Page 4 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Same time Wednesday,’ I reply cheerfully, smiling brightly and opening my front door.

‘Now, don’t forget to stretch out those muscles,’ he yells, grabbing his elbows and effortlessly throwing in a little bit of over-arm stretching.

‘I won’t.’ I beam, giving a jaunty wave before disappearing inside. Where I collapse on the hall carpet.

I do this three times a week. When I was younger, I used to be such a slob, but now I’m older and wiser and know it’s really important to keep fit. Although right now ‘fit’ isn’t exactly the word I’d choose to describe how I’m feeling. I’d go for something slightly different. Like exhausted or in agony.

With sweat pouring down my face I lie spread-eagled on the floor like a chalk drawing at a murder scene and concentrate on catching my breath.

Of course, there are some mornings when I’d love a lie-in, but I also love being able to fit into my jeans. Plus, like Richard says, cardio is essential to maintain a healthy heart. I rest my hand on my heart protectively. It’s hammering so hard in my chest it feels as if it’s going to explode.

Not that it will. I mean, hearts don’t just explode, do they?

I take off my heart monitor and look at the digital display. Gosh, that’s quite a lot of heartbeats per minute, isn’t it? I feel a prickle of anxiety. And I am really breathless.

Scenes from all those hospital dramas come rushing back – you know, the ones with a patient on a trolley and a handsome doctor yelling, ‘Clear!’ as he grabs the defibrillator and slams two massive electric shocks into their chest.

My anxiety cranks up a notch. Oh my God, I’m not really having a heart attack, am I? And on my dad’s birthday! I clutch my chest in horror. If I die, he’ll never be able to celebrate it again. Instead of spending it at the pub with his friends, he’ll have to spend it kneeling at my graveside, grieving the loss of his only daughter.

Charlotte, stop it! I grab hold of myself. Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re supposed to get your heartrate up, that’s the whole idea. You’ve just been exercising. And exercise is good for you. Hoisting myself up from the hall carpet, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face is covered in bright purple blotches, I have bloodshot eyes, and my hair is plastered to my head in a sort of sweat helmet.

Oh.

Well, anyway, I can’t stand around here all day – I need to get ready for work. Automatically I check the time on the clock on the hall table. I have lots of clocks. Vanessa’s always teasing me, but however hard I try, I always seem to be running late. That’s because I’m on a really tight schedule. I don’t have time to just ‘chill out’ as she puts it.

Tugging off my sweaty gym gear en route to the bathroom, I dash into the shower. That’s not to say I don’t ever chill out. Of course I do. For example, if there’s ever a free window in my diary, I always schedule in something relaxing. The problem is, I never seem to have any free windows …

OK. Make-up? Perfect yet ‘natural’. Check.

Hair? Dead straight yet flippy at the ends. Check.

Outfit? Standing in front of the full-length mirrors in my walk-in wardrobe, I check out my black pencil skirt and pussy bow blouse. It has to be professional yet funky. Street yet chic. Cool yet – what’s the word? – polished. I frown at my feet and slip on a different pair of designer heels. Much better. Check.

Running through my usual checklist before I go to work, I dash out of the bedroom and start racing around the flat collecting my things.

Laptop? I don’t go anywhere without it. Not even to the loo. Well, you never know when you might need to google something. I snap it shut, sweep it up from the table and tuck it under my arm. Check.

Briefcase? My eyes fall upon it. Perched on the sofa, bursting with tons of documents that I need to read and sign. Asap. Check.

Yoga mat in case I get a free window later? (Yeah, right.) Check.

Phone? Shit, where is it? Oh, right, yes, in my hand. Of course. Check.

My heart has recovered, by the way. I knew it would, of course. I was just having a little panic. I do that sometimes, especially if it’s anything health-related, but I’m just being careful. Better to be safe than sorry, that’s what I always say.

Unfortunately my GP doesn’t share my attitude. He seems to think I’m a hypochondriac or something. Only last week I had this funny-looking rash on my chest and when I googled my symptoms, they were exactly the same as this flesh-eating bug from the Amazon. OK, so I haven’t ‘recently travelled to the Amazon’, as my GP put it, but there was no need for him to get so grumpy. He didn’t send me to the hospital for tropical diseases or anything! Just told me it was probably my eczema flaring up and to rub on some E45 cream.

Which I did, and it went away, but still, it could have been a flesh-eating bug.

With a gaggle of bags hanging off each shoulder, I leave money for the cleaner and dash out of the door. Then dash right back in as I’m blinded by the bright sunshine.

Sunglasses? My eyes sweep across the hall table on which stands a lamp, a white orchid and several framed photographs, and fall on one taken at my graduation. Mum and Dad are standing next to me, very much the proud parents. They looked pretty much the same then as they do now, although Dad had more hair and Mum was going through her pearly lipstick stage, but I’m barely recognisable. I’m wearing the traditional black gown and my mortar board is balanced precariously on top of my hair, which is long, dark and scrunch-dried to within an inch of its life. Unlike being blow-dried straight into a bob and coloured honey-blonde every six weeks like it is now.

The photo was also taken before I discovered tweezers and I have two thick black caterpillars where I now have perfectly arched eyebrows. And that smile! I peer at my crooked front teeth, which are now straightened, thanks to braces in my late twenties. Gosh, I looked so different back then.

I’m distracted by my sunglasses, which I spot behind the photo, and, sunnies in place, I hurry out the door, down the front steps and beep the lock on my new Beetle. The lights flash and I tug open the door. Dammit, I’ve got another parking ticket. I curse, snatching it from under my windscreen wiper and throwing myself into the plush, cream leather interior. I stuff it in a side pocket along with all the other tickets, turn the ignition and shift the gearstick. The engine roars into life.

Gosh, I love my car. It’s really powerful and has all these little extras, like heated seats, and satellite navigation, and a dashboard that lights up at night like a cockpit. The day I got it I was so excited. I remember just looking at it, parked outside my flat, all shiny and gleaming and brand new. I couldn’t believe it was mine.