Vintage Babes (17 page)

‘It supports me, but only just. Because hiring a trainer is expensive –’

‘Which is part of the appeal?’

He nodded. ‘We’re talking display wealth here and personal trainers rate alongside a swimming pool in your back garden or driving a Maserati – because I’m exclusive and expensive, building up a clientele takes time.’

‘And you’ve been doing personal training for around eighteen months,’ I said, remembering what he had told me. ‘What did you do before?’

‘All sorts. I was a shopping mall security guard, a bouncer at a nightclub, got involved in some wheeling and dealing.’

‘Which is how you’re able to help Tina sell her brooches?’

‘Right.’

‘I won’t ask if it is strictly legit.’

Max grinned. ‘Wise decision. But I’ll be straight with her.’

‘I know that.’

‘Thanks. Until I get established as a personal trainer, and to bring in extra cash, I’ve been trying to find work at sports centres,’ he went on. ‘I get to run occasional classes when instructors are ill or on holiday, but the only way I’ll land a permanent job is if an existing instructor leaves. Which is something they never seem to do.’

‘Have you tried the Garth House Hotel?’

‘No. They have a sports centre?’

‘A new one, just opened. I did an article about it in last week’s
Siren
. You could call in and ask if they need anyone.’

‘I will.’ Reaching across the table, he squeezed my hand. ‘Thanks, babe.’

‘I was right,’ a reedy voice declared, and I looked up to find an elderly lady in a maroon paisley-patterned woollen dress stood beside us. ‘I told my husband I felt sure you were Carol, the girl from
The Siren
and Jenny’s friend. Jenny and I work in the charity shop together. I’m Eileen.’

I smiled up. ‘Hello. Jenny’s spoken about you.’

Eileen had a pointed nose, crêpe-lined lips and an alert expression. She looked like she didn’t miss much.

‘Is this your boyfriend?’ she enquired, her gaze fixing on Max’s hand which was still covering mine.

I laughed. She may have called me a girl, but she must see I was in my fifties – while my companion languished in his mid-twenties. Jenny had described Eileen as a ‘dry old bird’, so presumably this was a stab at humour.

‘My occasional other,’ I said. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’

‘A good-looking young man,’ she agreed.

Max grinned. ‘Thank you.’

Eileen gave a trill of high-pitched, almost giddy laughter. ‘But you are. And you –’ she spoke to me ‘– are a very lucky woman.’

I cocked a brow. ‘Don’t I know it!’

‘Hold on to him.’

‘I intend to,’ I said. ‘Like glue.’

‘So very nice to meet you both.’ She started to move away. ‘Goodbye.’

‘You could’ve asked if she wanted a personal trainer,’ I said, as the old lady returned to a table where she began gabbling away to the old man who was sat there, obviously relaying our conversation.

Max shook his head. ‘I think not.’

‘But she took a shine to you.’ I grinned. ‘Seemed to be mentally undressing you.’

He winced. ‘Stop it.’

‘Tina said you’d given a fitness demonstration at the golf club, but how else do you find customers?’ I asked, returning to our previous conversation.

‘By word of mouth and by pushing leaflets through doors, though the leaflet response rate is so low it’s hardly worth the effort.’

‘The manager of the sportswear shop on the High Street is a friendly sort, you could ask him if you could put some of your leaflets on the counter. Or I could ask him,’ I offered.

‘Would you? That’d be brilliant.’

‘Do you only have yourself to support? There’s no partner? No offspring?’

‘Just me.’

‘How about a ma and pa?’

‘My pa went out to get a Chinese take-away when I was three and hasn’t been seen since,’ he said, and gave a wry smile. ‘Though it’s a long walk to Beijing. And my ma is living in Italy with her latest guy. I rent a flat with my two brothers. The flat is small and cramped and, being over a fish and chip shop, it’s also smelly and noisy.’

‘What do your brothers do?’

‘Paul’s a taxi driver and writes poems in the bath. Calvin works in the fish and chip shop in the evenings and spends his days painting watercolours of mice.’

‘Why mice?’

‘He likes them. So far no one wants to publish Paul’s poetry and Cal’s paintings don’t sell, but they’re both convinced that by this time next year they’ll be rich and famous.’

‘Same aims as you.’

‘Yes, though they’re not like me, not physically that is. We each had a different father and Paul has red hair and freckles, whereas Cal is short, squat and swarthy, so persuading folk that we’re related can be tricky. Once we went into a pub together and got talking to a couple of guys who –’

While I suspected his tales contained a fair dose of fiction, Max displayed a wicked sense of humour which had me laughing out loud. He was also determined to succeed in life. I respected that, especially in view of his background, though I wasn’t too sure about his methods. Throughout the evening we talked and talked – and there were no more cringeable quotes.

‘You were having a good time at The Barley Mow last night,’ Steve said.

I looked at him in surprise. ‘You were there?’

It was the next morning. I had just settled down to work when he had walked into the general office.

‘I called in for a quick drink and a word with the barman – the guy used to work at a pub in Ringley, so I know him from way back – but you were so busy chatting to your companion you never noticed me.’

‘You should’ve come over.’

‘And disturbed the
tête à tête?
Heaven forbid.’

‘My companion –’ I repeated his arch delivery ‘– was Max, the personal trainer I told you about. I was interviewing him for the piece about aerobics which you suggested.’ I indicated my computer screen. ‘I’m writing the article now. And Melanie has the photograph which is to go with it.’

The girl held up the print which Max had provided, dropping it through
The Siren’s
letterbox before the office opened. ‘The guy is awesome.’

‘The two of you looked chummy,’ Steve said.

‘He was telling me about his life and it was interesting. I had a good evening. He’s good company.’

‘And virile with it?’

Should I point out that Max must be around thirty years my junior and saw me only as a useful contact? That we’d been sharing a meal, not caught
in flagrante delicto
on the table? What the hell, as I’d done with Eileen, I decided to go along with the joke, with the ego boost of the idea that the kid Max and I could be romantically involved.

Looking over my reading glasses, I smiled the kind of smile which hints at everything and says nothing. ‘I can’t argue with that.’

‘He is sex on legs,’ Melanie declared, making her way over. She showed Steve the photograph, which was of Max in his bodysuit striking a tigerish pose. ‘See.’

He frowned. ‘Do we need a photograph?’

‘For definite!’ the girl insisted.

‘Our female readers would appreciate one,’ I said.

‘Too muscle-bound for my taste, but your choice. And how does this Max rate as a personal trainer?’

‘Ten out of ten. He knows what he’s about and fires you with enthusiasm. Tina Kincaid swears by him.’

‘Is he going to try and stop you smoking?’ Steve enquired.

‘Not only is he going to try, he’ll succeed,’ I declared.

I would give up the nicotine habit, I vowed as I half-watched yet another
Vicar of Dibley
repeat on television that evening. My assertion earlier had been spur of the moment and inspired by defiance, but I’d been annoyed that Steve should mention me smoking. He must have noticed how, from time to time, I exit to the fire escape for a quick drag. Yet giving up made sense. It would be advantageous to my health and for my purse. The money I saved could buy all kinds of treats. Such as a manicure – amazingly I’ve never had one – the knee-high black leather boots in the shoe shop window which I’d been lusting after, a selection of heathers for my front garden.

I reached for the packet of Marlboros. I would stop tomorrow and Max would help me. Max, who Steve seemed to believe could – well, just might – be my lover. No way. He may be good fun, but he was too juvenile and immature. Despite what I’d said to Jen about checking out the salami, I’m not into boys. Toy or otherwise. Handsome as he was, Max didn’t turn me on. And although we’d established a certain rapport, I knew I didn’t turn him on, either.

But I do miss sex. Vibrators and Richard Gere fantasies may have their joys – that’s the forty-something Richard Gere in
Sommersby
– but there’s nothing to beat the real thing. The feel of strong male arms around you, of skin on skin, of bodily warmth. Which was why, a few years ago, I had embarked on a couple of relationships. At the time I’d been stricken with a feeling of life passing me by, that I may never be naked in bed with a man again. And I had longed to fall in love a second time. Deeply in love with a man who would love me, for ever.

My first amour was the owner of a local garden centre whom I’d met when I had interviewed him about the centre extending their facilities. We’d liked the look of each other, flirted and he’d bought me a coffee in their café. Later, when I had gone in to purchase slug pellets – hoping I might see him – he had asked me out for dinner. On leaving the restaurant, he’d taken me back to his house and we had made love. The lovemaking had been awkward. Because I hadn’t been expecting it first time out, I was wearing run-of-the-mill underwear – well-washed bra, white cotton knickers – so had needed to undress furtively. Then the guy had lain on the different side of the bed to where Tom had always lain, so no matter where I put my arms and legs, it felt wrong. Later, as he approached his climax, he had emitted hee-haw noises which reminded me of a donkey and made me want to laugh. My desire had been killed stone dead.

Afterwards, I had told myself that our lovemaking hadn’t been wonderful because it had been the first time. Things would improve. They didn’t. Although I wore black lace and we swapped sides, the guy had still hee-hawed and I had still wanted to laugh. Yet, out of bed we had got along fine. We had the same sense of humour, liked the same books and films, were interested in many of the same activities, in particular gardening. After three months of donkey sex, I said a reluctant farewell. He didn’t understand why.

The second liaison was with a man who worked alongside Bruce and who Jenny had invited to a barbecue where – guess what? – I had been invited, too. This time, things were the other way around. Out of bed we had nothing in common, between the sheets all was lusty rapture. But if you’re intimate with someone you need to respect them as a person, and I didn’t. I thought he was long-winded, self-opinionated, too much the wise guy. And because I thought that and yet slept with him, I didn’t respect myself, either. I had begun to wonder what I was proving by partaking in this meaningless sex, when Jenny told me that his colleague had informed Bruce I was ‘randy-arsed’ in bed – which made her laugh, and blush crimson, but probably confirmed me in Bruce’s mind as debauched. The remark finished the relationship. Maybe today’s young women would consider it a compliment, but any man who could be so indiscreet, so coarse, was not for me.