New York Valentine (25 page)

‘You seemed to handle it very well. Just a cool and casual dismissal. So classy. Much better than I could ever have managed. I’d have wanted to throw glasses, shriek and cause a scene.’

‘I’m very glad you didn’t!’

‘No, I meant if I’d been you. But I’m so obviously not you. You’re very much your own person – and I just wanted to say that you handled him so well, I was proud of you. I bet he felt about two inches tall.’

Lana’s smile broke out now: ‘Do you think?’

‘Yeah, definitely. You were the ice queen. He saw you on the catwalk, looking amazing and he realized just what he’d let get away there.’

‘Good!’

‘Because obviously you’d never have him back?’ Annie just wanted to check.

‘Never!’ Lana agreed. ‘How’s home?’ she asked, ‘I thought I might even try and speak to them today.’

‘Big of you.’ Annie winked. ‘Let’s get my phone out … ah, but it’s already 6p.m., midnight at home … we’ll text, see if Ed’s awake.’

Within moments, Annie was reading the reply:

Just going to sleep. Too tired to talk. Will spk

tomorrow promise. Ed xx

Which was fine, of course. She’d left it so late.

But … just the slightest little but … they’d not spoken for two whole days now. That was a long time. Just a little inkling crossed her mind that maybe not everything was OK.

The alarm bleeped at 5a.m. Annie groaned, smacked it off and rolled over again.

‘What’s that for?’ Lana asked groggily.

‘Nothing,’ Annie said, pulling the sheet over her head against the early morning light.

‘It’s the gym, isn’t it?’ Lana sat up, remembering just where her mum was supposed to be at 5.30 this morning.

Annie groaned in reply. She felt terrible. Just exactly how many White Russians, or Black Vodkas or Vodkatinis, or whatever else had she drunk last night? Her stomach churned and her head throbbed in reply.

If it was now 5.05a.m., then she’d only managed about four hours of sleep. And now she was supposed to go and
Train with Gawain
… trademark?

‘I can’t go,’ she mumbled, ‘I’ll have to phone in sick.’

‘You can’t phone in sick!’ Lana exclaimed and gave her mum a poke in the ribs. ‘Connor would lose all his money! And who knows, Train with Gawain might never speak to him again. He might be like
totally
humiliated,’ she added in finest New York accent.

‘Train with Gawain – huh – more like Gawain the pain,’ Annie huffed from her side of the sofa bed.

‘Get up, Mum and go to the gym,’ Lana instructed her.

‘I’ve got nothing to wear …’ Annie whined, trying out a new line of defence.

‘Are you serious?’ Lana asked with some amazement. This was just not something her mum ever said. No matter what the event, Annie could put together a killer outfit for it.

‘You mean you’ve booked in for a session with New York’s number one personal trainer at one of New York’s swankiest gyms and you’ve not even thought about getting a pair of gym shoes?’

‘Well, I have trainers …’ Annie mumbled from underneath the pillow.

‘So you bought trainers?’

‘No … I brought them from home.’

‘Why? You last wore trainers in the … nineties?’ Lana guessed.

Annie didn’t want to tell Lana about the little daydream she’d had back in London of jogging effortlessly round the Central Park reservoir, like all the other fit New Yorkers. Somehow she’d thought if she came over to New York, the will to be fit and slim would just transplant itself into her brain, along with the will to drink Cosmopolitans and shop daily on Fifth Avenue.

‘OK.’ Lana, despite her puffy eyes and sleep-deprived head, was getting out of bed and rummaging through her bag. ‘I have short socks, I have leggings … you could use one of my big sleep T-shirts, but I haven’t got anything that will help you in the way of a sports bra.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just wear two bras.’

‘Two bras?’

‘Old school trick.’

Annie sat up gingerly. She couldn’t believe she was actually getting out of bed. But yes: despite the four hours of sleep and the hangover, she suddenly seemed to be washing, brushing her teeth and climbing into the leggings and T-shirt offered by her slightly too eager daughter. Just one look in the mirror told Annie that she really was not fit to brave a New York gym. She should be wearing fashionable fitness clothes, not her teen daughter’s pyjamas.

She should do her hair and apply at least a light coating of waterproof make-up. This was
Train with Gawain
, for goodness’ sake. Gawain was probably used to looking at SJP first thing in the morning, not VPL.

‘Is there something I could use as a headband?’ Annie asked, beginning to feel slightly panicked by her reflection.

‘Why?’ Lana said, warily.

‘Headbands … people wear headbands in the gym, don’t they?’

‘No. Well, maybe they did like last century.’

‘OK, no headband, then. Can I go like this now?’ Annie asked her daughter, hoping, really truly hoping, that she would say no.

‘Yes, and you need to go right now. You’ll have to find a cab to get there on time. It’s in SoHo. That’s So-hip-it-hurts-Ho.’

‘Thanks. I’m feeling better already.’

The cab dropped Annie off on a corner where two wide streets of low warehouse conversions crossed. There was hardly anyone about: she could see clear down to the Hudson River, golden in the early morning light. Black fire escapes zigzagged up every one of the impressive four- and five-storey brick buildings and Annie felt weirdly energized.

Yes! She could go to the gym at 5.30a.m. Yes! She could learn some moves from Train with Gawain ‘trademark’ and she
would
join the crowds of svelte fashionistas marching up and down the avenues in slinky clothes. Annie walked towards the large glass doors which she guessed must be number 17. No number was attached to the doors, but there was a number 15 on one side, and a number 19 on the other. She looked all around for a bell, a buzzer, a button of any kind: but there was nothing, just a small black box with a tiny green light at the corner.

Was she supposed to talk to it?

‘Hello? Is this the gym?’ she tried. No reply.

She looked at her watch. It was 5.27a.m. Surely Gawain would already be here? Wouldn’t he be looking out for her, since there was no obvious way of getting inside?

‘Hello?’ she said to the box again.

Just then the tallest, thinnest, blondest girl Annie had ever set eyes on, away from a catwalk, strode up to the door. As she was dressed in tightest vest, tightest capris, a pink hoodie and trainers with soles as thick as mattresses, it was obvious where she was headed. Annie gave her a friendly, we’re-all-in-this-together kind of smile and stood aside hoping the girl knew how to get in the door.

The girl, in turn, gave her an icy up-and-down, whipped out a set of keys with a little grey electronic tag attached and waved them at the black box. Immediately the green light turned orange and the glass door sprang open.

The girl went through and attempted to close the door in Annie’s face.

‘But I’m going to the gym too!’ Annie protested, ‘I’m supposed to see Train with Gawain and I don’t know how to get in.’

‘The rule is no tailgating,’ the girl replied.

‘Please!’ Annie whimpered, ‘or can you at least tell someone up there I’m here and to open the door?’

With a sigh, the girl relented. Annie followed her into a tiny elevator where they stood facing each other, the duck and the stork, saying nothing. The lift stopped on the second floor and the girl got out: ‘This is the gym,’ she told Annie, then with a bounce of perfectly pert arse she was gone, leaving Annie in a criminally, minimally chic waiting area.

She gazed at the tall, black, shiny counter, dazzlingly white walls and floor-to-ceiling Manhattan view. Oh, and framed, signed photos of the gym’s clients, of course: Julia Roberts, Tina Fey … No, Annie wasn’t intimidated. Nooooo, no. Why on earth should she feel intimidated, standing in a place like this in fifteen-year-old trainers and her daughter’s pyjamas?

As she contemplated getting back in the lift, a perfectly proportioned, perfectly tanned, perfectly blond man in a tight black T-shirt bounded up and slid behind the counter.

‘Good morning,’ he said with a way too perky for 5.30a.m. smile.

‘Good morning,’ Annie replied.

‘And you must be Pam, our new cleaner, in bright and early.’

Annie looked at him in horror and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘No,’ she squeaked, ‘I’m Annie, I have an appointment with Gawain.’

Now it was the blond’s turn to look surprised:
‘Really?’
he said with a little too much astonishment, ‘Gawain?’ Then came the killer: ‘Are you
sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Could you just tell him I’m here, please?’

The guy pressed some numbers on the phone in front of him and there was a brief buzzing sound. Moments later, Gawain appeared in the reception area.

He was already in a white vest top, looking slighty sweaty. Either he’d been doing a workout, or his first client of the day had already been and gone.

‘Hi Annie, how’re you doing?’

Gawain held out his hand and didn’t look entirely unfriendly.

‘Hi,’ Annie said, shaking it and trying not to faint, die or throw up with fear.

But Gawain was already striding off. ‘Follow me.’

She was shown to another bright white and black room where Gawain served her a shot of wheatgrass juice. ‘Bitter but beautiful,’ he promised, handing her a questionnaire.

More like bile and bleuuuuuurghh, she thought as she took just the one gulp and filled in her answers.

Gawain watched over her shoulder and as she neared the end, he came to his conclusion: ‘Unfit but not unwell. Good. We can work with that, girl. We’re going to work hard with that.’

He smiled encouragingly as he opened the door to the gym, and Annie, dazzled by the bulging biceps and the bright white smile began to fall in under the Train with Gawain spell.

‘You are going to feel pain with Gawain. But you will gain with Gawain. Every single day that you train with Gawain, you will gain with Gawain,’ he began to chant at Annie as she hauled her great lardy bum onto the seated bike.

After a minute or two of sedate cycling, she decided this was OK, she could do this. But that was when Gawain gave her the bad news.

‘OK Miss Annie, that was the warm-up.’

As she tried to crank up the pedals, Gawain encouraged her with all kinds of visualizations: ‘You’re about to win gold at the Olympics … there’s someone right on your tail, at your shoulder now, come on, girl, race, race! You want to take gold!’ Panting hard, Annie just focused on the bike’s timer.
Hideous
– only 25 seconds had gone past. How could this be when her heart was hammering and her lungs were heaving in and out like bellows? 35 … 42 … time seemed to have ground to a halt. 41?? It was going backwards. Her breath rattled in her chest and she wondered if she was about to die.

‘Come on, you can do this …’ Gawain urged.

When she looked again: 58, 59 … 60. She’d made it! Gawain told her to pedal ‘nice and easy’ for a minute.

He also looked at her with some concern.

‘I’m not used to dealing with someone who’s so out of shape,’ he admitted, but before Annie got too downhearted, he helpfully added: ‘So it’s a learning experience for both of us.’

Before she knew it, Annie was pedalling her heart out again. The beautiful gym with its arched windows and state of the art machines was almost empty, apart from skinny girl who was in the corner on some upright machine which looked like the modern version of a medieval rack.

‘Water,’ Annie gasped, ‘I need water.’

‘Yes, you’re right, we are going to re-hydrate in just 16–15–14–13 seconds. C’mon, pedal. PEDAL! Faster. Faster!’

As they repeated the ‘one minute fast, one minute easy’ routine on every machine in the room, Annie’s state of mind seemed to hover between,‘I’m going to die, right now, and never see my lovely children again’ and – when Gawain’s voice was right in her ear, urging her on – ‘I can do this. I can get fit, I can shift the weight. I really can!’

It was almost as intense as childbirth. Almost as much pain too. As she slid off each machine, Annie clung to Gawain’s arm, needing his support. There was no way she could ever work this hard in a gym without Gawain right beside her

‘You’re already fitter and you’re already stronger,’ he told her, so convincingly that she almost believed him. ‘The aerobic part is almost over, Annie girl, then we’re gonna tone.’

Tone. Tone? What could it mean? She felt so hot it was like delirium, so sore it was like death.

Skinny girl was finished on the machine in the corner, and patting at her ever so slightly shiny face with a towel, then sipping from a chic lilac water bottle. Two guys and another supermodel-like being had also appeared now. But Annie was in too much pain to care.

Gawain was strapping her into the torture device in the corner of the room. Her feet were being fixed into weird strappy pedals, and grips were being placed in her hands.

‘This is like a cross trainer, but much more effective. We can tilt and wobble you while you work. We can hit every muscle. Muscles you didn’t even know you had are going to hurt you so bad tomorrow.’

She couldn’t wait.

Annie tried to pump her arms and legs the way Gawain was demonstrating, but she felt as if she was trapped in treacle. Nothing moved.

‘Right … OK there, I’ll just move those weights down a notch.’

Finally she started. Shuffling her legs forward, pumping her arms.

‘Now out to the sides.
Raise
, and lower,’ Gawain urged, again demonstrating. Leg out to the side, arm out to the side. Was he serious?

Annie scanned the gym, searching hopelessly for some sort of help. She now took a proper look at the guy pounding furiously on the treadmill in front of the window. His face was in profile, tilted slightly away from her, but his bright blond hair and broad shoulders gave him away.

It was Taylor! It had to be – right there on the treadmill, just feet away from her!

Now
Annie found the strength to pound. She began to punch her arms forward as hard as she could, imagining she was pummelling Taylor in the face with every move.