Because I am a fucking idiot. A fuckingtesta di cazzo!
Why did I just run away from Giles? And abandon my first ever workout in the process?
What was I thinking signing up to a triathlon before even setting foot in a gym?
Do I really think I’m going to be fit enough to do said triathlon when, at my very first training session, I proceed to run out of that gym as soon as I see someone I vaguely know?
But it isn't just anyone. It's Giles.
Giles who has muscles on muscles. Giles who has never looked at a rowing machine and wondered how not to make a dick out of himself on it. Giles who probably lifts white vans in his spare time. Giles, who I knew had a body to envy from the way his work suits fit him so snugly, but I didn't fully realise how stacked he was until I just saw him wearing a vest and a pair of shorts that were so short they'd be illegal in more than a few countries. Giles whose biceps looked like baby skulls stuck on his arms. Giles whose quads looked like they could crush watermelons in asingle squeeze. Giles who still somehow looked as regal and put together as he does when he's wearing a three-piece suit like he always does for work.
There was no way me, my unkempt beard and my pot belly were going to stick around, not when I was wearing the old football kit I used to train in that still has a slight air of the sweat I perspired when I last wore it despite my washing it several times since.
I barely know the guy beyond how he likes his coffee and a warm pastry fresh from the oven, but what I do know of Giles, and definitely what I could see of him, had me feeling very, very inferior and that was exactly the feeling I was hoping to eradicate by going to the gym.
That’s why I ran away, and why I am now outside, walking at speed back to the café.
As I push through the door of the café, I take in a deep breath and enjoy the rush of cool air that hits me thanks to the air conditioner humming above my head. With my inhale, I detect the many scents I associate with this little kingdom of mine: coffee, butter pastry, and freshly baked rosemary focaccia.
“Well, that was quick,” Mamma says as I approach the counter and make my way behind it. Walking to the back of the room, I dump my bags and find my apron. She's busy wiping down the surfaces in the kitchen area also close to the rear of the room.
“Yeah, I wasn't feeling so good,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear me and I hope that she's about to get too busy serving customers or making coffee to ask me any more questions. My mother doesn't often work in the café with me but Chloe's been on holiday for a week. My cousin Antonella recently left to go work in our grandfather's restaurant in Sardinia, and that's left me a little short-staffed.
“You weren't feeling good?” she says. She's moved closer, her arms folded as she approaches. Looking over her shoulder I see the front of thecounter is empty and only a few of the tables are occupied so my mother is apparently more than able to quiz me.
I grab my apron off the hook on the wall. “Bit of a headache,” I say with something like an apologetic wince.
Mamma's eyes narrow on me. “I don't think I believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you're afraid of hard work?”
“Excuse me, I made exactly thirty-six caprese panini before I left. I am not afraid of hard work!”
“I mean hard work in the gym.” Her accent isn’t exactly strong these days but there are certain words that have more vowels than they should and gym, orgym-ah, is apparently one of them. It makes me smile to myself.
My apron tied, I put my hands on my hips and get ready to face down the look Mamma is giving me. "It's one day, Mamma. I'll try again tomorrow.” Just not at the same time. And maybe not at the same gym. I don't think running away from Giles every day is going to quite cut it as the training I need to do.
“There's something you're not telling me.” She takes another step closer and her face has softened, and her tone almost sounds concerned.
Maybe it's this hint of worry in my mother's voice but I suddenly feel ridiculous for not just admitting what a dickhead I am. The least I can do is own it.
“Fine,” I groan. “I left because I saw Giles.”
“Giles?”
“Yes, Radia's boss. Gravity-defying moustache. Wears tartan suits. Has pectoral muscles the size of tectonic plates."
“I know who Giles is, Marcello. Handsome man from the tailors down the street. Once told me my chocolate croissants were the best in the world.” She blushes with her smile. “What I’m trying to figure out is why you left because of him. What did he do?"
“Nothing,” I say. “Actually that's not true. I think he got up to come and say hello to me but I'd already panicked and decided to run away.”
Mamma frowns at me and all of a sudden I feel like I’m seven years old again and kicked a football through the shed window. “Why did you run away?”
“Because he's... fit. Like really fit. And I'm... not.” I look down at my shoes, but I can barely see them because my belly gets in the way.
Mamma takes so long to talk, I look up to see why. I expect to see a berating pout on her face but there's just a soft smile. “Which is why you're in the gym. Everybody has to start somewhere.”
