Grace Bridge drained a bottle of water. She was sent gallons of the stuff from one of her endorsement deals. She shared them with the staff.
The gym floor was busy. She had no time to eat.
Outside of her clients at the gym, her YouTube channel took up all her time. It had begun as a way out of her own head; an escape to another existence where she could be anybody she pleased. Now, it had grown into something that she felt responsible for. Thousands of people looked to her to inspire them with content that could be viewed quickly, regularly, and without judgement. It was the first time she’d wandered from the path forged for her by her birth. Last week, she’d reached her first ever half a million views, and it seemed that the more public exposure she received, the safer and more put-together she felt. She sought centeredness in revealing parts of herself that she could still control. Demonstrating she was in command almost convinced her that she was, and the likes and comments section galvanised the myth.
Her health advice was a philosophy that she found easy to dish out to her clients but didn’t pay attention to herself. She was too busy. Those who paid her to get fit were really after something entirely different. All anyone cared about was looking better, not being better. Training clients was really a transactional relationship between owner and buyer. Nothing real was exchanged. It was a business of trickery. And a booming business it was. The clientele parading through the doors at the gym, from the most affluent postcodes in Cambridge, had stacks of money for pastimes and fancies. They also had time, and plenty of it. Most of it spent on social media, looking for more ways to look better. She’d pressed send on her latest video and already it had over five hundred views in half an hour. The creeping feeling that she got when she hadn’t posted or checked her engagement for a while stilled after each upload, and her anxiety lessened.
People flocked to the gym in the hot weather to escape the furnace, and their frayed nerves, and she looked around for somebody she might know, scouting for business in the few minutes she had before her next client turned up. Training was about sales. Every month, the gym posted the last four weeks’ stats: who’d sold the most sessions, who’d increased their sales the most, and star of the month. Gyms were like any other business: they sold stuff to make money; if they didn’t, they went under. Grace targeted the ladies who lunched, and their fat Chanel handbags full of credit cards. In return, she sold endorphins and self-esteem. They were easily spotted because they looked just like her mother: seeking validation.
She noticed Orlando, the pale and overweight gym manager who’d never picked up a weight in his life but had a management degree. He was hired to make profit. He was in animated conversation with another PT as she walked past, and they stopped talking to acknowledge her. Her t-shirt was a little tight but it advertised a logo she was obligated to wear. It felt clingy against her tiny frame. But she’d worked hard to earn it. Her hair was tied up in a business-like fashion.
Grace’s sales figures were healthy and Orlando never had much cause to talk to her, except to congratulate her on another sale. He’d jumped on the back of her YouTube success and the gym sponsored her content. She didn’t need the money, but that’s not why she did it.
‘Grace, have you got a minute?’ he asked. She looked up at one of the many clocks on the high walls of the gym and glanced over at the front desk. There was no sign of her client.
‘I’ve got a seven-thirty, but she’s not here yet,’ she said.
‘Good. Look, Ignacio needs to push himself forward a bit, you know?’ he said. Her colleague glared at Orlando. She didn’t say anything.
‘He needs to talk more, he’s too quiet. Customers don’t feel pressured by him. Show him how you talk to the customers, will you? Thanks.’
Orlando strode off and Ignacio turned to her. He was one of the good guys; friendly and highly capable. He was Spanish and, unfortunately for him, too good-looking to garner much male trade, but women loved him.
‘Twat,’ he said, with a twang of Castellano.
Grace laughed and patted him on the arm. ‘I’ll show you the ropes later, clearly you have no idea what you’re doing,’ she teased him.
Ignacio laughed and shook his head. They’d become friends and hung out whenever they were on the gym floor together. He’d featured in some of her videos and they got more hits from women, but fewer from men. His sales figures were, in fact, excellent – it was just that Orlando was greedy. And jealous. Ignacio wafted charisma with little to no effort, even when he was mopping floors, which Orlando had him do often. Still, he never stopped smiling.
She excused herself, spotting Carrie Greenside, and went to greet her.
‘Good evening!’ she said. Her stomach grumbled and she ignored it.
Carrie looked over Grace’s shoulder at Ignacio. Grace realised that she was picking her skin around her fingernails again and forced her hands onto her hips so she couldn’t. She’d made her fingertips sore, but she pushed the nagging pain to the back of her mind.
‘Let’s get you warmed up,’ Grace said, taking no notice of the salacious grin on Carrie’s face.
Five minutes on the cross trainer would be sufficient to get Carrie’s blood pumping and her joints primed, and, more importantly, take her mind off Ignacio.
‘You’re looking great, Carrie. Ready to work hard, as always?’
Carrie Greenside was already a fit lady, but what Grace liked about her the most was her drive. She was disciplined, hungry and committed. Unsurprisingly, she got the results she was after, and then set new goals. She was a joy to train. She exuded the kind of independence that Grace was trying to achieve and Grace listened carefully to what she had to say. But tonight, Carrie was distracted, and Grace steered her away from Ignacio towards the weights area.
‘You two make such a cute couple,’ Carrie said.
Grace had her client laying on her back, holding an 8kg dumbbell in each hand, chest pressing slowly up and down as Grace checked her form.
‘What?’ Grace asked.
‘You and Enrique Iglesias over there,’ Carrie said.
Grace laughed awkwardly.
‘Oh, I hit a nerve!’ Carrie said.
‘No, seriously, you didn’t, we’re just good friends.’
‘Of course you are. I see the way he looks at you. You need to open your eyes,’ Carrie said.
Grace wished she’d let it go. She felt sweat form along the crease of her back. Her throat constricted. She could hear the thud of blood in her temple, as well as a conversation over the other side of the gym. She picked her nails. Then she tried to breathe through it, like her therapist told her. But Grace’s attention wandered to the dumbbell, and how she’d like to take it and smash Carrie’s face in with it.
‘Ouch,’ she whispered. Her nail was bleeding. She hid her hand behind her back. Carrie didn’t notice. She was busy concentrating now. Up… down…
Carrie finally stopped talking and Grace encouraged her to finish the set, catching a glimpse of herself in the vast mirror that covered the back wall of the gym. Her eyes were wide and her jaw tense. She forced herself to smile and congratulate her client, and absentmindedly wiped her brow.
‘It’s hot tonight,’ she said.
Carrie put the weights down and sat up, looking in the mirror. ‘That was good!’
‘I know! Ten kilogrammes for you next time,’ Grace said. ‘You’re ready.’
Carrie got her breath back and Grace busied herself putting away the weights and finding a skipping rope, hoping to keep Carrie quiet, and her attention from wandering.
‘Let’s do some high intensity,’ Grace said.
Carrie rolled her eyes.
‘You pay me to torture you,’ Grace reminded her. Carrie followed her to a clear space on the floor and Grace handed her the ropes.
‘One minute, then five burpees. We’ll do it four times, that should finish you off nicely,’ she said.
Carrie was a fit woman, for fifty-three. But Grace pushed her harder tonight. Carrie asked too many questions about her personal life, and her YouTube channel, and the only way to shut her up was to leave her begging for breath. At least it was better than a dumbbell to the face.
Grace glanced over to Ignacio and back to her client, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
‘Great video, I watched it before I came out,’ Carrie said. ‘I think you youngsters who use the internet like that are amazing, you don’t get enough credit.’
It meant a lot when somebody as successful as Carrie was in her own right, and from her own hard work, said things like that.
‘Thanks, Carrie.’
‘You sure do push them out, don’t you? You can’t have any time to yourself,’ Carrie said.
There she was again, angling for details about her personal life.
‘Have you always wanted to be a personal trainer? I hear it doesn’t pay so well.’
‘I’ve got my income from endorsements,’ Grace said.
‘Of course you have. Wise girl. They should teach blogging and tweeting at school, I reckon. But then we can’t have too many millionaires, can we? Not good for the status quo.’
Grace knew Carrie well enough to spot her satirical wit when it emerged readily, as it did during most sessions.
‘What’s your advice, Carrie?’ Grace asked.
‘My advice for what?’
‘Success.’
‘Crikey, Grace, I was just starting to enjoy myself. Aren’t you happy with your triumphant internet fame? What do you want?’ Carrie smiled up at her from the floor mat she was lying on. Grace stretched her calves.
‘Just to be happy and safe, I guess.’
Carrie stared at her and Grace noticed that she was quiet for a long time, which she was unaccustomed to from the business powerhouse.
‘Well, money won’t buy you that,’ Carrie said finally.
‘I already know that.’