‘Well, that picture is crap. Why don’t we take a selfie instead?’
‘Sure,’ I squeak as he grabs my phone, stands right next to me and before I know what’s happening, puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. I think I have died and gone to heav – er – probably hell after that.
‘Much better.’ He smiles, looking at the picture and handing my phone back. ‘When shall we pencil in your orientation meeting and first PT training session? We’ve got a couple of slots open tomorrow evening and early morning?’
I have plans tomorrow night but something about this Jordan makes me do and say silly things so I find myself agreeing to come in at half six in the morning.
This is the first time in my life that I’m going to do something that will make me healthy and strong. I’ve never exercised properly (unless you count a couple of half-hearted online yoga sessions), I can’t swim, and apart from a crash diet when I was sixteen, have never thought much about the food I put in my body. I’ve heard that once you pass thirty, your metabolism slows down and before you know it, you’re waddling around with Type 2 diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis.
Not me, though. I’m taking control of my life – and my future. With a massive grin on my face and a spring in my step, I leave the gym feeling motivated and excited.
*
When my alarm goes off at quarter past five the following morning, all I want to do is punch Jordan in his stupid, perfect face. What sort of voodoo did he do on me that had me agreeing to come in at half six ? Who in the world decides to go to the gym before work, when they could be catching up on much-needed beauty sleep instead?
I roll over, cover my head with my soft, warm and oh-so-cosy pillow and bury myself deeper under my duvet. Jordan can get lost; there is no way I’m waking up and leaving the house when it’s still dark. My alarm goes off again so I grab my phone, turn it off and close my eyes for the second time – and then I remember exactly how much I’ve paid for these personal training sessions.
With a groan, I force myself out of bed and into the shower. It’s already five thirty and I have only half an hour to make myself look presentable and leave the house. I curse Mo for making me stay up until midnight talking to him as I hurriedly apply my makeup in the dark and hunt around for attractive workout gear. I begin to realise that exercising with someone I fancy is a really, really daft idea.
‘You’re seriously doing this?’ Amina smirks from the kitchen table as I scoff down a banana, fill up my water bottle and head for the front door.
‘Why are you up?’ I ask as I catch a glimpse of my ashen complexion in the hallway mirror. Waking up this early really doesn’t suit me.
‘I have a meeting at our head office in Birmingham,’ she replies. ‘Why didn’t you book sessions in after work?’
I turn and give her a massive, fake smile and repeat my dad’s favourite saying: ‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes one healthy, wealthy and wise.’ And with that parting wisdom, I turn around and head out into the cold, dark street.
There’s a tingly feeling in my stomach as I walk up to the bus stop. I don’t know if it’s because it’s so quiet and eerie, if it’s because I know I’m about to be tortured, because I get to spend an hour in close proximity to Jordan, or because I’m actually excited about doing something new. Whatever it is, I pull my coat tighter around me, recite Ayatul Kursi, an Arabic prayer for protection, and quicken my pace.
When I get to the main road, I’m pleased to see that it’s quite busy. But despite the bustle, there is a sort of calm serenity at this time of the morning. No one seems to be in a rush yet, and all along the bus route I watch lights turn on in Victorian terraced houses, people coming out of their front doors wrapped up in thick coats and scarves, and little grocery shops and newsagents rolling up their shutters.
By the time I get to the gym, not only am I fully awake, I’m finally feeling like myself and I can’t wait to get started.
‘All right, love?’ Jordan calls out as I enter the warm, brightly lit reception area. ‘Changing room’s that way – meet you out here in five minutes.’
Gosh, talk about cutting straight to the chase. I sort of hoped I’d have a moment of small talk with him while my makeup is still perfect and my hair is in place.
‘Sure, see you in a minute!’ I reply freakishly chirpily, remembering in time to put on the American accent. I skip over to the changing area and, to my surprise, there are at least five other women in the communal area of the room in various states of undress. There’s a woman wearing a towel with wet hair dripping down her back, indicating that she’s already finished her workout, and the others look like they’re raring to go.
I pull on a pair of brand-new black jogging bottoms, a black long-sleeved top and spray myself with deodorant for the second time, hoping the double protection and dark colours will disguise any sweat or unpleasant odours appearing on my person. With a deep breath, I urge the butterflies in my tummy to settle down and then head back into the unknown.
‘Let’s start with the initial assessment,’ Jordan says as he ushers me into a little office with various bits of equipment. ‘Can you take off your trainers and stand on the scales over there?’
‘Erm, is that really necessary?’ I stall, my eyes darting between him and the dreaded scales. ‘I know how much I weigh, so can we move on to the next part?’ Jordan smiles patiently at me and leans forward so I can smell his fresh, enticing scent. I inhale deeply to calm my nerves but I end up breathing in more of him, which makes me a bit giddy.
‘I know, but it’s for my records. The scales don’t just tell you your weight – they tell you your BMI, how much fat there is on your body, how much water weight and how much muscle as well. It’s really useful so we can make sure you’re building muscle, burning fat and not only losing water.’
I really don’t want to do this. But then I don’t want to look like a wimp either, so I find myself taking off my shoes, my watch, my earrings and even my hairband before tentatively getting onto the scales. My hands are clammy and I’m too scared to look down at the number, so I don’t. Jordan makes a ‘hmm’ sound and writes something down on my chart. What sort of reaction is ‘hmm’? Is it a good ‘Oh, she’s actually lighter than she looks’ ‘hmm’ or is it a ‘Oh shit, how am I going to sort this lump of lard out’ sort of ‘hmm’?
‘Right, you can come down now,’ he says, and I leap off it as if it’s turned to hot coal. I sit back down and he asks me what sort of exercise I usually do.
‘Well, I walk to the bus stop every day,’ I reply hesitantly, looking down at my barely scuffed exercise trainers. He nods encouragingly, as if expecting me to continue.
‘Erm, that’s it,’ I admit when the pause starts becoming uncomfortable.
‘Oh, right,’ he says without missing a beat. ‘Is there any sort of fitness goal you’re aspiring towards?’
‘What do you mean exactly?’