Dedication
For Ray, for everything
GILLIAN HARVEY
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Fit at 30 – REVIEW: Style and Style, LifeForce Facial
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Fit at 30 – Bronzed Beautiful – Self-Tanning Kit
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Fit at 30 – A year of head over heels
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Fit at 30 – Don’t forget to stretch!
Chapter Fifteen
STOP! PENIS!
Chapter Sixteen
Fit at 30 – Loving the gym
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Fit at 30 – Five things that make a relationship tick
Chapter Nineteen
Fit at 30 – Dinner for four
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fit at 30
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fit at 30 – Keeping up the regime
Chapter Thirty
Fit at 30 – Second time lucky!
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fit at 30
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fit at 30
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I WEAR NAPPIES TO THE GYM, FITNESS BLOGGER ADMITS
THE TALK OF THE TOWN!
TAMZIN PETERS WOWS AT GALA EVENT
Chapter Forty
Fit at 30 – Losing motivation
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
SOMETHING FOR THE LADIES!
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Fit at 30
Chapter Forty-Eight
FITSPO? OH NO! FITNESS BLOGGER DUMPS THE DIET
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Acknowledgements
Author Biography
Credits
Copyright
Chapter One
#bestmealoftheday
#protein
#healthyfats
The morning hadn’t begun well.
For a start, the picture of poached eggs with salmon Jessica had posted on Instagram – #breakfastgoals – had drawn thirty-seven negative comments from an online fitness forum whose members had criticised both her choice of eggs (free range, but not organic) and the fact that she was eating salmon at all (#fishhavefeelings).
She hadn’t the heart to tell her trolls that actually she wasn’t eating any of it – in fact, she’d literally cooked it up so she could photograph it on her new mock-vintage plates and pretend she was living the life of Riley (if Riley was, as one of her trolls had termed her, ‘cruel and thoughtless’).
It had been fun at first when she’d started the diet and fitness blog and begun tweeting and posting snaps on Instagram. Being answerable to the ten or so followers she’d used to have (at least two of whom were her parents) had been a way to keep herself motivated.
Then, a year ago, when she’d met the muscle-bound gym-loving Dave, everything had changed. One picture of his ripped torso on Twitter and suddenly her blog had had more hits than Taylor Swift.
Dave was one of those people whose passions were infectious (he’d also given her chlamydia in the first month, but they were over that now) and she’d suddenly found herself pumping iron and posting the kind of selfies usually only taken by millionaires with buttock implants. The clicks on her blog had gone through the roof, and she’d even had a post-workout picture of her sweaty cleavage go viral.
But who can keep that level of commitment up long-term? she thought. After all, she was only human, and had eaten so many eggs in various guises recently that she’d forgotten what it was like to do a normal poo.
Scraping the poor, murdered salmon into the bin, she guiltily poured herself a generous bowl of her daughter Anna’s choccy snap-snaps in its stead and sighed like an addict shooting up as the forbidden sugar hit her taste buds.
At first, this popularity thing had been great: thousands of people seemingly fascinated by the size of her bottom, or the fact that she had abs in a certain light. But what Twitter giveth, Twitter can also taketh away, she’d soon found. Hardcore fitness fans could be mean and would unfollow at the first sign of cellulite or minor menu mishap.
It wasn’t as if she’d been fat in the first place. She’d lost the seven pounds she’d set out to shed when she’d started her blog and had already been back in a size 10 by the time Mr Sexy had swanned into her life. She’d intended to wind up the blog after meeting her goal. But once Dave had arrived on the scene, she’d found she couldn’t – she was addicted.
Not addicted to the gym; she’d happily cosy up in her PJs most evenings, and felt a sense of rising panic when she woke on workout days. And definitely not to the clean-eating-inspired, protein-fuelled diet plan that she and Dave had come up with over a cup of decaf, bean-free coffee. But addicted to having the perfect man on her arm and feeling – for the first time in her life – popular.
She hadn’t exactly been an ugly duckling as a kid, but her painful teenage shyness had placed her firmly in the unpopular category. At school, the only boy who’d ever shown an interest had had buck-teeth and a propensity to grind them against her own when they kissed. (Yes, kissed. When you’re that low down in the social pecking-order, you take what you can get).
Even at uni, she’d never felt she fit in – perhaps one of the reasons she’d dropped out after two years. She could talk a good talk in a seminar, but when it came to social stuff, she was right back in the school playground. Sure, she’d had a boyfriend or two, but she’d never been brave enough to approach anyone popular or ostensibly good-looking. Instead, she’d tended to date misfits – the perfect face, finished off with enough teeth to furnish a whole village; a stonking great hooked nose; or a laugh that sounded like a donkey on speed.
Now she had Dave and a whole new body, she’d (accidentally) become an ‘influencer’ (as one monthly women’s mag for the over-thirties had recently termed her). And the likes, retweets and followers she’d gained had given her the confidence boost she’d needed all her life.
What’s more, her little business – a public relations enterprise that had been ticking on well enough
with its four clients – had suddenly had a raft of enquiries from people who felt sure she could get them in the Daily News. She’d even taken on staff! Two people whose income and her abs were interlinked.
‘Jessica Bradley seems to live a charmed life,’ a journo had enthused in a recent write-up. ‘Perfect body, successful business, charming home and dream boyfriend …’
‘That’s just it,’ her best friend Bea had told her when Jessica had laughed at the article in disbelief. ‘You’re great at seeing the best in everyone, except when it comes to yourself.’
Problem was, Jessica thought, pouring a second helping into the bowl, living through her online image meant she could never relax, never let her guard down. Maintaining her following meant a lifetime of eating millet when she really wanted Maltesers; creating free-from recipes and posting them as #foodporn; and snapping inspirational workout pics to post on Instagram. Most of the time, it was worth it. But recently she’d felt as if she’d sell her soul for a Big Mac.
‘I don’t know why you bother,’ her mum had said recently, sniffing at her date-sweetened, non-chocolate, low-fat brownie crispbreads. ‘When I was your age, I was too busy bringing you up to plaster pictures of my supper all over the neighbourhood. And since when was sugar bad for you? It never did your father any harm.’
‘It doesn’t matter!’ her brother had laughed when she’d recently confessed to him that she’d set the bar too high for herself. ‘Just enjoy it! It’s not as if anyone knows you properly anyway. You don’t have to stick to all the fitness stuff in real life.’
‘That’s just it, Stu,’ she’d groaned. ‘People come to me expecting to meet the Jessica Bradley! I can’t exactly sit there in a string vest covered in chip fat and let it all hang out.’
‘Thanks for that image.’
‘I can’t even talk to Mum about it – she’s started commenting on my blog now!’
‘Take it down then!’
It was easy for him, though, wasn’t it? Mum and Dad’s first-born and firm favourite. Straight As at A level, university degree, well-paid job and barely a tweet in sight. Whereas she’d been a dropout with a kitchen-table start-up until her bone-broth and date doughnuts, teamed with candid shots of Dave’s bod, had caught the eye of the masses. Now her firm was turning over five times the revenue it had a year ago and it all pivoted on her accidental fake lifestyle.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Anna sloped sleepily into the room, eyes half shut. ‘Hey!’ she added, suddenly animated with indignation at the sight of Jessica shovelling down the choccy snap-snaps. ‘They’re mine!’
‘Don’t worry, there’s loads left.’ Jessica slid another bowl across the table.
‘It’s not the point! If you keep eating them, what am I meant to have for breakfast? The one thing that’s meant to be just for me!’
‘Sorry – look. Here you go.’
‘Nah, thought I’d have toast today,’ came the response.
As Jessica watched her daughter cut two wedges of bread and squash them into the toaster, it occurred to her that this little girl – on the cusp of her teenage years – was one of only two people in the world who knew that whilst Jessica might still retain the accolade of being ‘one of the most influential fitness bloggers on WordPress’ she had, in reality, morphed into a middle-aged fraud with a penchant for sugary children’s cereals.
The other person in the know was Dave, who’d noticed the fact that the woman who’d once been huffing and puffing next to him on the treadmill six nights a week had gradually cut back on her activity levels. He’d also caught her a couple of times recently at the biscuit tin when she’d thought he was out and looked at her with such horror that she’d felt as if he’d seen her shooting up heroin.
‘Carry on with the blog,’ he’d told her, his brow furrowed with concern as he’d gently removed half a biscuit from her hand. ‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone about the Hob-Nobs. This can be our secret. And don’t worry,’ he’d added, like a sponsor soothing an off-the-wagon alcoholic. ‘We’ll get you back on track.’
What he didn’t realise was the ‘blip’ he’d described her as having was actually not a blip at all. It was the original, slightly softer-edged, chocolate-loving, more relaxed Jessica Bradley re-emerging, like a chubby butterfly from a size-8 chrysalis.
But before she’d had a chance tell him that she actually quite liked the other, slightly less intense track that she’d slipped onto (after all, the food was better along this route), she’d had a big PR client approach her – Little Accidents, a feminine hygiene product. Suddenly her potential revenues had skyrocketed.
‘We wanted someone with a great social-media presence,’ Linda, the account manager had gushed. ‘It’s all about getting out there, don’t you think? Getting the message out that if you’re incontinent, then that’s really OK. Even sexy!’
And as Jess had nodded her way to signing the biggest contract of her life, she’d realised that it wasn’t Jessica Bradley PR they were signing with at all – it was Jessica Bradley, brand ambassador, retweeter extraordinaire, #fitspo, toned-stomached, Instagram queen. She was signing up to a life of tweeting pictures of her low-fat, low-calorie, low-sugar, low-flavour, mock-chocolate cake and having to eat the damn stuff too.
‘I love your blog,’ Linda had added as they’d shaken hands. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you do it all!’
So here she was. Caught between two diets.
‘Mum, is Dave taking me this morning?’ Anna said as she sat down with her barely browned, butter-coated toast. Her light brown hair hung neatly against her shoulders; she’d clearly got up early this morning to curl the ends. Jessica wondered, again, where her daughter had inherited her lovely hair – it certainly wasn’t from her. Jessica’s hair looked reasonable after a wash and blow-dry, but any style it was forced into would soon break down over the course of a day.
Anna’s hair must be from her dad’s side of the family, she thought, although it was hard to remember what Grahame’s hair had been like before it had started to drop out.
‘Not sure. Why?’ she said.
‘It’s just, well, can he drop me round the corner from school this time? He’s so embarrassing.’
‘Anna! He is not embarrassing.’ Although Jessica knew what her daughter meant. Recently, Dave had taken to wearing his gym gear outside of his circuit training classes. And she didn’t want to be disingenuous – he had, after all, got a great body. But you had to be a special kind of bloke to get away with the bright yellow, budgie-smuggling Lycra leggings he’d started to favour. She’d even come home the other day to find a skintight onesie in a plastic bag on the bed.
The man didn’t even own a bike.
‘He is! He’s totally embarrassing. He always wants to walk me right to the gate. Like I’m, what? Eleven or something!’ Anna’s face screwed up with distaste. After all, she hadn’t been eleven for, like, nine months.
‘OK,’ Jess nodded, relieved Dave’s apparent crime was just babying Anna rather than parading in his new ‘ergonomic leggings’ in front of her friends.
Where was he, anyway? He’d need to get a wriggle on if he wanted to get to the gym between the school run and work.
‘Am I at Dad’s this weekend?’ Anna asked.
‘Yeah, that OK?’
Anna nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s good.’
Jess struggled to keep the questions inside – did good mean better? Was Anna enjoying sipping vegan hot chocolate and wearing her hand-knitted slippers around Mr and Mrs Perfect’s house? Playing with Forest and River, their adorable twins? It had been ten years since she and Grahame had broken up and she did wish him all the best – of course she did! She’d even forgiven Tabitha, his new wife, for her part in their split. But it would be nice if he could stop living such a perfect life. Nice if he screwed up occasionally. Just in a minor way. Just to make her feel a little bit better – the odd
shameful skid mark on the otherwise unsullied Y-fronts of his perfect life.
‘Good,’ she said at last. Christ, was that the time? Where was Dave? ‘Isn’t it time to get going?’ she added. ‘Or at least get dressed? Dave will want to leave in a minute.’
‘Oh, is he back?’
‘What?’
‘He popped out, so I thought, well, I don’t exactly have to rush do I?’
‘Popped out?’
‘Yeah. I saw his car going this morning.’ Anna said, taking a bite out of her toast.
‘Oh.’ Perhaps he’d popped out for milk. But they had plenty of milk. Jessica mentally checked: soya – yes, goat’s – yes, oat – yes. They even had coconut water and something called ‘nectar of wheat’.
Then she saw it. The note propped against the porridge oats on the kitchen counter. She walked over and casually picked it up, as if she’d always known it was there.
‘What’s that?’ Anna asked, crunching her toast.
Jessica felt the same sensation in her stomach that she had when she went too fast over a speed bump, or woke up the day after eating too much bran.
I’M SORRY, it said. IT’S OVER.
Shit.
‘What is it, Mum?’ asked Anna again.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, her mind whirring. Surely things hadn’t been going badly? She’d have known, wouldn’t she? Her eyes darted to the slight muffin top that had developed over the top of her skinniest jeans. Was it the weight? The fact that she’d been in top condition and now occasionally skipped her nightly sit-ups in favour of a Prosecco and Poldark?
She felt hot, salty tears welling in her eyes. Surely it couldn’t be just down to her gym-dodging? Maybe he’d found someone else? Maybe those evenings she’d skipped the gym had opened up a window for a perfectly honed, freakishly fit gymbo to take her place; proving both her paranoia and – oddly – the evolutionary theories of Darwin right in the process.
Slipping out of the kitchen and into the loo, she washed her face and looked at her flushed complexion in the mirror.
‘No,’ she said. She wasn’t going to let this happen.
Dave was the best thing in her life right now, and he couldn’t just leave her! She’d just signed with Little Accidents. The phone was ringing off the hook. She was gaining about a hundred followers a day. Instagram – while a bit abusive – was raising her profile. And Dave with his bulging biceps was part of the deal. His muscly good looks; his dark, brooding eyes; his revealing mirror selfies from the gym changing room. It all helped. And, well, the sex wasn’t bad either.
Everything is Fine: The funny, feel-good and uplifting page-turner you won't be able to put down! Page 1
