I’m about to agree wholeheartedly when Harry jumps in, looking quite cross. ‘No!’ he tells her firmly. ‘You can’t do that. We’ve committed to this – you’ve committed to this, Clara.’
Salma nods firmly. ‘We just have to go in, be brazen. Come on.’ She gestures at the door and Clara looks to me anxiously. At last she mutters, ‘Fuck it,’ and leads us through the glass door, where the music is suddenly overwhelmingly loud. The large, already-sweaty group have paired off and are pounding each other, wearing big gloves.
A huge man at the front shoots us a disapproving look but Clara has spotted her client.
‘Milo!’ she squeals loudly, waving over and leading us to his corner spot. Phone cameras are pointed in his – and our – direction as he pauses, mid-punch.
I am mortified, staring at my feet as we cross the room to him, people tutting in all directions around us. The sickness recedes, replaced by the acceptance that I am among the worst of people who ever lived.
How am I here? How am I in a live-streamed exercise class –kickboxing, no less! – with the worst hangover of my life, my face on fire, surrounded by strangers and celebrities? And I waslate.
This isn’t me at all.
‘Clara!’ Milo looks genuinely happy to see her. He pulls her in for a quick hug and I see her breath catch momentarily.
To be honest, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the guy isunbelievable. Offensively hot. Even in his shitty gym clothes, you can see he’s all angles and sexy bumps. His hair is a touch too long, as is the stubble on his face. It’s just enough to make him seem real. I’ve barely taken any notice ofBook Boyfriend, but I’ve definitely seen him in something else. A film, maybe? Something much better than stupidBook Boyfriendanyway.
We must only be a few minutes into the class, but perspiration already dots his forehead; he’s been working hard.
He turns to the rest of us. ‘Hey, you lot,’ he greets us amiably, his eyes stopping at my chin. Or a few inches below. I feel my face burn redder.
‘Hi,’ I say shyly as Harry throws himself in Milo’s direction.
‘HEY, MATE!’ he practically yells, startling his man crush, who takes another second to return the smile.
‘All right, Harry?’ Milo replies, dazzling with that TV star charisma. Salma, Clara and Harry all swoon under his gaze and I feel myself straighten up, determined not to follow suit. However embarrassing this whole thing is; however red my face is; no matter how much my nipples are currently stroking my ears… Iwillnot succumb to this idiot’s good looks. I know I was horrible to him last night about the show – and he didn’t deserve it – but also he kind of does. After all, heis still guilty of the crime: he has ruined my favourite novel with his stupid show.
‘ERRRR,’ the teacher at the front is glaring over, ‘WE HAVE STARTED THE WARM-UP, CAN WE ALL GET BACK TO THE CLASS, PLEASE?’
Shame-faced, we pair off to pound on each other. Salma takes the pad and I don the gloves, trying to throw punches that cross my body. The teacher shouts at us to work harder, but I can’t. The waves of sickness come with every beat of the music. Every pathetic, weak little punch I throw brings with it a painful thud in my head. Within a few minutes I’m smelling myself, and I smell like red wine. It’s all so, so bad.
‘Booze is seeping out of my pores,’ I whisper to Salma, who nods sympathetically.
‘I know, babe, I can smell it,’ she admits, grimacing.
‘Oh god,’ I murmur, praying for a break. I just need the teacher to give us a thirty-second water break, so I can disappear to the loo and not come back. I stare over at him, willing him to call a halt to things. Please, I silently beg.Pleeeeease.
‘OK, hold it there!’ shouts the buff instructor and I pant with relief. ‘We’re swapping partners around.’ What? No! Give us a break, for the love of GOD. He moves around the room, personally pairing people up as I anxiously seek out an exit route. Could I just make a run for it? No way, there are too many excitable boxers between me and the door. There’s no escape.
Huge hands grab me by the shoulders and physically move me away from Salma.
‘You,’ the instructor shouts in my ear, ‘are going to be kicking…him.’ He dumps me in front of the worst possible partner and I stare at the ground, mortified.
It’s Milo Samuels. Not only am I horrified by my drunken actions last night but I’m also well aware of all the camera phones now directed straight at me and him.
I glance over at Clara, who is eyeballing me. ‘Apologize!’ she mouths and I sigh, trying to meet Milo’s eyes.
There is a long silence. He’s looking at me with trepidation. ‘You OK?’ he asks warily.
I must be an absolute state.
I lick my lips and swallow hard, tasting my own sweat, which is easily twenty per cent proof.
‘Yep,’ I say abruptly, then regret it. Sighing, I try again. ‘I’m… Clara says I have to… I mean, I am very… um…’ I take a deep breath as the instructor starts screaming at us to roundhouse kick the pads. ‘Milo,’ I try again and he waits patiently. ‘I’m very sorry about my behaviour last night.’ My chest gets tight. ‘I was very drunk and I really don’t drink very often because, well, I mean… you saw. Drunk Jemma is a twat.’
He laughs heartily, then looks embarrassed as people glance over.
I take a step back, attempting a kick and nearly falling over. I continue speaking quickly, in a low voice, ‘But being drunk doesn’t excuse my rudeness, so I am very sorry.’
