Page 71

“Going down, not up?” Lauren asked.

“Always down.”

“Okay. That’s useful. That tells me something.” Lauren crouched so she was level with her. “I’m not going to diagnose you in front of twenty people, because that would be showing off, and also wrong. But I don’t think you need to stop walking. I think you need someone to look at how that knee’s tracking, and in the meantime—”

“With respect, love.” Dean pushed himself off the back wall. “That’s physio territory. You’re a massage therapist.”

The room shifted.

Dean was one of the self-employed PTs who’d come with the building, along with the damp and the door handles. He had arms like rolled carpet, a protein shaker welded to one hand, and the general bearing of a man who had read half an article once and been confident ever since.

Carly watched Lauren’s face. The flicker, the catch, and then the grin sliding into place like a keeper diving before the shot’s been struck. Carly knew what was coming. Something about how she mostly just rubbed people for a living.

Carly got there first.

“She’s qualified to assess and refer,” she said from the doorway. She didn’t raise her voice. She’d never needed to. “Which is what she was doing before you interrupted. She told the lady what she’d look at and who she’d want her to see. That’s the job.” She let a beat pass. “Dean, if you’re feeling helpful, you can run the next session. Deadlifts. Half four.”

Dean opened his mouth. Then he looked around the room, where twenty-two heads had swivelled towards him, and shut it again.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright. Sure.”

Somebody at the back made a noise that might have been a cough. Carly was fairly sure it was one of the team.

Lauren’s eyes found Carly’s over everyone’s heads. The grin never arrived. What came instead was so plainly surprised that Carly had to look at her clipboard.

Lauren turned back to the woman with the knee and finished her answer.

Carly stayed in the doorway and did some arithmetic she hadn’t asked for. That was the third time this week. Today it was Dean. On Tuesday she’d moved Lauren’s video to the top of the gym’s page because the algorithm had buried it under a post about the car park resurfacing. On Thursday she’d told an instructor who’d complained about dog hair in the back corridor that it was a fire exit, not a catwalk, and to stop moaning.

None of it was big, and Lauren hadn’t asked for any of it. That was what caught. Carly had been handing it over a piece at a time to the woman who’d once hidden her boots in the showers before a cup tie and laughed while she played ninety minutes in a borrowed pair two sizes too big.

Generosity wasn’t free. She’d just never expected to be the one running up the tab without checking the price.

She didn’t stop. She noticed the bill, folded it, and put it away for later.

“You know,” Jenna murmured, “that was quite protective for someone who thinks she’s adequate.”

“Dean was undermining a member of staff in front of customers.”

“She’s not staff. She’s a tenant.”

“Then he was undermining my income.” Carly pushed off the doorframe. “Go and recruit someone.”

She walked back towards reception at a pace that was absolutely not a retreat, and arrived just in time to see Samantha come through the front doors with both girls, three shopping bags and a quilted gilet that cost more than the rowing machine.

“I don’t know what you’ve been moaning about,” Samantha said, surveying the floor. “It’s heaving.”

“It’s free.”

“So charge them.”

“That’s the plan. From Monday.” Carly bent to accept a hug from the youngest, who smelled of strawberry yoghurt and had a sticker on her forehead that she’d clearly awarded herself. “Busy on a free day isn’t the same as members in March.”

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Find the one cloud.” Samantha hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder, and Carly caught a glimpse of glossy brochures inside, fanned like a hand of cards. Conservatories. Wingback chairs. A smiling woman in a tabard holding a teapot. “I’ve got three to look at this week. I’ll send you the links.”