Tuesday brought about Becca’s least favourite hour of the week: her next appointment with Adam. He had phoned the night before and she’d felt quite excited for a moment, thinking he might be ringing to cancel on her. No such luck. Instead, he actually wanted to bring their session forward two days as he now had a very important meeting on Thursday morning. Of course he did, Becca had thought, rolling her eyes at Rachel as she made the arrangements. Just like he’d had all those very important calls and emails to attend to last time. Well, if the miserable git dared to answer his mobile every five minutes this week too, then his precious smartphone was in danger of being hurled into the River Wye, she vowed. ‘Just you try me,’ she muttered, cycling off to meet him with a heavy heart.
The day felt fresh with a brisk wind bustling around the city, although the sun was doing its hazy best to poke a ray or two out from between the clouds. Down on the river, a swan led a line of fluffy cygnets in stately procession towards the bridge, and a graceful weeping willow tree reached out to dangle its leaf-tips in the eddying water.
‘Morning! Lovely day for it!’ he called when she saw him by the river’s edge. He was actually jogging on the spot while he waited for her, in spotless white T-shirt and black jersey shorts, seemingly full of the joys of summer. Oka-a-ay, Becca thought, clambering off her bike. So today we’re happy, are we? Has Grumpy Adam been put back in his box for a change?
‘Morning,’ she said, giving him a quick, polite smile. One measly hour of her life. She could do this. ‘Right, so, this morning, Rachel wants us to focus in on a couple of different areas . . .’
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stopping jogging momentarily to peer at her. ‘I know I pissed you off with the phone business last week, but look – empty pockets.’ He turned them inside-out to show her. ‘I left it at home this week. Corporations could be crumbling this minute, clients falling to their knees, pressing Redial in despair, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll find out about that in an hour, I guess.’
She eyed him suspiciously. Was he taking the mick? ‘Great,’ she said, deadpan. ‘Cheers. So if we could . . .’
‘I’ve never been very good at taking time off, you see,’ he said in a rush, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Not used to it.’ Then he stopped, looking self-conscious. ‘But you’re waiting to start and I’m still talking. Right. Go on, then. What’s the warm-up? I really hope it’s more of those ridiculous dance moves because that wasn’t embarrassing at all last week.’
Despite her earlier froideur, she found herself giving the tiniest of smirks at the memory of him gyrating like a clubber on the river path. Embarrassing? He knew nothing. She could do much worse if she felt like it. ‘Don’t give me that,’ she scoffed. ‘Looked to me like you were loving it last time, especially when you twirled around and nearly headbutted that tree.’
He grinned, a dimple flashing in one cheek. He actually looked quite nice when he wasn’t growling and grumbling. Dirty-blonde hair, a bit on the shaggy side, brown eyes, good teeth. She wondered what had cheered him up so much today. Sex, probably. Men were nothing if not predictable, in her limited experience.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll do whatever stupid warm-up moves you like, if you do them too. Fair’s fair.’
She considered the proposition. They were in their usual meeting spot by the river and the breeze seemed hell-bent on directing itself straight for her, whipping around her goose-pimpling arms and legs. She was actually kind of chilly, now he mentioned it. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, propping her bike against a tree. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘So let’s kick off with a few grapevines,’ she said, channelling Davina as best she could. ‘Remember that from last time? Well, just mirror what I’m doing, and imagine some great music in your head, like we’re at the best party ever. And! One, two, three, clap. One, two, three and clap . . .’
‘Can I just point out,’ Adam said, as they began the sideways grapevine move, ‘that I would not be doing this at the best party ever, however many drinks I’d had?’
‘We can have a go at the Macarena, if that’s more your cup of tea,’ she teased. ‘Or “YMCA”. Oi! Don’t forget to clap, by the way.’ She sniggered as he hammed up his next clap for her benefit. ‘That’s better. Okay, now for the box step. Forward, forward, back, back . . .’
The warm-up got under way, from grapevines to box steps to a kick-and-punch move, lunges, squats (accompanied by some Seventies-style hand jives for added interest) and finishing with a funky scoop-and-clap dance move that she invented on the spot. By the end of it, not only did she feel warmed up, but she felt quite chipper herself too. There was something spirit-lifting and vaguely comedic about performing a series of energetic dance moves in public to no music, especially with an uncoordinated bloke facing you and trying to keep up. True to his word, he matched her step for embarrassing step, clapping and skipping with abandon. They even high-fived at the end, in an unexpected burst of laughter, much to the bemusement of a couple of mums walking by with their prams.
Well, well. So there was a turn-up for the books, at least. ‘Now for the aerobic part of the workout,’ she said, trying to remember her businesslike manner. She was starting to get the hang of this fitness-instructor lark now. Warm-up, aerobics, core or strengthening exercises, cool-down – that was the general routine. Everyone moaned about the strengthening exercises as a rule – the sit-ups, push-ups and lunges – but they tended to love the cool-down stretches, beatific smiles on their sweaty faces with the bliss that it was almost all over.
Today, Adam was down for a twenty-minute run, according to Rachel’s notes, stopping every five minutes or so to jump with both feet onto a suitable park bench and off again six times. (Rather you than me, Becca thought, shuddering at the prospect.) Without his phone pinging and ringing every two minutes, the actual running bit turned out to be a far more civilized affair this time. They spoke to each other like human beings and everything.
‘How’s Rachel doing, then?’ he asked. Shock! Grumpiest client makes conversational opener. It was enough to make an unfit woman fall off her bike in surprise.
‘Getting there,’ she replied. (Not falling off her bike, obviously. Like she would ever be so uncool.) ‘It’s going to take another month until she’s fully recovered, but we’re back at the fracture clinic in a couple of days, so we’ll know a bit more then.’
‘And in the meantime, you’re Being Rachel, are you?’ He paused, swerving to avoid some tourists who’d stopped to take photographs of a strange wooden statue of a pug. ‘Womanning the helm?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Doing my best to. Although . . .’ She glanced across at him and decided to risk a confidence. ‘She’s one of those people who are so bloody good at everything, it’s not been easy to follow in her footsteps. There have been a few mistakes, shall we say, although I’m enjoying looking after her kids. Have you got kids, by the way?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Much to my parents’ dismay and never-ending hinting.’
‘Oh, same,’ she confessed. ‘Being an aunty is pretty cool, although I am kind of struggling with the discipline. Just this morning I overheard the youngest two discussing tactics for getting their dog back from their grandma’s house, one of which involved trying to make the poor woman so angry with the dog that she was desperate to get rid of it.’
Adam snorted. ‘Go on. Enlighten me.’
‘Their idea was – and I kid you not – that whenever the dog crapped in the garden, they would scoop it up and leave it in the house. In her bed, my nephew suggested.’ She glanced across at him, suddenly worried that it wasn’t exactly professional to discuss such things with a client but to her relief, he was looking amused.
‘Christ almighty.’ He guffawed. ‘They sound a right pair.’
‘Exactly. On her pillow, my niece said next! I mean, can you imagine? So I had to tell them off and be really really stern, but inside I was just about howling with laughter imagining this poker-faced old Welsh grandma discovering what they’d done.’ Her mouth twitched at the memory. ‘Naughty little so-and-sos. Oh, and then – ’ She suddenly realized she was talking a lot, and felt awkward. It wasn’t as if she even knew him very well. ‘Sorry. Am I going on?’
‘No, not at all. Tell me more. This is way better than the tedious sort of conversation I usually have on a Tuesday morning. You don’t get many stories about dog-shit subterfuge in business calls, more’s the pity.’
Becca laughed, and checked her watch. Another minute before they had to stop so that he could try the awful-sounding bench-jumping exercises. She was determined to do everything properly today. ‘The other thing I’ve found tricky is knowing what to say when they’re upset,’ she went on. ‘I had my nephew telling me he was getting a hard time at school the other day, and I had to try and come up with a proper, adult response, rather than saying, “Punch the little shitbag in the face.”’
‘So what is the proper adult response? “Kick the little shitbag in the nuts”?’
She laughed again. ‘No, it’s more like, “Let Aunty Becca punch the little shitbag in the . . .” Joking. No, I sensibly told the teacher instead, and she’s keeping an eye on him. Them. But . . .’ She glanced over at him. ‘I don’t know. Boys. What would you have said to him, just out of interest?’
He thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I always did karate as a kid, and made sure everyone in my class knew about it,’ he replied. ‘I might have overplayed the black belt situation slightly – make that flat-out lied about it – but nobody ever started trying to punch me or anything. Maybe I’d have suggested to your nephew taking up some kind of self-defence? Even if he never has to use it, it’ll make the lad feel more confident. Give him a bit of swagger in the playground, too.’
Becca gave an appraising nod. ‘Do you know what, that’s a bloody good idea,’ she said thoughtfully. She could already picture Luke gleefully attempting karate chops, especially on his sisters. ‘I’ll run it past Rach, see what she –’ Bollocks. Her sister’s name brought her back to what she was supposed to be doing. Not going for a pleasant cycle ride and chat, but cracking the whip in a tough boot-camp fitness session. ‘Bench!’ she yelled, seeing one ahead and braking to an abrupt stop. ‘Sorry, Adam. I’m about to make you cry.’
Jumping two-footed up onto the bench and down again was obviously as hardcore as it looked because after just four jumps, Adam looked pained. ‘I’m sorry,’ Becca said sympathetically as he puffed and panted through another two.
‘You’d be . . . a shit . . . dominatrix,’ he managed, finishing the set with a groan.
‘Sorry, yeah. Wait, why am I apologizing again? You’re the one paying to undergo this kind of hell. Weirdo. Now stop talking and START RUNNING!’ she yelled, and he gave a sighing sort of laugh but duly set off. She allowed a minute or two to go by in silence and then, when she was sure that he’d be able to breathe and talk, said, ‘Tell me something about you now. Are you from Hereford?’
‘No, Bedfordshire originally,’ he replied. ‘My grandparents lived around here though, and we used to stay in the summer holidays, go walking with my grandad in the Black Mountains. When things went belly-up in London, it felt like a good idea to come back and make a new start.’
Ahh, so there was a story after all. She knew it. ‘What happened in London?’ she asked when he paused. ‘If that’s not too nosey a question, of course.’
‘Well, to cut a long story short, I kind of . . . burned out,’ he said after a moment. ‘I had a really successful business, I was working all the hours under the sun. Basically pushed myself too hard and paid the price. Ended up having a heart attack—’
Her bike wheels wobbled, she was so shocked. ‘A heart attack? Shit, Adam. Are you even supposed to be doing exercises like the last one?’ Worse, she remembered her very own thoughts the week before: how she’d been so angry, she’d punished him by harder exercises than she was supposed to give him in the hope – yes, Becca, you awful person – that it would give him a heart attack. She’d actually thought those exact words, to her shame. Christ, she must never tell Rachel that she had been so cavalier with the routines her sister had painstakingly worked out.
Thank goodness telepathy was beyond Adam. ‘I’m fine now,’ he said, unaware of her evil thoughts. ‘It was nearly two years ago, anyway. I was thirty-five, not looking after myself. Drinking and smoking too much, not eating properly, never exercising . . . I barely left my desk. Slept there sometimes.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Sorry, but that sounds completely joyless. Apart from maybe the drinking bit.’
‘Yeah,’ he said simply. ‘That was what my wife said, too. Then I ended up in hospital, our marriage imploded, and then my doctor sat down and basically said I was going to be dead by the time I was forty if I didn’t make a few big changes to my life.’
‘Jesus,’ Becca said, trying to imagine being told such a thing. She thought of all the wine and vodka she’d been putting away recently, how she’d never really done much exercise herself until she came to Hereford and ended up cycling everywhere. She had taken her health – and her heart – completely for granted, as he presumably had too, in that I-am-invincible thirty-something way. ‘So coming here, trying to lead a slower life . . . those are your changes.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘although it’s not been that easy, to be honest. I’ve been here six months, and I’ve filled up the hours with work, basically, set myself up as a freelance consultant, trying to build up a new business from scratch. It’s not exactly been a stress-free way of life.’
‘Ahh. Things haven’t changed all that much, then.’
He pulled a face. ‘Not at first. But I’m trying. It was when I went to see the doctor to get some sleeping pills and she took one look at my record and said no, do some exercise instead. Factor in proper breaks. Find a training partner, she said, book some sessions at a gym so that you have to go. And then of course I got home to find a flier from your sister on the doormat – problem solved, I thought.’
‘Until I turned up, and you regretted shelling out for so many sessions in advance,’ Becca couldn’t help reminding him.
He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Yes. Sorry about that. Look, I’m not trying to excuse my behaviour but I’d had a difficult week of it. Ex-wife announced she was going to marry my old boss, the very same bloke she always used to slag off for being the most repulsive man alive.’ His expression became scathing. ‘Funny how becoming a millionaire makes even the most repulsive man alive oddly attractive, right?’
‘Oh, that is pants,’ Becca agreed, feeling sorry for him. ‘What an absolute cow. Sorry. I mean . . .’
He waved a hand. ‘No need to apologize. They’re welcome to each other. I happen to know he prefers men, so it’s not exactly what you’d call a love match anyway.’
‘Ugh,’ Becca said. ‘Isn’t it just the most special thing in the world when someone reveals their hidden shallows?’
‘Absolutely.’ His expression was stern for a moment, but then he gestured at their surroundings and his features relaxed. ‘This is good, though, don’t you think? Trees. Fresh air. Getting away from a laptop screen . . . It puts everything into perspective somehow. Makes me feel better.’
‘This is good,’ Becca agreed. ‘And actually doing this for the last couple of weeks, I can really see the difference it makes to people’s lives. Time away from the day-to-day routine, putting on a pair of trainers and leaving your problems behind . . . it’s almost like therapy. Makes me feel better too.’ She checked her watch: almost bang on five minutes again. ‘Okay, time’s nearly up, I’m afraid – prepare yourself for more torture.’ She grinned. ‘You might change your mind and be desperate to get back to that laptop by the time I’ve finished with you today.’