. ‘I could use some elixir of youth.’

  ‘Well, I was in Turkey, not Greece, so the Greek gods were a bit far away. But I did manage to soak in the waters of Cleopatra’s bath.’

  ‘Well, something seems to have rubbed off on you,’ Ginny said. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Tell us all about it,’ Nicky said.

  I gave them a potted history of my adventures, starting from the moment I’d found myself staring down the barrel of a Turkish soldier’s gun. Well, almost staring down the barrel. Who am I to let the absolute truth get in the way of a good story?

  ‘So what have I missed here?’ I said when I concluded my travel tale.

  Flushed as I was with the excitement of reliving what was undoubtedly the most exciting if nerve-wracking trip of my life, I wasn’t so self-absorbed that I missed the surreptitious look that flashed between Nicky and Ginny.

  ‘Hey, what’s the secret? What are you looking so guilty about, Nicky?’

  ‘Me? Guilty?’

  ‘Go on, Nicky, spill the beans. She’s going to find out sooner or later.’ Ginny was wearing one of her wicked grins. I dreaded it when she did that: it always meant there was going to be hell to pay for someone, and I suspected that someone was about to be me.

  ‘Oh dear, I think I might go back to Turkey right now.’

  ‘Good idea. And take that Santangela cow with you,’ Tracey chuckled.

  ‘So it’s her that’s the problem?’

  ‘If only it was just her,’ Nicky groaned.

  ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘Come on, Nicky — out with it,’ Ginny prodded.

  ‘I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. She’s your client.’

  ‘You’ve got to see the funny side. Or we’d all go mad.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you,’ Nicky said, patting my arm to alleviate my look of growing alarm. ‘Trouble is, where do I begin?’

  ‘Start with Santangela,’ I said. ‘I’ve already heard about her shoplifting episode. She hasn’t done it again, has she?’

  ‘She hasn’t had time,’ Nicky said, pulling a face. ‘She’s been so busy giving interviews, she’s been fully occupied.’

  ‘Interviews? I would have thought that under the circumstances giving interviews was the last thing she should have done.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Ginny said. ‘She should have kept her big fat trap shut. That’s what I told her to do, though not in those exact words!’

  ‘But no, she had to be the centre of attention,’ Nicky said. ‘So when the reporter from one of the papers starts quizzing h
er on the phone, she lets them have it, then decides she wants to go national with her allegations. Next thing, she phones up one of the television news networks and gets herself on the evening news babbling on about how she was framed …’

  ‘ … by the cops.’ Ginny sighed melodramatically. ‘She kept saying how they set her up because she was famous and the mall security guy made a pass at her. She must be dreaming. Who in their right mind would want to make a pass at her? It would take a half-day hike with crampons to get around her waist!’

  ‘The media are so gullible these days,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think they believed her for a minute,’ Nicky said. ‘They were just relishing the chance to have a good stoush. Viewers love a cat fight.’

  ‘And now, guess what?’ Ginny said. ‘The cops want to throw the book at her. It’s so frustrating. Yesterday, before she had the stupidity to go on national television, her lawyer said it would be all over in a few days if she pleaded guilty. Big telling-off, big fine, off she goes. But now …’

  ‘Now, she could have a whole lot more aggro,’ Nicky said. ‘The cops reckon they can charge her with resisting arrest, because she kicked up such a fuss when they tried to take her back to the station, kicking and screaming all the way through the mall. And her language was pretty foul, so they can charge her with that too.’

  ‘Can’t her lawyer intervene and say she’s sorry?’ I asked.

  ‘He could, if she’d say that publicly. But so far, she’s refused.’

  ‘I see. Stalemate. Nice.’

  ‘So we thought you’d be able to fix it, Penny. You usually manage to extract people like Stupida Stupenda out of the ditch.’

  ‘Thanks. But usually I can only do that when they want to get themselves out of the crap. It’s not so easy when they keep digging themselves in deeper.’

  ‘I suspect she’s still got quite a bit of digging to do before she’s going to admit she needs to start covering up the hole. She’s definitely not the sharpest tack in the box.’