Читать книгу Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018 - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 12

It’s three days since Lucy’s fashion show and all the buzz around the 10k charity run has had an effect on me. I have decided – albeit reluctantly – to get fit for the first time in my life.

But I’m not as fearless as Paloma.

She’s started running every evening, through the village and out along country lanes, but I’m not terribly keen on putting my wobbly bits on public show like that. So, I’ve decided to join the gym instead. I figure if I go prompt at seven in the morning, when it opens, there’ll be fewer people to observe me tackling the treadmill. (I’m thinking particularly of Theo Steel. I really do not want to bump into him in my baggy T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.)

Leaving the house, I give the milkman a cheery wave and head for the sports centre. Avoiding the main gate and taking a short cut through the bushes into the sports centre car park, I do a quick scan of the few cars parked there at this evil early hour. A pink Porsche, a clapped-out old Fiesta that looks as if it’s been abandoned and an ugly, shiny people carrier. In other words, none that screams ‘Theo Steel’.

Phew!

I whip off the dark glasses, which are probably a little over the top at seven in the morning, with the sun just a cheery promise lurking on the horizon. Then I change my mind and put them back on. At least they mask the puffiness from a very late night spent perfecting my scone selection.

By the time I crashed out around three, I had five different varieties cooling on wire trays. The date scones are my personal favourite, although I know Paloma prefers the cherry and coconut. Throw in a savoury flavour – cheddar, parmesan and cracked black pepper – plus blueberry lemon cream, and classic sultana, and hopefully, there will be a scone to suit every customer’s taste.

What prompted this morning’s early rise was Paloma knocking on my door last night, just before six. She was hoping to persuade me to join her on a jog around the village, but I despatched her speedily on her way, joking that I had far more enjoyable things to do with my time, such as cleaning the hard-to-reach bits behind the radiators and watching paint dry.

But after she’d gone, I decided that if I was to take part in Lucy’s 10k with everyone else and not totally show myself up, I needed to do something about my lack of fitness because I suspected you needed a bit more than natural stamina to run all that way.

Walking into the sports centre, I find reception deserted, except for a model-like girl leaning on the other side of the desk painting her nails. Dressed in a skimpy bright pink leotard, she’s wearing massive rollers that look more suited to flattening road surfaces than styling hair.

‘Hi, you’re an early bird.’ She beams at me. ‘I’m Lorena. I suppose you’re wanting to bag the anti-gravity treadmill before anyone else!’

I give a nervous laugh. ‘Sounds like an instrument of torture if ever there was one.’

‘Have you tried it? No? Oh, it’s amazing. You can beat world records on it.’

‘Really?’

She nods. ‘You run at eighty per cent of your body weight, so you’re much lighter and therefore you can run faster.’

‘Right. But isn’t that cheating?’

Lorena bursts into peals of laughter at my witty jest (I actually wasn’t joking) and waves her hands in the air to dry her nails.

I clear my throat. ‘I just want to join the gym and use an – er – ordinary treadmill if possible. Do you have ordinary treadmills here?’

Another peal of laughter. ‘About a hundred and twenty.’ She looks at me kindly, as if I’m several dumb-bells short of a complete workout.

‘Oh. Great.’ I put my thumb up awkwardly. ‘Well, I just need the one.’ Honestly, I am so out of my depth here. I feel like this girl’s grandma even though we’re probably about the same age.

I must get myself some new workout gear. My outfit today is circa turn of the century, from the one and only other time I joined a gym (although I wisely left the matching sweatband at home in the bag). I’m going to stand out like the complete novice that I am.

I’m also terrified Theo Steel is going to walk in at any moment and think I’m stalking him …

‘I’ll book you in for a seduction,’ Lorena says.

Confused, I whip round to the door. Is Theo here?

Lorena runs a perfect nail down a column and looks up. ‘Induction at ten-fifteen with Gerry?’

Ah! I breathe more easily. An induction.

I actually just want to go home and forget this whole idea. But Lorena is already writing my name in the diary and handing me a membership form.

I go home and fill the time until ten-fifteen making a Bakewell tart cake, which smells heavenly baking in the oven. Not having had time for breakfast earlier, I end up ‘testing’ two large slices of the jammy, almond-cake lusciousness and deciding it should definitely feature on the café menu. I make a note to bake two more for the ‘tasting party’ I’m planning.

Just before my appointment with ‘Gerry’ at ten-fifteen, I brave the gym again, register at the desk with a girl called Charlene, and scuttle through to get changed into my sad gym gear.

Gerry turns out to be a guy of about twenty with a broad Yorkshire accent and a lovely self-deprecating sense of humour, which puts me immediately at my ease. He takes me on a tour of the machines and how they work, and I spend my time nodding and looking knowledgeable, pretending I’ve memorised his instructions perfectly. There’s not a sign of Theo Steel and I start to relax a bit and feel less awkward. Maybe it’s his day off.

Gerry starts me off on a treadmill, very slowly at first then increasing the speed, and actually, I’m doing fine. I was worried I’d collapse, breathless, after ten seconds, but my legendary stamina appears to be serving me well. Gerry leaves me on my own to attend to another novice and that’s when I get a bit too confident, pumping up the speed and almost falling off the back of the machine because my legs can’t go fast enough.

Feeling silly but relieved to still be in one piece, I glance around nervously. I’ve got a muscle-bound Trojan pounding a machine on each side of me, sweat raining down like two mini cloud-bursts, but they’re both so doggedly focused on getting in their mileage, they haven’t even registered my mishap.

I climb back on and do another mile, then decide that’s probably enough for my first day. Feeling rather proud of myself, I grab my towel to wipe my brow and exchange a smile with another novice. I’m not the only new girl – and soon, if I stick with it, I won’t actually be the new girl at all. I’ll show Lucy Slater that I’m more than capable of running for ten kilometres without stopping!

Feeling much better, I loop the towel round my neck, the way I’ve seen other people do, and swig down a cup of water at the drinks machine.

What on earth was I worried about? This is a breeze.

And Theo Steel was nowhere in sight!

Entering the changing room, all I’m thinking about is trying out one of those lovely power showers I spotted earlier, then going home to start painting the café walls with the pretty pale lilac paint I’ve chosen.

As I push confidently through the door, I’m rooting around in my bag for the locker key. So I’ve walked a fair way into the room before I finally look up and notice all is not as it should be.

Realisation engulfs me slowly, like treacle poured onto me from a height.

This – is – not – the – ladies’ – changing – room.

All the men turn in my direction, innocently displaying their nakedness.

I gulp. Suffering bed snakes!

I’m staring at them and they’re staring right back, frozen in time. We’re like some weird tableau in an edgy, fringe theatre production. One man has the presence of mind to whip a bag of crisps in front of his privates. (Sadly for him, his packet of Wotsits does a pretty good job of concealment.) At least three of the men are completely stark bollock naked.

But it’s the one with his foot up on the bench, pausing in the act of drying his thigh with one of the gym’s white towels, who turns my face the deepest shade of crimson.

Theo Steel.