I still think those things, but suddenly I also think about how badly I want to hold her. Sling my arm over her shoulder as we head out the door. Kiss her like it’s something we do all the time.
She bends to pull some trainers out from behind the door and hauls an oversized bag onto her shoulder. At my enquiring look, she says, “I’ve packed for every eventuality. I have a feeling you have some odd activities lined up for me.”
“We’re just going to work,” I say, amused. “This isn’t a stag do.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, locking the door to her flat behind her. “Well, since we’ve been working together five days a week, I’ve been dunked in a swimming pool, danced with strangers at a divorce party, and fallen on my face in the snow outside a Papa Johns in Woking.”
I raise my eyebrows as we make our way down to the street.
“I didn’t know about that.”
“Oh. Right. Well, yeah, my walk in Woking wasn’t that fun.”
There is a stocky New Forest pony nibbling at the hedge by the side of the road. Neither of us remarks upon it. When I first moved to the New Forest, I was astonished to find myself caught in a traffic jam caused by a gaggle of unfazed ponies, but I’m used to them now. They roam wild around here—it’s no stranger than seeing a pigeon.
“God, your car is so shiny,” Izzy says as we approach it. “Do you polish it?”
I do, actually, but I know Izzy well enough to realise I’m better off not confessing to that. This car is my pride and joy. She’s third-hand and has seventy thousand miles on the clock; I fixed her up myself, painstakingly, with help from a friend who lives on my road. Now she looks as good as new. As a child, I always dreamed of living in England and having a car like this. Back then, it had been because I wanted to be James Bond, and didn’t know the difference between a ?200,000 Aston Martin and a fixed-up 55-reg BMW. Now, it’s because of what it means: the freedom to live and work in this strange, wet, awkward little country that I have fallen so unexpectedly in love with.
I open the passenger door for Izzy. She looks surprised, and then wary.
“Why are you being nice?” she says.
“It is all part of the grand plan to torture you for a day,” I say, slamming the car door behind her. Her expectations of me are so low. But I can hardly blame her. We have baited each other for months on end—I’ve been petty, difficult, argumentative.
I’ve been just like my uncle, in fact. The thought is painful to swallow.
As I drive us to the gym, Izzy looks at something on her phone, biting her bottom lip. I glance across at her.
“Yet another no for the emerald ring,” she says. “These last two are so tricky.”
“You haven’t given up, then? After Graham Rogers?”
“Absolutely not. One bad egg does not make a bad egg box, you know?”
I don’t know if this is an odd Britishism or an Izzy-ism, but best to just nod.
“I still believe we’re doing something important. Maybe that emerald ring really meant something to somebody.”
I almost say, And how does that help the hotel, exactly? But I snatch it back in time. This matters to her. I don’t understand why, but I’m trying to be more open-minded, and that means accepting that people aren’t always logical. After all, I’ve not been particularly logical myself lately. For instance, I am currently trying to win over a woman who has spent the last year making my life as miserable as possible, including spending two months trying to persuade Mrs. SB and Barty to do “bagpipe Fridays” in the lobby because I happened to mention a dislike for the instrument.
“The other one looks valuable, too, you know,” she says, rubbing her bottom lip between her forefinger and thumb as she stares out of the window. “There might be another reward.”
“I hope so,” I say as I pull into the car park. “We need it.”
Izzy nods, saying nothing. She hasn’t seen the spreadsheets. She doesn’t know how big a hole there is in the centre of the hotel’s finances—how the amount we’ve raised from selling items has sunk into that pit without even touching the sides. But she’s not na?ve. I can see from her frown that she knows the truth: without a small miracle, there will be no Forest Manor Hotel and Spa by the new year.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
When we enter the gym, I get worried. Izzy’s shoulders have crept up, and she’s fiddling with the bottom of her crop top, shifting on the toes of her trainers. I hadn’t expected this. The moment I walk into a gym, I feel comfortable. Even the smell relaxes me—that mix of air freshener, clean sweat, and rubber.
It’s clear I have work to do here. I steer her towards the gym mats first. No intimidating equipment, and nobody else there at the moment.
“Some stretches, first,” I tell her.
She brightens. “OK,” she says. “I can do stretches.”
She is not lying. I watch her touch her toes and try to think pure thoughts.
“Why don’t you like the gym?” I ask her as I stretch out my quads. They’re tight from yesterday’s run, but my arms are feeling good. I skipped upper body on Tuesday so that I would be well rested for today. It is critical that Izzy does not find out about this.
“Everyone here is just very . . .” She looks around, still folded over on herself with her hands on her feet. “Like you. Like superpeople.”
I realise this is not intended as a compliment, but I can’t help feeling a glimmer of pleasure at it anyway.
“They’re not,” I say. I look around, seeing what she’s seeing, and lift a hand to wave at a few people I know. “Everyone is welcome at a gym. And if you talk to the people who come to the gym a lot, we aren’t as bad as we look.”
Her expression is dubious, but I’m no longer worried, because my trump card has arrived.
Kieran, the first friend I made in the New Forest, and the best personal trainer I have come across anywhere. He is a small, scrawny white man with no hair and too many tattoos, and he is that very rare thing: a person I liked straight away.
“Lucas!” he bellows, beaming at me and waving with both arms, as though he is directing an aeroplane. “Wow, hi!” he says to Izzy as she straightens up.
“Hi!” she says, slightly taken aback.
A common response to Kieran’s arrival. He treats every day as though he is on set at a children’s television show.
“We’re going to work out!” Kieran says, already bouncing on the spot. “But in a fun way! A really fun way! Do you like beating Lucas at things?”
“Yeah, I do, actually,” Izzy says.
I may have given Kieran some background before booking this session. It cost more than I could afford, but I can already tell that it’ll be worth it.
“I’ll never beat him in the gym, though. Look at the man,” Izzy says, waving a hand in my direction.
“Oh-ho-ho,” Kieran says, rubbing his hands together. “Just you wait and see.”
Izzy
It’s undeniable: I feel amazing. Kieran insisted that I take at least fifteen minutes in the shower after our session, and now, dried off and dressed in my work uniform, I feel like I’m walking several inches off the ground. I can’t remember when I last exercised really hard—did it always leave me feeling like this? It’s as if someone’s just given me a massage, but like, inside my brain as well as every muscle of my body.
Obviously, when the exercise was happening, it was largely quite horrible. But Kieran assures me that it gets better as you do it more, and the aftereffects are delightful.