The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook Part 13

She thinks about this for a minute, still blocking my escape route. 'You're a good lad, Edward. That Jane's a lucky girl. Will you stay for a cup of tea?'

Ah. She obviously hasn't worked out that Jane has, in fact, left me. Possibly because I told her otherwise, of course.

'Well...'

Mrs Barraclough's face lights up at the idea. 'Only I don't have much company nowadays. Not since my Arthur died.'

Oh G.o.d. I'd forgotten that Mrs Barraclough must have had a husband once, but then I suppose she is called Mrs Barraclough. Now I think about it, she's been living on her own since Jane and I first moved in, which means she must have been without him for nearly a decade. As she shuffles towards me along the landing, I realize that I can't possibly refuse.

It takes Mrs Barraclough a further five minutes to find her keys in her handbag, another two minutes to actually open the door, and by the time I'm sitting in her lounge waiting for her to make the tea, I'm starting to worry I'll miss tomorrow's appointment with Sam. I've never been inside Mrs Barraclough's flat before; it's a similar layout to mine, but where my flat is currently empty, there's not a single s.p.a.ce on Mrs Barraclough's shelves, mantelpiece, or inside her gla.s.s-fronted cabinets that isn't covered or filled with ornaments, photographs, or souvenirs. Digby from Where There's a Will would have a field day in here.

Eventually, Mrs Barraclough appears in slow motion through the multicoloured plastic ribbons that hang down over her kitchen doorway, and deposits a tray bearing two cups of tea onto the table in front of me. The tea is slightly orange in colour, reminding me a bit of Dan's skin tone, and thick enough to stand a spoon up in-again, a phrase that I could use to describe Dan. Not wanting to hang around, I drink it quickly, a task made not that difficult given the fact that it isn't particularly hot, although as I swallow, I prefer not to think about what the lumps are.

As we sit there, Mrs Barraclough tells me all about Arthur; how lucky she was to have found him, how close they were, and how she misses him every day.

'You know,' she says, resting a wrinkled hand on my arm. 'The day he died, I held him in my arms, and told him I'd see him again soon. And I'm just waiting for that day, now.'

As I swallow the last mouthful of tea, there's a lump in my throat for a different reason. Maybe she does know about me and Jane splitting up after all, and perhaps this is her way of trying to tell me something? That time together is precious, possibly, and you have to make the most of it, because who knows how long you'll have? I resolve to remember this, particularly if things get tough over the next few months.

Finally, there's a long enough pause in the conversation for me to make my escape. As I stand up to leave, Mrs Barraclough retrieves a photograph from the mantelpiece, and hands it to me.

'Who's this?' I say, blowing the dust off the gla.s.s-fronted frame to reveal a picture of a younger Mrs Barraclough, holding a large tortoisesh.e.l.l cat in her arms.

Mrs Barraclough looks up at me, a confused expression on her face.

'Why, that's me and Arthur, of course.'

Friday 21st January.

7 a.m. On the dot.

I've set my alarm for 6.30 this morning, giving myself just enough time to shower, dress, and force down a bowl of cereal, and I'm ready when Sam rings the doorbell, zipping up my workout top as I let her in. She's wearing a green version of the tracksuit I saw her in yesterday, matching green gloves, and carrying the same small rucksack on her shoulders.

'So, what are we doing this morning?' I say, showing her through into the lounge. 'I've cleared a s.p.a.ce in the front room.' In reality, of course, I haven't had to clear any s.p.a.ce in the front room. Jane took care of that for me.

Sam takes me through a few basic stretches, then throws open the curtains and peers out into the blackness. 'I thought we'd start with a little jog. Along the seafront.'

'Outside? But it's freezing this morning.' As soon as I've said this I realize how whiny and pathetic my voice sounds.

'That's fine,' replies Sam. 'It'll stop you pa.s.sing out from heat exhaustion.'

'But...'

'Come on, Usain Bolt. Follow me.' And with that she's off, along my hallway, through the front door, and jogging down my street towards the seafront. I trail along after her, enjoying, briefly, the sight of her taut b.u.t.tocks bouncing up and down in front of me, until I remember just how out of shape I am, and concentrate instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

We head across the road, down onto the promenade, and along past the angel statue. I'm a little surprised that I've made it this far without stopping, but that's probably because Sam seems to be a little bit more sensitive to my fitness levels than Dan was. As I struggle to see where I'm going through the fog my breath is making, Sam jogs easily alongside me, urging me to pick up the pace a little as we near the pier. And maybe it's the fact that Sam's a professional, or more likely it's because I didn't stuff my face with pizza and beer last night, but funnily enough, this doesn't actually feel so bad.

7.10 a.m.

Even in my relatively inexperienced state, I understand that there are ways to make a good impression where women are concerned. Being sick in a bin on the seafront in front of Sam isn't one of them. And what's worse, it's one of those bins with only a side opening, so I have to try and aim horizontally through the relatively small and not particularly clean gap. I fail miserably, managing to splash the tops of my new trainers with this morning's regurgitated cereal.

Sam jogs back over to where I'm using the bin for support, removes a packet of wet wipes from her rucksack, and pa.s.ses me one.

'Do you want to rest for a bit?'

I stop heaving and shake my head. 'No. Let's keep going. I don't think I've got anything left to sick up.'

Sam grimaces. 'That's comforting to know.'

I'm mortified. 'I'm so sorry,' I say, wiping my face.

'Don't worry.' Sam puts a supportive hand on my shoulder. 'It happens to everyone their first time.'

'Really?'

'Well, not quite everyone.'

'I thought I could do a bit better than this.'

'You will. It's all about setting yourself goals and monitoring your improvements. For example,' she points a few hundred yards further along the promenade, 'by the end of next week, I want you to be able to get to that bin over there before you feel like throwing up.'

We start off again, Sam maintaining more of a leisurely pace as I struggle to keep up. By the time we get level with the end of the pier, I'm moving so slowly that an old couple out on their motorized wheelchairs seem to zoom past me.

We follow them along the seafront, then, as they disappear into the morning gloom, turn up Preston Street, finally stopping outside a doorway between a pizza restaurant and a kebab house. Ominously, the sign above the entrance reads 'Swetz'.

'Come on,' says Sam, as she shows me inside. 'Surprise for you.'

I already have a feeling that I'm not going to like Sam's surprises. Problem is, I'm breathing so hard I can't actually ask what it might be.

We make our way up the stairs, Sam taking them two at a time, whereas I need to pull myself up by the banisters. By the time we get to the top, my worst fears are confirmed-it's a gym-and what's worse is that manning the reception is Arnold Schwarzenegger's larger, younger, better-looking brother. He's tall, tanned, wearing a pair of those baggy multi-coloured trousers that only bodybuilders and Rastafarians can get away with, and displaying a ridiculously muscular pair of arms from his cut-off-sleeve sweatshirt.

As we walk in, he looks up, ignoring me at first, and flashing a set of perfect teeth in Sam's direction.

'Well, if it isn't the lovely Samantha.'

'Morning, Simon.'

'And who's this?' says Simon, flicking his eyes across at me. 'Another lamb for the slaughter?'

I hate him instantly. 'Edward,' I say, holding out my hand.

This is a mistake, because when Simon shakes it, I suddenly feel like my fingers are trapped in a Black and Decker Workmate. And a clammy one at that.

'Call me Sy,' says Simon.

'Can't stand around and chat,' interrupts Sam, leading me through an archway and into the exercise studio. 'Mustn't let Edward cool down.'

Cool down? I'm sweating like a pig, and feel like I'm running a temperature. Once we're out of earshot, I turn to Sam. 'Who on earth was that?'

Sam shakes her head. 'My ex-boyfriend, would you believe,' she says. 'Simon owns this place. He still lets me bring the occasional client here.'

'Ex-boyfriend? Why did the two of you split up?' I've resolved nowadays to always ask questions like this when I get the chance. Plus, it means I might get a slightly longer rest. 'If you don't mind me asking?'

Sam looks back at Sy, who's standing at reception tensing his scarily big biceps in front of the full-length mirror.

'Isn't it obvious?'

'Er...'

Sam rolls her eyes. 'Why do you think he calls himself "Sy"?'

'Because it's short for ''Simon''?'

She nods. 'Yes. But also because that's what he thinks the girls all do when they see him.'

'But he's...Huge.'

'And so is his ego,' laughs Sam. 'Anyway, like I said, enough chat. This, Edward,' she says, leading me into the centre of the room, 'is a gym. And that's spelt g-y-m.'

I stare in horror at the heavy machinery lining the walls.

'What are we doing here? I mean, now. So soon.'

'Well, I'd normally start a new client off with some bodyweight exercises, but by the looks of you, that might be a little tough. And seeing as we don't have a lot of time...'

We head over to what appears to be some torture equipment in the corner, labelled 'chest press'. On it there's a little picture of a man who seems to be made purely out of muscle, with arrows helpfully pointing to where his chest actually is.

Sam gets on first, selects a weight from the stack, and demonstrates the exercise a few times. When it's my turn, I'm surprised to find that I can't even shift the weight she's been using once.

'I think it's stuck,' I say, my face an attractive shade of purple.

Sam leans across and removes the pin completely from the stack, so all I'm lifting is the mechanism itself. It's still a struggle, but I'm pleased when I manage the twenty rep target she's set me.

We move on to the 'leg extension', where I'm just about to ask whether it will make me taller until the burning in my thigh muscles makes speech impossible. Then it's a jelly-legged walk across to the 'pec deck'; a machine whose sole purpose seems to be to dislocate my arms from their sockets.

We spend the next half an hour doing a circuit of the gym, Sam encouraging and helping where necessary. The high point is when I manage two sets on the 'abdominal crunch'-which strikes me as a great name for a low-fat breakfast cereal-without too much discomfort. The low point comes soon after, when I'm straining at a particularly heavy weight on the leg press and I fart loudly, provoking barely disguised sn.i.g.g.e.rs from some of the other gym users. Sam, to her credit, pretends not to notice.

By the time I feel like I've worked muscles in places where I didn't even know I had muscles, we retire to the exercise mats, where Sam takes me through some further stretches. I'm pleased when I can at least touch my shin, although touching my toes seems like the North Face of Everest at the moment.

Eventually, and after what seems like an eternity, we're finished.

'Well done,' says Sam, as she leads me towards the exit.

I'm almost too knackered to reply, just managing to get out a wheezy, 'And I'm paying you for this?'

As we walk out past Sy, he looks up from his copy of Steroid Monthly.

'Call me,' he says to Sam.

'There are a number of things I could call him,' she whispers, as we head down the stairs, before jogging slowly back down to the seafront.

'Is it okay if I leave you to get home on your own, Edward?' she asks, looking anxiously at her watch. 'I'm meeting another client shortly, and we've overrun a bit.'

'Sure.' I nod, relieved that the session is over. 'No problem.'

'So, a light jog back to your flat, and you're finished for the day.'

She's not kidding. 'Great.'

'You did well. So I'll see you Monday?'

'Not tomorrow?'

Sam smiles. 'No. I've already got a regular Sat.u.r.day morning, and I don't do Sundays. Besides,' she adds, ominously, 'you might need to recover a little.'

I watch Sam's departing figure as she jogs off towards her next appointment, then, when she's safely out of sight, I limp back up to the main road and lean against the bus stop until the number 7 arrives. It's only two stops to the end of my street, and I don't dare sit down in case I can't get up again.

Once I'm home, I take the phone with me into the bathroom, just in case I have to call the cardiac team, and stand in the shower for a long, long time, until my heart rate eventually returns to normal. And yet, despite my exertions, I feel strangely elated. Whether it's the fact that I've started on my journey to get Jane back, or the exercise releasing some endorphins into my bloodstream, I can't tell. But I feel good. Or, rather, I feel bad.

But in a good way.

Sat.u.r.day 22nd January.

9.30 a.m.

When I wake up this morning, for the first time since Jane left I can't feel the pain in my heart. That's because I hurt everywhere else. Everywhere. It takes me five minutes to get out of bed, my stomach muscles screaming at me when I try to sit up, and then my leg muscles joining in as soon as I try to stand. When I eventually manage to shuffle into the bathroom to use the toilet, even my peeing muscles hurt.

I consider putting in a call to Sam to complain, but that would mean having to pick up the phone, so instead I go back to bed, but even there I can't find a position that's comfortable to lie in. I'm so sore that when I hobble painfully into the kitchen to find a couple of aspirin, I decide that the effort of reaching up to the top shelf in the cupboard to get them is potentially more painful than the relief I might get from taking the tablets in the first place, so I give it a miss.

By midday, I've managed to shower and dress, a task made even longer because I've had to wait for my hair to drip dry-I haven't been able to raise my hands above my head to dry it with a towel. As I get ready for my lunchtime rendezvous with Dan at the pub, I have to leave my shoes undone, because I can't bend down to tie my laces. Even blinking hurts.

Cursing both Sam and Jane for putting me through this, I inch my way down the steps, seriously considering taking a taxi the four hundred yards to the Admiral Jim. By the time I make my way painfully in through the doorway, I'm half an hour late, and Dan's waiting impatiently at the bar, flicking through a copy of Heat.

'Incredible!' he exclaims, throwing the magazine down in disgust. 'It says here that that Darren Day has got himself a stalker. Darren Day! What's wrong with these people?'

'I know.'

'Yeah,' continues Dan. 'Stalking the likes of him when they could be after me. Unbelievable!'

'Oh. Right.'