The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook (8 page)

Dan nudges me, ‘You’d need to be committed if you want to have kids.’ He nudges me again. ‘Like in a mental institution…’

‘I got it, Dan.’

‘Yeah, but you didn’t laugh.’

‘Because it wasn’t funny. Go on, Wendy.’

Wendy smiles, and goes back to reading the
Mail
. ‘I’ve finished, really.’

‘Thank goodness,’ whispers Dan, sticking his tongue out and miming hanging himself.

And as Wendy chases him round the bar with her rolled-up newspaper, for the first time I realize that this isn’t just about me sorting myself out. It’s about Jane as well.

And more importantly, it’s about us.

11.21 a.m.

I’m at my desk, scanning through the ‘Health and Fitness’ section of the
Argus
, until an ad catches my eye. ‘
New You.
We can transform you. Call Sam Smith’, followed by a mobile number. Sam Smith. He sounds like an upright kind of bloke. I take a deep breath, pick up the phone, and dial.

Sam answers after three rings, but turns out to have a very girly voice.

‘New You, personal trainers.’

‘Oh. Yes. Hi. Can I speak to Sam Smith, please?’

‘This is she.’

This wasn’t what I was expecting, and I’m considering putting the phone down, when Sam’s voice comes back on the line.

‘Hello?’

‘You’re a girl?’

‘Last time I looked.’

‘But you’re…I was expecting…I mean, Sam, that’s usually short for Samuel, isn’t it?’ I’m aware that I’m blushing down the phone.

‘Or Samantha.’ Her voice hardens a little, ‘But if that’s a problem for you, I can recommend someone with a little more hair on their chest.’

I think about this for a second or two, and realize that it’s probably not a problem at all. Who better to knock me into the kind of shape that Jane will find attractive than another woman.

‘No. No, that’s fine. My name’s Edward, and I need to get fit, you see. My, I mean—’

Sam interrupts me, ‘Edward, let me stop you there. I’m with a client at the moment, but why don’t we get together later today?’

I swallow hard. ‘Today?’

‘Just for an initial chat,’ says Sam, noting the alarm in my voice. ‘Shall we say six o’clock? Then you can tell me exactly what it is you’re trying to accomplish, and we can work out how we’re going to achieve it.’

We arrange a place to meet, and I put the phone down, feeling slightly nervous about what I’m getting myself in to. Telling Sam what I’m trying to accomplish will be fairly straightforward. It’s the ‘achieving it’ part that I’m worried about.

6 p.m.

I’m in a cafe on the seafront, drinking the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted, while waiting for Sam to arrive. I’ve already been sitting nervously at the table for ten minutes, and I’m trying to hide an ashtray full of my discarded cigarette butts when she walks in through the cafe door.

The moment I spot her, I suddenly feel rather fat, extremely unfit, and very, very self-conscious. Compared to me, Sam positively glows with health. With short dark hair framing a pretty face, a cute, slightly upturned nose, and the most beautiful brown eyes, stick her in a black cocktail dress and she’d be Audrey Hepburn circa
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. Without the cigarette holder, of course.

She’s not that tall; perhaps a shade over five feet in her Nikes, and wearing a bright blue tracksuit that hugs her athletic, almost ballet-dancer figure. I smile at her, conscious that I’m holding my stomach in, which, when I catch sight of my reflection in the window, gives me a bit of a pained expression.

She walks over towards my table. ‘You must be Edward.’

‘Sam?’ I say, before realizing that I’ve just asked possibly the most unnecessary question in the whole universe.

‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too,’ I say, trying hard not to wince when she shakes me firmly by the hand.

As Sam sits down opposite me and orders a decaf coffee from the waitress, I wonder why I ‘must’ be Edward—am I the fattest, most unfit person in the whole cafe? I look around quickly and then realize that actually, apart from the waitress and Sam, I’m the only other person in the whole cafe. But even including the waitress, who’s perhaps nudging fifty, I’m probably still the most unfit person here.

‘So,’ says Sam, pulling a clipboard out of her rucksack and uncapping a biro with her teeth, ‘as I said on the phone, I thought we ought to sit down and have a chat first, so you could tell me what your goals are.’

‘That’s easy,’ I say, reaching into my pocket to retrieve Jane’s photo. ‘This.’

Sam takes it from me and studies the picture closely, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘Blimey. That’s a bit drastic. I mean, exercise can work wonders, and I know my ad says we can transform you, but…’

‘But what?’

‘I think you may need the help of a good plastic surgeon. And maybe some hormone treatment?’

I find myself blushing furiously as I blurt out my reply. ‘No. You don’t understand. This is Jane. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. She’s left me. And I need to get her back.’

‘Oh,’ says Sam, looking more than a little relieved. ‘Right. Sorry.’

‘I’ve got three months to…To make her fancy me again.’

It’s not the first time I’ve said it out loud, and although it still sounds a little strange to me, Sam doesn’t seem to think so. She hands the photo back to me, looks me up and down, then lets out a small whistle.

‘Three months? That’s going to be tough.’

‘Whatever it takes.’

‘Well,’ says Sam, writing my name down on the clipboard, ‘in that case, all I can say is that Jane’s a lucky girl.’

Sam runs through some personal details, general health questions, and family medical history, noting my answers down, before looking me directly in the eye.

‘So tell me a little bit about your lifestyle, and be honest. Do you smoke?’

As the waitress brings Sam’s coffee over, my eyes flick guiltily towards the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. ‘No. I mean, yes. Trying to give it up though.’

Sam follows my line of vision. ‘Well, you should think about trying a little harder. What do you like to do in your spare time?’

I shrug. ‘Most evenings I go to the Jim.’

Sam raises her eyebrows before realization kicks in. ‘That would be “Jim” as in “Admiral”, rather than g-y-m?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Are you into any sports?’

‘Darts. And I’m quite good at pool.’

Sam shakes her head. ‘Try and think of something that’s not pub-based, please.’

‘Football.’

Sam looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Five-a-side, or Sunday in the park? Where do you play?’

‘Sorry,’ I say, guiltily. ‘I thought you meant watching.’

Sam sips her coffee, makes a face, and pushes the cup away. ‘Can you swim?’

I glance through the cafe window at the churning grey sea, and decide to lie.

‘Nope.’

‘Do you own a bike?’

‘Same answer. Sorry.’

Sam sighs thoughtfully, and when she puts her clipboard down on the table, it seems to have an alarming number of crosses on it.

‘Right. Could you stand up, please? Let me get a proper look at you.’

I do as ordered, thankful that the waitress has disappeared, and that we still seem to be the only customers. Sam looks me up and down, and I find myself blushing again, especially when she pokes a finger into my lardy stomach.

‘Take your shirt off, please.’

‘What?’

‘Your shirt. Take it off.’

‘Why?’ I look around, somewhat self-consciously.

‘I need to be able to assess the base point. Get an idea of your current physique, fitness levels, that sort of thing.’

I’ve read about this in the copy of
Men’s Fitness
I flicked through in the office this afternoon. Body-fat percentage, skin-fold callipers, working out my ideal weight and all that.

‘Here?’ I can hear the gurgle of my self-respect disappearing down the drain.

Sam nods. ‘Don’t be shy. No one’s looking.’

As she rummages in her sports bag, presumably for the callipers, I slip off my jacket and tie, and pull my shirt off over my head. Unfortunately I haven’t undone enough of the buttons, and it gets stuck around my neck. When I eventually manage to get it off, I notice Sam’s holding a Polaroid camera, and before I can stop her or put my shirt back on, she’s taken my picture.

‘What are you doing?’ I say, blinking from the flash.

‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she replies, putting the photo down on the table to develop. ‘Now, let me show you how we can work out how overweight you are.’

‘Don’t you need to take some measurements?’

But Sam’s testing procedures are less sophisticated than that. She turns me to face my half-naked reflection in the cafe window, grabs me by the shoulders, and shakes me from side to side, producing a rather unpleasant ripple effect, particularly for an old couple walking their dog outside.

‘Watch closely,’ says Sam. ‘It’s quite simple really. If it jiggles, it’s fat.’

As I look at my reflection, I jiggle. Everywhere. In fact it reminds me of one of those fairground mirrors that distort your normal appearance. Only trouble is, this
is
my normal appearance.

‘Right,’ says Sam, making another note on the clipboard. ‘You can put your shirt back on now.’

‘And what was the photo for? Blackmail?’

Sam smiles, and hands it to me. ‘Motivation. This is for you to stick on the front of your fridge. Every time you feel like snacking and you go to open the door, I want you to look at it and remind yourself why you shouldn’t.’

‘Point taken,’ I say, slipping on my tie and buttoning my collar up. ‘So, have you ever trained anyone with the same goals as me?’

‘To get women?’

‘A woman,’ I correct her. ‘Singular.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Sam. ‘Almost all of them. Except the gay guys, of course.’

I’m a little surprised at this. ‘You mean there’s been other people this has happened to?’

‘What—been dumped, want to get back in shape? Yes, a few. But in general, you men are only after one thing, if you’ll excuse the phrase.’

‘You’re kidding?’

Sam shakes her head. ‘People come to me for a variety of reasons—to lose weight, tone up, get fit, improve in a particular sport—but really, it all boils down to the same motivation.’

‘Which is?’

‘They just want to look good naked.’

As I do my tie back up, Sam puts her clipboard down, and meets my gaze.

‘What?’ I look back at her, nervously.

‘You’re sure you want to put yourself through all of this? For a woman?’

I swallow hard. ‘Can it be done?’

Sam folds her arms. ‘Well, I’ve seen worse. Not much worse, mind. And while I won’t be able to turn you into Brad Pitt, you might at least get to see your toes again. You may even be able to touch them. But you’ll definitely be a better shape. And you’ll certainly be
in
better shape.’

‘Great. So, how often do we need to, you know, do it?’ I ask, nervously. ‘I was thinking maybe twice a week?’

‘Edward, by the looks of things, twice a day would be more appropriate. But I don’t want to kill you.’

I laugh at this, but then I realize Sam’s not making a joke.

‘So, when can we start?’

‘Well, we’ve only got three months, right?’

I nod. ‘And counting.’

‘So it had better be tomorrow. We’ll go for an introductory session and see how we get on. How does seven o’clock sound?’

I look at my watch. ‘I should be home from work by then.’

‘No. Seven a.m. You know, in the morning,’ she adds, just in case I haven’t understood.

‘Isn’t there another time we can do?’ I say, conscious of the whining in my voice. ‘A little, er, later?’

Sam pulls her diary out of her bag and consults it. ‘Well, I’m pretty booked up at the moment. Unless you can spare an hour during the day?’

I can just see me getting that past Natasha. ‘Er…my boss doesn’t normally approve of me taking a lunch hour.’

‘Right. Well, seven a.m. it will have to be.’

‘Okay. Seven it is, then.’

‘And then there’s the small matter of my fee. It’s forty pounds an hour.’

I swallow even harder. ‘Fine. And I’d like to pay you up front every month, if that’s okay?’

Sam looks a little surprised. ‘That’s more than okay. But why?’

‘Because I’ve got a feeling that I’m not really going to enjoy this. Any of it. If I’m paying you on a daily basis, I might be tempted to stop, and at least if I’ve already paid you for the whole month I’m more likely to keep going.’

Sam shrugs. ‘Whatever works for you. Oh yes, and you’ll need to give me a key to your front door.’

I frown. ‘On top of the money? What for?’

Sam smiles back at me. ‘Because you’re going to find this hard, and there will be mornings when you won’t want to let me in. If this is going to work, you can’t afford to miss any sessions. And I mean, any.’

While she packs her things away into her rucksack, I settle up with the waitress, then walk Sam to the door.

‘So,’ I say, ‘see you tomorrow, then.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ she calls, as she jogs off into the cold night air. ‘Seven o’clock, don’t forget. On the dot.’

7.04 p.m.

When I get back home after my chat with Sam, I bump into Mrs Barraclough in the hallway.

‘Sorry Mrs B,’ I say, picking up her shopping bag, which she’s dropped in the encounter.

‘Pardon?’ She peers up at me through her thick bifocals.

‘I said “sorry”. For bumping into you. Can I help you upstairs with your shopping?’

Mrs Barraclough only lives one flight of stairs above me, but at her age, it seems to take her the best part of an hour to negotiate them, particularly when she’s laden with her weekly shop.

She smiles sweetly at me, revealing that she’s forgotten to put in her false teeth.

‘You wouldn’t be a dear and help me with my shopping, would you?’

‘That’s what I just said.’

‘Pardon?’

I suddenly worry that I’m in danger of having this conversation for the rest of my life. ‘Your shopping,’ I say, pointing to the carrier bag I’m holding. ‘I’ll help you.’

Realization dawns on Mrs Barraclough’s face. ‘Oh, silly me,’ she says, fiddling with her hearing aid. ‘I like to turn it down when I go out. Because of all the noise.’

‘That’s okay,’ I shout, which makes Mrs Barraclough jump, because she’s obviously turned the volume up too high.

While she adjusts it back down to a less eardrum-shattering level, I start up the stairs, but when I get to the first-floor landing, I look behind me, and she’s only managed to get about a third of the way up. I’m faced with the awkward dilemma of waiting for her to reach the top, which by my quick calculation might take about fifteen minutes, or leaving her bag outside her flat and then trying to get past her on the stairway, thus running the risk of knocking her all the way back down again. I decide on the former.