‘You need to leave this house, Jennifer,’ Mum said firmly, apparently not taking no for an answer. She swiped my still half-full cup of coffee away, replacing it with a banana and a briskhmmof satisfaction, as though a phallic-shaped fruit was the answer to all my problems. ‘Besides, you might surprise yourself and actually enjoy it.’
‘This. Is. Hell!’ I panted, barely scraping together enough oxygen to get the words out and immediately wishing I’d preserved the energy. My thighs were burning as they pistoned up and down, valiantly trying to keep up with the annoyingly perky spin instructor at the front of the class who was wearing dangerously short shorts and looked like he’d barely broken a sweat.
‘Looking good out there, gang. OK, we’re going to pick up the pace now in three .?.?. two .?.?. one .?.?. let’s go!’
I groaned as the instructor stood up on the pedals, watching with dread as twenty Lycra-clad bottoms lifted off their saddles around me in perfect time to the chorus of Whitney Houston’s ‘IWanna Dance with Somebody’.I turned to my right, watching in disbelief as my somehow still-grinning mother gave me a double thumbs up, legs spinning almost as fast as the neon-coloured wheels.
‘Work that core, ladies, work it. Come on, finish strong. Here we go! How are we doing on that leader board? Yaaaaaas, Courtney, I see you riding high at the top there.’
The brunette in front of me with an impossibly long ponytail and a full face of make-up beamed proudly around the room as though intent on letting everyone know that was her. While Mum had somehow maintained a perfect middle-of-the-pack ranking the whole class, I was firmly in last place, three points below some other poor sucker called Vivienne who, like me, was trailing woefully behind everyone else.
‘Good job, Brenda, keep it up. You’re killing it, Michelle. Jennifer. Yes, you, Jennifer – back row, third from the left, you can’t hide from me.’
Fuck, he’d seen me.I’d been taking a much-needed break, doubled over on my handlebars, heaving in great gulps of air.
‘Come on, Jennifer!’ the instructor barked, yelling into his Britney-style headset like an army drill sergeant. ‘Work it, Jennifer, don’t give up on me now. Today’s the day you meet the best version of yourself. Today’s the day you look in that mirror and visualise the change you want to see.’
I lifted my head, finding my reflection in the intimidating wall of mirrors in front of me. My face was bright red, bordering on the same shade as Courtney’s sports bra, my cheeks blowing outwards like an aggressive pufferfish. Sweat had plastered my hair slick against my forehead, my once light-grey t-shirt now decorated with ever-expanding dark patches under both arms and between my boobs. Ifthiswas the best version of myself, I was in even deeper shit than I realised.
‘Nice work, Vivienne, another point on the board! Thatnew hip is really working,’ bellowed the instructor, throwing a thumbs up in the direction of a woman at the end of my row. I turned to offer her a look of solidarity, my fellow sufferer at the bottom of the leader board. But when I saw the grey hair, the dentures, the bifocals with the delicate pearl chain, I quickly turned back to the front.That was Vivienne?!She was old enough to be my grandmother!
‘Ahhhhh!’ The heavy bass of the music vibrating through the dimly lit room drowned out my scream as I heaved myself up off the handlebars, somehow convincing my legs to keep on turning. I couldn’t let myself be beaten by octogenarian Vivienne and her new hip.
‘Yes, Jennifer. Loving your attitude, never give up, girl. Keep pushing for ten .?.?. nine .?.?. eight .?.?.’
My legs were burning. As in, they felt like they were on actual fire. But still I kept pedalling, some misplaced fear of failure preventing me from giving up. I turned to my right, catching a glimpse of Vivienne who was looking morosely up at the scoreboard as I moved to within a point of her. She turned and caught my gaze, her eyes narrowing behind her inch-thick spectacles. Oh, it was so on.
‘.?.?. seven .?.?. six .?.?. five .?.?. four .?.?.’
I dropped my head back down, watching beads of sweat trickle off my nose, everything between my legs throbbing from being bashed repeatedly against the rock-hard saddle.
‘.?.?. three .?.?. two .?.?. one .?.?.woooo!’
‘YESSSS!’ I shrieked, punching both hands in the air as I looked up at the giant TV screen. Two whole points from the bottom, and more importantly, not last. I turned and gave Vivienne a smug smile but she was already heading for the exit, leaning heavily on her walking stick in a way that took the shine off my victory somewhat. Christ, how tragic was my life that I viewed beating a little old lady with a dodgy hip and a free buspass as an achievement?
I winced as I hoisted my left leg over the saddle, worrying that I’d done permanent damage to my vagina as I swivelled to face sideways, my legs dangling freely for one glorious minute as I watched the instructor hop nimbly off his bike and dab himself unnecessarily with the world’s smallest towel.
‘How great was that?’ Mum grinned, her face sporting a healthy glow.
‘So great,’ I wheezed, not having the heart to tell her I felt ten times worse than when I arrived. I hobbled gingerly after her, walking as though I still had something in between my legs – and not in a good way.
My phone rang as I was crossing the tiny car park at the back of theBrighton Tribuneafter work. I wouldn’t go as far as to say there was a pep in my step at the thought of curling up on the sofa with Joe watching oldStar Warsepisodes – Mum was working the late shift tonight so we’d have the flat to ourselves – but my feet didn’t drag in the same way they had when I’d arrived at 9 a.m. that morning.
‘Yes? Hello?’ I asked impatiently, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I fished my car keys out my bag.
‘Is that Miss Thompson?’
‘Yep, speaking.’ I was in the driver’s seat now, handbag dumped in the passenger footwell.
‘Miss Thompson, this is Craig Lester calling from Rogers, Pinkman & White.’
There was an expectant pause, as though he assumed I knew who he was talking about. My thumb hovered over the End Call button, convinced it was yet another person trying to tell me I’d been in an accident that wasn’t my fault.
‘Mr Carter’s life insurance providers,’ he clarified. I froze, the Twix bar I’d been attempting to tear into with my teeth slippingfrom my fingers into the dreaded chasm between the driver’s seat and the handbrake that had claimed countless hair bobbles, a McDonald’s chicken nugget and several Jelly Babies over the years, never to be seen again. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you quite urgently, Miss Thompson. As I’m sure you’re aware from our written correspondence, Mr Carter listed you as the sole beneficiary of his life insurance policy. A cheque was issued a few weeks ago now, but I can see here it’s yet to be cashed?’
I heard Craig’s tone go up at the end. A question, expecting an answer. But the thought of some bored, middle-aged man in a too-tight suit punching numbers into his computer to determine what figure Joe’s life was worth made me physically sick. I clamped my lips tightly together.
‘Hello? Miss Thompson?’
