Page 21 of Close to You
Ten
THE WHY
Three years, eight months ago
Considering I’m aiming for a career in the fitness industry, there’s definitely something off about the fact that I sweat like a 1970s BBC presenter when they hear a siren. Some people can run as if they’re being chased by bear and have to get ahead of their slowest friend – and still finish dry. With me, it’s like I’m halfway through a waterboarding.
I can’t stop eyeing the puddle of sweat at the side of the spinning bike, wondering if anyone else will notice and realise how disgusting I am. I shout that it’s time for the final climb and then push high out of the saddle to do it myself. The woman directly in front of me is on her first session and was gasping after the first climb almost twenty minutes ago. She is now pressed on the handlebars panting for air. I try to catch her eye to ask silently is she’s OK, but she doesn’t look up. I end up half watching her, while calling for everyone else to pedal. I could really do without someone having a heart attack during one of my classes. That puts a bit of a blemish on a CV.
‘Nearly there,’ I call.
The leisure centre’s ‘spin studio’ is more of a backroom that’s hidden along a warren of corridors somewhere near the boiler. I think it used to be a squash court. The alleged air conditioning spits out as much hot air as an uninformed listener on a radio phone-in. The air is clogged and humid and there’s no escape. Hot yoga is starting to become a thing and I guess the facilities are turning hot spinning into a pioneering offshoot.
‘And dial it down three notches,’ I shout.
There’s a collective gasp of relief as everyone sits back on their saddles. The woman struggling in front of me sways slightly as she fiddles with the bike’s resistance dial.
‘Let’s keep bringing it down,’ I add. ‘One more notch.’
Another minute and we’re done. People clamber off their bikes and start to wipe off the saddles, while I use one towel to mop the floor around me, and another to dry myself. Most give brief waves as they head back to the changing rooms and the new woman at the front insists she’ll be back. Another enthusiastically declares that she’s off to Turkey for a couple of weeks and will see me when she gets back.
I wait until everyone’s left and then check around to make sure nobody’s left anything. I’m ready to leave myself when I notice a woman leaning on the door frame. She’s in gym gear and there’s a sheen of sweat around her neck. I think she was on one of the bikes at the back, wearing a large headband that she’s now removed. I can’t be certain. She’s not one of the regulars, although there’s something vaguely familiar about her.
‘You’re Morgan, right?’ she says.
‘Yes…’
I wait for her to add something and, when she doesn’t, I continue: ‘It was hot in here today, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m Yasmine,’ the woman says. It could be a simple introduction – a pair of women swapping names – but she speaks with such self-assurance that it’s clear she expects me to know who she is. I try to remember whether I know any Yasmines, let alone her, but I can’t think of anyone.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘Did you want to sign up for a package of classes…? They’re doing ten per cent off if you book more than six in one go…’
‘You know David, don’t you?’ she replies. ‘David Persephone.’
‘Yes…’
‘He’s not told you about me, has he?’
Yasmine stands with her arms folded across her front, her features firm and unimpressed. Perhaps it says more about me than it does David, but my first thought is that she must be an ex-girlfriend. We’ve not gone through a full list of everyone we’ve ever been with – and I don’t think he’s mentioned a Yasmine anyway.
‘Should he have?’ I ask.
She glares at me like the way a stewardess looks at a hen party on a plane. It’s as if she’s wondering how to deal with me when she opens her mouth and says, ‘It’s just…’
She doesn’t get any further because there’s a whine of the intercom speaker overhead. Whatever’s being said is far too echoey for me to decipher but, when I look back to Yasmine, she is striding her way out of the studio. I wait for a moment, wondering if she’ll turn to give me some sort of clue as to what’s going on. It’s only when the doors bang at the far end of the corridor that I realise she isn’t coming back.
There’s no phone signal at the back of the leisure centre, so I have to hurry through the warren-like passages towards reception. There’s no sign of Yasmine, who is either an extremely fast walker, or she’s disappeared into one of the changing rooms.
I wait underneath the overhang outside the front doors, watching as the rain pours off the roof and thunders to the ground. It’s damp and clammy and my phone screen is unresponsive as I try to scroll through for David’s number. Not that it matters because, when I do finally manage to call him, there is no answer. I try a second time, though there’s no response. He did say there would be times he was unavailable – and every call we’ve shared has been at a time he suggested. I shouldn’t be surprised that I can’t reach him, I suppose.
My first attempt at a text message – ‘Who the hell is Yasmine?’ – is quickly deleted. I’m not sure yet if there’s any reason to be angry. That might be something for later.
I type out ‘Something weird happened. Call me’, but delete that, too. I’m not one of those Facebook attention seekers who’ll post something cryptic simply to get a slew of ‘U OK hun?’ responses.
I settle for something that I hope is breezy and whimsical. Something a sane, functioning human being would go for.
Hi! All’s fine here. Hope your trip is going well with loads of bargains! PS: Who’s Yasmine?
