Page 19 of Two to Tango

Almost in perfect harmony, Becky and Sarah chime, ‘No way!’

‘I adore her videos on YouTube,’ Sarah says.

‘I make cakes for a living and she’s managing to keep the pounds off me,’ Becky adds, in her British royals–type accent.

‘What is that? British solidarity? Have a word, Drew.’ At that, Becky throws a peanut at me but I open my mouth and catch it, giving her a smug grin.

‘You two should find yourself someone nice to gush over. Or, better yet, let me hook you up with nutrition plans. I’m telling you, Izzy Coulthard may seem nice on TV and YouTube, but she’s got a pole so high up her ass, it’s—’

‘Okay, enough,’ Madge interjects. ‘Why was she in your gym anyway?’

‘To work out. And to ask if she can use a studio for her new DVD.’

Sarah does a goofy dance in her seat. ‘Eek. Can Becky and I come watch?’

‘I would let you if I had said yes, but I didn’t. I don’t want her in my gym.’

Madge turns to me and looks me in the eye. ‘Brooks, I’ve got two young kids. I really couldn’t give two hoots about working out when I run around after my Tasmanian devils all day, but this could be good for you,’ she reasons. ‘It would promote the gym in the process. I may not work as a full-time publicist any more but I still know a few things.’

The others jump on the bandwagon, giving me more reasons to say yes than I can count. Some based on breasts and ass. Some based on girly fitness instructor crushes. Drew’s based on helping to build memberships in anticipation of adding another gym to my portfolio.

Against my instincts, I’m left wondering whether it might not be the worst idea in the world to let Izzy ‘Flower Power’ Coulthard film in my gym.

7

BROOKS

I see the same look on Charlie’s face that I know is on my own – somewhere between wanting to pull her hair out and pity.

‘Next time I have a brain fart like this, please do everything in your power to stop those three letters coming out of my mouth,’ I tell her.

‘By three letters I take it you mean Y-E-S?’

Rubbing a hand across my chin, I just shake my head because it’s too late. There really isn’t any way to stop the circus show that has overtaken my unsuspecting gym and made it the farce of the city.

‘Would you pin these around the place?’ I hand her twenty signs, all black caps typed on white, and all saying the same thing:

SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. FILMING IN PROGRESS. THE CAMERA WORK IS LIMITED TO STUDIO A. PLEASE CONTINUE TO USE THE FACILITIES AS USUAL.

I head out of the reception area in search of the solitude of my office. I take out my phone and text Drew:

I am never drinking Dom again. I’ve been overrun by salsa-loving terrorists.

‘Look out, dude.’

I pin my back to the wall of the staircase as two cameramen come charging past, carrying poles and a large camera and those things that look like umbrellas but do something to change the lighting in a shot.

As I reach the landing of the second floor, I hear the same freakin’ dance track that’s been on loop for the last two hours. The sound is coming from Studio A, where Izzy Coulthard will be filming her DVDSalsa Yourself Slim.

Dragging a hand through my hair and glaring down the corridor to the open door of the studio, I say for my own pleasure, ‘I swear to God, one more fucking time and I’m cutting the plug.’

‘Oh, please.’ I recognize her accent before Izzy moves to stand in front of me. She’s in psychedelic yoga pants and a workout bra. But that is no ordinary workout bra. Her breasts are pushed up like perfectly formed, round, teasing… I drag my attention to her face, watching her drink from her sports bottle, hoping she didn’t catch my wandering eyes. ‘You’re getting just as much out of this deal as I am, so stop whining.’

I don’t have a chance to respond before I’m watching her firm ass cheeks move like silk – smooth, alluring, enticing – as she strides in the direction of the studio.

Argh, she’s right. I just need to suck it the hell up.

I’m still watching her as I round the corner toward my office and walk bang into the wiggling hips of a dancer, who is decked out in brand-new sports gear. Here, on the mezzanine balcony, overlooking my gawking regulars, blocking the route to my office, ten fit-as-sin dancers are swirling and grinding svelte hips, perfecting their pre-choreographed moves to Izzy’s salsa class.

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