Feeling great wasn’t really something she’d considered. If anything she spent much of her time feeling tired and often hangry. ‘It’s more about looking the part,’ she’d replied. ‘And I’ve been a bit, well, naughty lately. Got to get back on track.’ It wasn’t a full confession, but it was the closest she’d come.
‘But how do you feel?’
‘I don’t know … overweight?’
‘But Jessica,’ he’d said, ‘that’s not a feeling. It’s a medical condition. And one that you definitely don’t suffer from!’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Seriously. You look great. You must know that.’
‘OK, well, I feel … I feel …?’ she didn’t know, she’d realised. She didn’t even know how she really felt.
‘I don’t want to be the devil on your shoulder,’ he’d said. ‘But why not just let yourself have a piece of carrot cake? In the great scheme of things, wouldn’t you rather relax a little bit more, listen to your inner child?’
‘My inner child,’ Jessica had replied, ‘is a greedy pig.’ She’d smiled, hoping he’d realise she was half-joking.
‘OK,’ he’d said, sticking his fork into a piece of chocolate fudge cake he’d ordered. ‘But, you know. Self-denial is not always the best route. Moderation, sure. But whenever I start something new, I think about whether it’s realistic long-term. Going to the gym every night, eating like a saint – nobody can keep that up for ever.’
‘I think …’ He was right though. She’d stuck to the diet for ages – but had come to resent how it dominated her life.
‘I just think,’ he’d continued, ‘you’re setting yourself up to fail. Stretching yourself. And who for? Do you think Anna cares if you’re a size eight or ten?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘And Dave loves you for who you are; you’re engaged after all. For richer, poorer – all that.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And do you care?’ he’d asked, looking at her intensely. ‘Really?’
She felt herself blushing. ‘Well, a bit, I suppose.’ Did she? she’d wondered.
‘I have to ask then,’ he’d said. ‘Is it worth it?’ He’d broken his chocolate fudge cake in two, removed his teacup from its saucer, placed the larger piece on it and slid it across the table. ‘Go on,’ he’d said. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
The cake had been frickin’ delicious.
She’d enjoyed herself, she’d realised, and not just the cake. It had been opening up – at least slightly. Unburdening. Having the closest thing to a frank and honest conversation she’d had in months. And something else – feeling good in Robert’s company. Somehow, when she was with him, she felt better about everything.
In fact, she’d lost track of time and had had to ring Jenny’s mum, Sylvia, and ask her to pick Anna up for her.
‘She can have tea here, if she likes,’ Sylvia had said. ‘I think the girls are working on some sort of project anyway.’
‘That would be great.’
Once she’d climbed the concrete steps to the gym, Jessica pushed the final door open and was confronted by noise, heat and light. Women clad in tight Lycra trotted on running machines; men spotted each other by the weights bench. Through a door to her left she could see the movement of an aerobics class.
She felt a little nervous – she’d grown used to her old gym, but there was no way she was going to be returning until she was back in shape – everyone there knew who she was; knew her usual routine. This was a smaller place – more anonymous; plus, it promised results.
There was a desk set slightly to the side, at which a woman wearing leggings and a sweatshirt was rifling through a drawer full of paperwork. As Jessica approached, the woman straightened, her blonde hair falling gently over her shoulder.
‘Hi, are you Jessica?’ the woman said, holding out a confident hand for a shake.
‘Yeah,’ Jessica smiled.
‘Fab. I’m Nelly. Hey, thanks for reaching out to us for personal training.’
‘Erm, that’s fine.’
Why did she feel nervous? Perhaps because Nelly was ten years younger, with the sort of figure she’d only achieve after extensive plastic surgery and by eating nothing but celery for a month.
‘Right, do you want to come through?’ Nelly guided Jessica to a little office behind the front desk with a couple of white chairs, a table and a clipboard of questions.
‘So, let me see …’ Nelly began. ‘What would you say your fitness goals are at the moment?’
‘Well, I’m getting married—’
‘Oh, congratulations!’
‘And I’m hoping to – you know – slim down for the big day.’
‘What are you aiming for, size-wise?’
‘I don’t know. Just toning up really? Sticking to a size ten?’
Nelly’s face said it all.
‘Or,’ Jessica continued, sensing Nelly’s disappointment and overcome with her usual need to please, ‘a size eight?’
This got a better response. ‘Right.’ Smiling with approval, Nelly wrote 8 down on the form. ‘And shall we take a few measurements now? You know,’ Nelly continued, reaching for a box marked ‘fat assessment’. ‘You look really familiar. Have you come here before?’
‘No, never.’
After Jessica had been weighed, measured and pinched with something that looked like a pair of salad tongs, she was led to the main gym and asked to get on the treadmill.
A month ago she’d been able to run for an hour with ease. But this time as the treadmill whirred into action, her legs felt heavy and clumsy. She began to sweat, first a few beads appearing on her forehead and then more profusely as the programme spread up. After fifteen minutes when she was finally asked to stop, she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, and seemed to have pulled a muscle in her bum. If there was one there to be pulled. A couple of gym-goers glanced at her as she doubled over to catch her breath.
‘Don’t forget your stretches!’ Nelly chirped, with an annoying smile pulling a perfectly toned leg up behind her. ‘Nice and slow, and hold … That’s right! Well done!’
Jessica wobbled, sweat streaming. But at least it was over.
‘And now a bit of kettlebell work.’
Jessica followed Nelly to the mats like a reluctant schoolgirl. She’d never used a kettlebell before. She’d picked one up once, in her previous gym, but had felt a bit stupid and stuck to her usual free weights.
Nelly, all toned limbs and blonde hair, picked up a hot-pink version and gripped it between her fingers. ‘The trick is to use your body to create momentum,’ she said. ‘And one!’ she sang, swinging her own kettlebell down between her legs and up again in a swooshing movement. ‘Two!’
‘Come on, Jess,’ Jessica thought to herself. ‘Four weeks ago, you’d have done this in your sleep.’ She lifted the kettlebell into the starting position, then bent down, swinging the weight between her legs, and up again, just as Nelly had demonstrated.
Her shoulders screamed in protest, but she was determined. Surely she couldn’t have lost so much fitness so quickly? It was just a case of mind over matter. She bent her knees and the let the kettlebell swing down again, then, feeling every sinew in her body protest, she lifted it up.
On the third swing, she felt a sudden blast of cold air from behind. Was the air-conditioning unit nearby? Was it blowing directly onto her arse?
Then she heard a slight gasp and turned to look, staggering and dropping her kettle ball.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
She’d split the back of her leggings, and her bottom – like a sun-deprived, pasty-skinned prisoner fleeing from a dark cell – had rushed forward into the light.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dave was late to the station, and she began to worr
y that he wasn’t going to make it at all. She pulled Robert’s book from her bag to distract herself and began to read:
REMEMBERING RAINBOWS
The best policy?
Honestly, how honest are you? When you were a child, you probably didn’t worry too much about how people might feel when you said something. But over time, you learned to doctor your truth to make it more palatable to others.
Sometimes, this can be a good thing – if a friend’s bottom really does look big in her jeans, there are tactful alternatives to telling her outright when she asks! But it can also mean that we hide complicated or difficult feelings, both from others and even from ourselves.
Try opening up the door to a more authentic you by being truthful. If someone asks you how you are, tell them honestly. If someone asks for your opinion, give it.
This doesn’t mean shedding the adult sensibilities you have – it’s not about hurting anyone’s feelings or telling your boss that you hate your job. It’s about gradually allowing a bit more of yourself to shine through – to trust yourself to be more open.
You will find, in return, that others open up to you more.
‘What’s that?’ said a familiar voice at her shoulder.
She jumped slightly. ‘Oh! Dave! You made it!’
‘Course I did – did you think I was going to leave you stranded at the Daily News?’
‘No, of course not,’ she lied. ‘Look, thanks for giving your Saturday up for this.’
Two minutes later, the train to London arrived. She slipped Robert’s book into her bag as they boarded.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said for the twentieth time as they rode the tube to Kensington High Street. ‘I just don’t feel like having my picture taken.’
They’d caught the seven o’clock from Hatfield to King’s Cross, grabbed a black coffee and banana and then taken the tube. The interview was at 9.30, and they were running a little late.
‘But you love photos! What about all those selfies you posted last night?’ he replied. ‘You looked OK in those.’
‘Yeah. Filters. Anyway, it’s not really my face, it’s, well, you know. My body.’ Jessica gestured down at her tiny belly, which seemed to balloon over the top of her skinny jeans. She should have worn the more forgiving pair. But they had looked OK when she’d squeezed into them in front of the mirror this morning. Bloody gravity.
Dave looked at the muffin top as if seeing it for the first time. A brief expression of horror flitted across his face.
This was the point at which a loving fiancé ought to provide supportive feedback.
‘Oh God! I see what you mean!,’ he paused, apparently to get his breathing back under control. ‘But, hey!’, he said, with a weak smile. ‘Ask them to Photoshop it. Or maybe just suck in or something? It’s amazing what the right pose can do too. But don’t let them,’ he said, leaning in for a whisper, ‘photograph your bottom. Not right now, at least.’ He nodded, as if he’d just imparted a sage piece of advice.
She resisted the urge to hit him square in the jaw. Or in his chiselled, I didn’t quit the gym and still go every day six-pack. Although she’d probably have broken her hand.
Ironically, one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place was his enthusiasm to work out, to better himself. And, admittedly, seeing him take off his shirt for the first time had been quite a moment. She wasn’t made of stone after all. It was catching, too, his quest for perfection. She’d changed in the first months of their relationship; she knew she had.
As her muscle-to-fat ratio had improved, so had her confidence. The inner introvert she had to quiet in order to do her job had disappeared. She’d felt great.
But somehow that world of extreme fitness that had sucked her in looked different to her now. Yes, she’d like to have a perfect body. But was it worth pounding treadmills in a gym, deprived of natural daylight and surrounded by sweaty strangers every night? Did she really want to eat a diet of seeds and organic vegetables, with her every move constrained by the fact she had to eat at certain times and photograph it too, rather than just opting for some beans on toast or a bowl of cornflakes on days when she didn’t have the energy? And was it really necessary to achieve perfection in order to harness her inner confidence? Surely, projecting an image of a perfect life was just another way of shielding herself from reality.
Was it toned thighs she wanted or the confidence they’d given her?
‘Thanks,’ she said, at last. It wouldn’t do to upset him before the interview. Especially if they weren’t really engaged and this was just some bizarre overblown favour on his part.
Claudia, the journalist who was be conducting the interview, met them in reception with a smile. ‘Hi,’ she said, grinning broadly. ‘We’re all set up in the other room. We’ve laid out a few outfits, and hair and make-up people are on hand, if you want to go through and take a look.’
‘Thanks!’ Jessica said, feeling nervous. She’d brought a bag of her own stuff, but it seemed that even the Daily News liked a bit of fakery.
Two hours later, they grabbed a quick decaff coffee in a small café down a backstreet. Black, of course. With a flapjack that was so low in fat that it might as well have been a pile of birdseed. Still, she ate it hungrily.
‘So, what did you think?’ he asked.
‘About the shoot? It was OK, I suppose.’ She tried not to think of the generic wrap dress they’d made her wear. With the obligatory ‘nude courts’. And the fitness shots hadn’t been quite what she’d expected – lots of Lycra, and posing together. In one shot, they’d asked Dave to bench-press her. He’d been able to do that once. But this time he’d turned red with the effort and she’d tumbled down on top of him.
‘I hope they don’t use that weightlifting shot,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘Don’t want people to think I can’t manage to lift my own girlfriend up.’
‘That’s your concern? What about me? That all-in-one running thing didn’t leave much to the imagination. I mean, who wears a Lycra onesie to the … I mean,’ she continued, remembering some of Dave’s more daring gym outfits, ‘who wants to be photographed in Lycra?’
‘Yeah, but you sucked in, right?’ He seemed genuinely concerned. ‘I mean, even I sucked in, and I don’t really, you know, need to.’
‘Yeah.’ She’d barely breathed from one shot to the next. Still, the fact that the camera had flashed almost constantly made her feel a little uneasy. She hoped it was going to be the positive feature they’d promised.
‘Come on, smile!’ the photographer had urged. ‘Look like you’re enjoying it!’ But she hadn’t been able to force a grin when fighting for air and tensing her stomach muscles. And as they made her perform press-ups for the shot, adopt a plank pose and run on the spot, she’d become sweaty and out of breath. Have I ever enjoyed myself at the gym? she wondered.
She remembered the park, then. The rush of air on her face as the swing had rocked back and forth. Perhaps she’d be better off doing something outside rather than being stuck in the machine?
Claudia had then taken each of them aside and asked them questions about their relationship – how often they had sex, what daily life was like. How the gym helped bring them closer. She’d even mentioned the quiz; clearly she’d been reading the blog. ‘So, how did it go?’ she’d gushed.
‘Oh, pretty well,’ Jessica had answered, blushing at the memory. She really should have prepped Dave first. He’d probably roll that one out as an amusing anecdote.
During the interview, Jessica had felt like one half of a couple suspected of having a sham marriage. Would Dave’s answers match hers? She tried to remember what life had been like when things had been better. Preparing food together, setting off for the gym. Buying sports kit. What else had they done together? There hadn’t been much time for anything else, what with their jobs and Anna and shopping for obscu
re vegetables.
Just when she’d thought it was over, Claudia had leaned in, her eyebrows set to ‘sympathetic’ and asked, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking – but how do you feel about the gym pictures posted to your Twitter?’
‘Gym pictures?’
‘Yes. You haven’t seen them? Someone posted them to your account earlier – I had a look just now and …’ Claudia had looked genuinely flustered. She’d handed over her phone. On the screen was a picture of Jessica on a treadmill, everything paused in mid-wobble. Some idiot had tweeted a picture of her at the gym yesterday. At least it wasn’t … well, it could have been worse. ‘And there’s this one,’ Claudia had continued, leaning over and scrolling down. And there it was, Jessica’s bottom, exposed to the world through a split in her Lycra.
Underneath, the hashtag #notsofit.
Jessica had mumbled something about camera angles, Photoshop and how she’d changed her regime a little recently. ‘Perhaps the new exercises haven’t quite … kicked in,’ she’d said, handing the phone back to Claudia, who’d nodded her understanding.
‘Of course. And camera angles can be a bitch, right?’ Claudia had smiled.
‘Did she show you any … pictures?’ Jessica asked Dave now, removing a seed from between her teeth with a fingernail.
‘No? Why?’ he smiled innocently.
‘Oh nothing.’ Probably better to wait and see. There was a chance he might not see them at all. She tried to remind herself that no publicity was bad publicity. But she couldn’t put a positive angle on the picture of her bottom straining through her leggings.
There was no positive angle.
Her phone beeped with a message from Robert. ‘Free for a coffee and chat – with or without chocolate fudge cake?’
‘Sure,’ she texted back. ‘Monday?’
‘Are you all right?’ Dave asked, after a brief silence.
‘Yeah, just thinking about the article. I hope that it’s OK, you know?’
Everything is Fine: The funny, feel-good and uplifting page-turner you won't be able to put down! Page 20
