Trust Me, I’m a Personal Trainer
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Trust Me, I’m a Personal Trainer
SAM DERBYSHIRE
Copyright © Sam Derbyshire 2019
The moral right of the author Sam Derbyshire has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the Publisher, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. It may not be edited, amended, lent, resold, hired out, distributed or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s written permission.
All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Kindle Edition
First Edition
Published by Asher Publishing
asherpublishing@gmail.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sam Derbyshire was raised in Oxfordshire, graduated from Aberystwyth University, and now lives beside the beautiful Moray Firth in the Scottish Highlands. A battle-hardened survivor of bringing up three boys, on realising that she was never going to be a Dance Mom, she instead qualified to coach junior football, cricket and golf, worked for several years in Sports Development and now claims to be an expert on all things manly, including the offside rule. The men in her life fiercely debate that claim as well as her ability to coach anything.
While writing this bio, Sam asked her husband and son to describe her: complex, feisty, easily irritated, rebellious and opinionated were some of the more complimentary replies. Her best friend, however, offered glamorous, witty and intelligent. That’s what friends are for! Now resigned to receiving one-word text messages, talking to brick walls and not being allowed to take herself seriously, Sam desperately tries to see the funny side of life, especially now she’s the wrong side of fifty.
Joining a writing group a few years ago, as an escape from her testosterone-fueled world, she won a short story competition with her short Turning Worms and was then encouraged to try novel writing. In doing so she discovered that she enjoyed writing about characters with real life issues that readers can relate to and her first novel, What Goes on Tour, first published in 2013, was the result. This was followed up with a sequel, Text Me No Lies in 2017.
Sam is also an aspiring script writer and is a member of Scottish Screenwriters.
Striving to stay fit and healthy in order to enjoy the freedom that is now on the horizon, Sam enjoys exercise, loves yoga, plays a reluctant but sometimes reasonable round of golf and has recently discovered the joys of swimming in the North Sea and Triathlon. She’s very average at both. She also relies heavily on her personal trainer to keep her sane.
She couldn’t live without her Nutri Bullet, hair straighteners and the occasional Gin.
www.samderbyshire.org
In memory of Ashley, a beautiful girl who truly embraced life.
Life is a series of moments….
CHAPTER 1
Sunday
Thor Thorogood added the courgetti to the boiling water and, picking up his phone, checked his diary. Four newbies this week. Four fresh lambs to the slaughter. Business was finally picking up. He checked his notes. There were two mid-life crisis forty-somethings, probably just dumped or about to dump their partners – that or trying to get in shape for a final fling in Ibiza. One flabby and lonely X-box addict, desperate for a meaningful relationship – even an un-meaningful one – any relationship would be a start. And then there was wee gobshite Savannah – full of teenage angst dressed up as aggression – not hugely overweight, but on the right track. Her mother had paid for ten sessions to improve her self-esteem but getting through the first would be the biggest challenge.
The first session was always interesting. Diet sheets from the previous week were handed in, weight and fat measured, fitness tested and goals set. They usually all lied. It was fun teasing out the truth, watching five small glasses of wine a week turning into the equivalent of fifteen pints, the bars of Galaxy slipping from the mind as easily as they slipped down the throat. And then there were the reasons for being there. It was incredible what he managed to tease out of them. Eventually.
Rachael Haig was first. She seemed a real livewire; chatty and instantly likeable over the phone. He’d checked her out on Facebook, as he usually did with new clients, keen to put a face to a voice and a lifestyle to the diet sheet, but her profile and photos didn’t give much away, apart from an absence of photos of her husband. It would be interesting to find out what was lurking beneath that façade. And she might not be so lively at 6.30am tomorrow morning. The early sessions were always a tester.
Turning off the courgetti, Thor signed out of his mail and into Netflix. It was time to eat, switch off and chill. A man could only take so much emotional offloading during a week. Maybe he would write a book about it one day. Purely fictional of course. Client confidentiality was always assured.
* * *
Rachael Haig fast-forwarded through the monotonous ads of Obese, Another Year to Save my Life, reassured that her body was in far better shape than the poor woman in the programme but anxious that her fitness levels were probably nowhere near the fantasy she harboured in her mind. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually made any attempt to run or even got out of breath and, looking at the array of torturous equipment, pain and suffering now being displayed on the TV, she wondered whether she may have been a little hasty.
Helping herself to another handful of chocolates from the family-sized bag, she savoured each one in the realisation that her nine o’clock treat was abou
t to become a thing of the past. Since she’d told Rex that she wanted a divorce he had spent even more time at the pub or at his sad mate Davie’s place, but she hadn’t got around to filling her own evenings constructively. She had a list: yoga, see more films, see more of her pals, but – somehow – all of them were yet to be ticked off. She’d booked five sessions with Thor Thorogood, though. It was a start.
Rachael picked up the diet and lifestyle sheet and looked over her answers. Not entirely truthful. The Fish Pie ready meal wasn’t quite the sea bass, asparagus and mange tout that she’d put down for last night, but it was close. It was still fish. And the walking? She drove to work but, as a personal shopper in John Lewis, she walked a lot during the day. Well, sort of. If she was honest, the escalator saw a lot more of her than the stairs did, as did the cappuccino machine and the Italian bakery around the corner. But Thor wouldn’t want too much information and, quite frankly, it didn’t look good on paper.
As she joined in the adulation and respect of the audience for the utterly transformed overweight American, Rachael Haig popped the last of the chocolates into her mouth and finished her red wine. “Cheers, babe. Here’s to you and the new me,” she said aloud to the beaming woman who was now hugging her overweight and now very worried-looking husband. Then, crumpling up the empty bag, she turned off the TV and despatched herself to bed. It was an early start. She’d need all the sleep she could get.
CHAPTER 2
Monday
Switching off her alarm at 5.15am, Rachael groaned and pulled the duvet cover over her head. It was pitch dark and the bedroom was freezing. The heating didn’t come on until 6am; she wasn’t used to being awake so early. In the comforting cocoon of her duvet, Rachael contemplated her next move, her mind in complete turmoil. She’d laid her gym kit out the night before and her water bottle was in the fridge. It should only take ten minutes to get to the gym although she would need to eat something first; she would need the energy. Then again, maybe she shouldn’t with a weigh-in looming. Rachael sniffed her armpits; she should probably have a shower and shave her legs. She wondered why she hadn’t bought longer leggings. And should she wear make-up? It was probably pointless but she looked crap without it. She wanted to look her best. Rachael looked at the clock again. 5.30am. She was now running late. “This had better be bloody worth it, Thor Thorogood,” she muttered as she stomped off to the shower. “If I don’t look like an effing supermodel after all this I’ll be wanting my money back”.
“So, have you brought your diet sheet with you?” asked Thor as he surveyed Rachael. He loved the way she’d managed to put a full face of make-up on at this time of the morning; she was obviously lacking some confidence. Rachael surveyed him. He was younger than she’d expected; good-looking but not really her type. Although what her type was, exactly, she had no idea. It definitely wasn’t her dickhead of a husband though. She was certain of that. She handed him the sheet.
“Right, on the scales, let’s get ourselves some base figures to work with,” said Thor authoritatively. Rachael stood up and bent down to remove her trainers. Every little helped, as they say.
“Don’t worry about those, I just need a guide,” said Thor. “When was the last time you weighed yourself?”
Rachael couldn’t remember.
“Oh, ages ago. I don’t usually bother but I know I’m getting fatter when my clothes don’t fit. Like now.”
“I suppose that’s one way to go about it,” he replied as he looked at the scales. “Eighty kilograms.”
“What’s that in old money?”
“About twelve stone, seven pounds.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Shit,” sighed Rachael. It was worse than she’d thought.
“How tall are you?” asked Thor.
“Five foot six,” she replied, adding an inch, realising where this was leading.
“OK, now let’s check your BMI. Hold this, stand still.” Thor handed her his fat loss and BMI analyser. She took it with both hands and held it out in front of her.
“Am I obese?” asked Rachael, nervously.
“We’ll have a look at the chart in a minute. BMI 26.5 and body fat 40 percent.”
“Have a seat.” Thor laid out his beautifully coloured chart of doom in front of Rachael.
“How old are you again?” he asked, looking again at his notes.
“Forty-seven,” she replied, hoping for a compliment.
“Forty-seven,” he muttered, not offering one as he referred to his chart.
“So, if we look at this, you’re here. Overweight.”
“Not obese.”
“No, but overweight.”
Rachael stared at the chart, trying to work out whether dropping an inch off her height took her into the obese section.
“And your BMI and body fat need sorting out too. We need to get those down. Let’s have a look at your diet and exercise sheet.”
As Thor surveyed her answers, Rachael surveyed him. She wondered how old he was. Somewhere around thirty-five, maybe. She liked his hair; short at the sides, longer and messy on top. He obviously went to a good hairdresser. She wanted to run her hands through it, ruffle it up. And his arms. Lovely arms. Toned and tanned. She couldn’t wait to tell her pal Maggie.
“So you drive to work?”
“Yes.”
“Could you walk?”
“No.”
“Why not, how far is it?”
“Three miles.” Rachael crossed her arms. She was starting to worry now.
“Not far, it’s walkable.”
“Walkable?” she replied, astonished. “Not in Glasgow it isn’t, it’s always pissing down and I’ve got my hair to think about. I’m a personal shopper, I can’t turn up looking like a frigging loo-brush, can I? I’m not walking to work.”
Thor looked at her, she was feisty and also very defensive. This was going to be fun.
“So, at work, are you moving or sitting at a desk? You must move around a bit if you’re on the shop floor.”
“Quite a bit, although I probably should take the stairs more often.”
“And no other exercise?”
“I sometimes go to Pilates.”
“Well that’s good, how often?”
“Well actually I’ve only been twice.”
Thor tried not to laugh. At least she was telling the truth and she obviously had a sense of humour.
“OK, so diet. Have you answered this honestly?” asked Thor as he made eye contact.
“I think so.”
“So, you didn’t have any snacks? No crisps, biscuits or chocolate?”
“Did you want me to write those down?”
“If you eat them, then yes.”
“It just says keep a record of your meals, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
Rachael went quiet.
“Well?” continued Thor.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Chocolate, crisps and biscuits, all of them.”
“How often?”
“Frequently. Breaks, lunch and then before bed.”
Rachael looked at him. He didn’t need to say anything. His silence said it all.
“And do you drink plenty of water?”
“Does it count in tea and coffee?”
“No.”
“Then no, unless I’m hungover.”
“And on that note,” replied Thor. “Let’s talk about alcohol? You say five units a week. So just five? Is that five glasses of wine or something else?”
“Wine.”
“Just five units?”
“Well maybe a few more,” muttered Rachael. This wasn’t going well.
“Do you have a drink every night?”
“Probably.”
“One or two?”
“Probably two.”
“So more like fourteen a week then?”
“Yes, OK, I give in. It’s not looking good, is it?”
&nbs
p; “No, but it could be worse.”
“Could it?” replied Rachael. She thought about the woman on the TV. She knew it could be worse, but it wasn’t making her feel any better.
“Yes, but it’s still not great.”
“At least I’m not obese.”
“But you will be if you carry on like this,” he said.
“And the older you get, the harder it’s going to be to shift the weight. Right, let’s go through to the gym and see how fit you are and then I can sort out a plan. If you stick to it, you’ll soon shape up. You ready?”
Thor stood up and handed her the water bottle. The personal stuff could wait until the next session.
Rachael smiled. “Ready as I’ll ever be at this time of the bloody morning. Be gentle with me though, Thor, I’m extremely delicate.”
“Trust me, I’m a personal trainer,” he grinned, opening the door. “I can assure you, Rachael, you’ll be perfectly safe with me.”
CHAPTER 3
Sitting in front of the TV, watching his third re-run of Breaking Bad, Kyle Cameron checked his phone for the hundredth time. She still hadn’t messaged him. He knew she wouldn’t. Why say to someone you’ll contact them when you have no intention of doing so? Surely it was kinder to reject someone in ten seconds, than draw it out over several days. It was easier for them though, it made them feel better about themselves as they saw the brief look of hope in his eyes as they said they’d message, before disappearing off into the night, where they would never think about him again.
He knew he was fat, but usually they were overweight too. Maybe they got rejected as much as he did. Who knows. Maybe they were all delusional, trying to hook up with thin people who weren’t interested. To be honest, he was getting to the stage of not caring. Life was pretty shit at the moment. Thor was the last-chance saloon.
Kyle picked up the diet and exercise sheet. It didn’t look great, in fact it was quite shocking now that he’d written it down. He hadn’t eaten a vegetable in years, unless you counted tomato and mushrooms in pizza and his consumption of crap was probably off the scale. It was almost too embarrassing to hand in. But Thor had told him to tell the truth; that the only person he was cheating by lying was himself and that if his diet was perfect, he wouldn’t need help. He liked Thor, he seemed like a good bloke. He would probably beat the shit out of him tomorrow, but if he managed to get him in shape enough to get a date he would be eternally grateful.