Pride surges through me. I’m good at my job, I know I am. “Thank you.”
One of the women who’d been squatting with her kettlebells, turns around as she replaces the kettlebell with a bottle of water at her feet. She swallows while looking around, her eyes doing a double take when she spots Michael and I.
Or maybe not so much Michael.
The woman – I can’t get a read on how old she appears… older than twenty-five, younger than forty I’d say – hikes up the waistband of her gym leggings and starts towards us. For a second, I’m amused by what her opening line is going to be, but then Michael is leading me away to the free use area tucked away beside another passcode protected door.
It’s probably for the best. I’ve gotten involved with clients before and it’s never ended well. The whole close proximity is fun for a while, making it easier to find time to fool around together, but then it becomes an issue when she becomes attached and I… don’t.
The past couple of times I’ve made it crystal clear from the start – we’re fucking around, nothing more, nothing less – but shit always ends up complicated.
And I can’t fucking stand complicated.
“This is the free use area.” Michael continues his tour. “The yoga mats are stored away, but a lot of customers bring their own regardless, so most of this space is used for stretching before and after their workouts.”
My ears are trained to the words falling from my boss’ lips, but it’s hard to concentrate when I can practically feel the disappointment dripping off the tight clad, legging wearing woman now poised behind me. “I’ve also seen a fair few people use this space for tire pulling and flipping or ropes, so perhaps that’s an idea to incorporate into your plans for your clients.”
I have to forcibly hold my tongue from saying something barbed. I like this place so far, I do. It has a nice vibe to it, and the pay isn’t going to be half bad for the hours they’re employing me for. But I don’t take nicely to people telling me how I should do my job, not even my new boss. What goes on between my client and me is personal, as is the plans we make for the areas they want to tackle, be it becoming stronger, toning up or losing weight.
My client and I will decide which equipment we’ll be using and how our sessions will look together,notMichael. I’ve been a certified personal trainer for long enough; I don’t need ideas on how to put a gym plan together.
When I spot Michael waiting for an answer, I simply hum nonchalantly.
“Great! I forgot to mention, each piece of gym equipment is thoroughly sanitised. We have stations all around supplying the spray and paper towels and we ask each person to wipe down their equipment after they’ve finished using it. If you could just remind people when you’re on the gym floor.”
“Sure,boss.”
Giving me another pat on the back, Michael gestures to the open door beside the free use gym area. “Through here is the gym class area. We offer spin classes, dance, Zumba, boxing, pole… you get the idea.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
The soft soles of my trainers lead me down the corridor with a mind of their own.
I peer through the first window I come across, taking stock of the empty room. Free-standing punch bags sit in two rows of three, blue safety mats lining the floor beneath them. It must be either a boxing class, or something to do with self-defence.
I take a sidestep towards the second room; finding it not as empty as the one before it. It’s a spin class by the movement of the older, grey-haired woman who is hovering above the seat of her stationary bike, legs pumping like mad beneath her, leading the small class before her. Music slips its way under the crack in the door, a song I don’t quite recognise kissing my ears as the instructor grips the handlebars of her bike, arching her back, sticking out her arse.
Jesus. I turn away before I can see any more of the woman, who is totally old enough to be my grandmother – maybe even mygreat-grandmother – shaking her flesh.
Room three, like room one, is also deserted for the time being – at least fifteen floor-to-ceiling poles take up space, waiting to be used.
I’m about to turn back around to find Michael, when the door to room number four catches my eye. It’s covered in a huge purple tapestry depicting a sitting buddha, seven different coloured circles dotting seven different parts of his body.
‘The Seven Chakras’reads the script above the buddha’s head.
I feel my face scrunch up in confusion.
What the fuck is a chakra?
“Come on, girls!” I startle at the sound of a feminine voice, echoing down the otherwise quiet corridor. “Hang on, I’ll turn the music up—”
Whatever the woman was about to say is drowned out by the sudden rush of sultry pop music which begins to pulse out of one of the rooms at the end of the corridor.
I find myself peering through the window out of pure curiosity.
My lips part at the scene which greets me.
