and the front row is the back.’ She looks very pleased with herself.
I don’t know who’s more disappointed – the Lycra-clad goddesses who like to show off in front of everyone, or the scruffy reprobates like me who are now centre stage. I’m pretty certain my knickers have gone up my bum and now I can’t hoick them back out.
I haven’t been to a gym class since school, when Miss Bates the terrifying PE teacher used to make us do yoga with a side order of military-style barked instructions. Now I’m standing beside my mat wondering what exactly I’m expected to do.
We start off lying down, and it all seems very restful and soothing. But the next thing I know we’re on our sides doing something with our legs that’s making me want to cry. I’m not the only one. Just as we shift positions, the baby starts screaming at the top of his lungs, and there’s a brief – but oh God, much appreciated – pause as his mother hisses an apology and gathers him up and exits, trailing muslin cloths and water bottles, her yoga mat unravelling behind her. I eye the clock. Another half an hour to go and then I can escape.
‘Keep those heels together. We want to feel those glutes engaging,’ she says, cheerfully.
My glutes feel like they’ve been set on fire and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit down again. This is torture.
It’s possible it’ll go down in history as the longest half hour of my life. I’ve seen Pilates classes before, and I always thought they looked pretty gentle – like exercise classes for people who can’t be bothered getting all sweaty. Except now I’m lying face down on the floor with my arms by my sides, doing what looks like the tiniest little movement. I wait until the instructor has passed by me and flop my arms down onto the mat, and lie there quietly, like roadkill.
15th January
Next morning, I wake up with the alarm and sit up with a yelp of pain.
Last night, as we’d walked home Becky had said, cheerfully, ‘You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow.’
Bloody hell she wasn’t joking.
‘You all right?’
I bump into Alex as he’s coming out of the bathroom, wrapped in a grey dressing gown. He’s towelling his hair and looking amused.
‘No I am not all right. Becky took me to a torture chamber last night and now I can’t actually walk, and I’ve got three meetings in a row this morning.’
‘You need to come for a walk to loosen yourself up. You free on Friday afternoon?’
I nod. ‘Ow.’
‘It hurts to nod?’
Stupidly, I nod again. ‘Apparently. Ow. Anyway, yes I am free. Well, I’m working, but we all get Friday afternoons off to work from home, so … as long as I catch up over the weekend, I think that’s fair enough.’
Alex looks at me, one eyebrow cocked slightly.
I press my lips closed. God, I can’t half go on. ‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. I’m free at one. Want to meet me here and we can go for a wander?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex
18th January
I meet Jess after lunch. She’s still in work clothes – a pair of dark grey trousers, black boots and a soft red jumper, which is an improvement on my work uniform. I’ve been living in scrubs for the last week on a placement in the paeds ward, and it wasn’t until I got home last night that I realised I had a teddy bear sticker stuck to the side of my beard. I’d like to think nobody noticed, but knowing the staff of Paddington Ward, I suspect they thought it was amusing.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ she says, but it’s in that sort of brittle, not very convincing kind of way.
‘What’s up?’
‘Just one of those days. Loads of work stuff.’
‘We don’t have to do this if you’d rather get on?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I need the fresh air. Just that first week of work thing. I feel like I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’
We start walking.
‘So how did you end up knowing your way round London so well?’ Jess asks as she pulls her hat down a bit further on her head. It’s weird that January’s often colder than December – even though December is the month most associated with winter and snow. It feels a bit like it might snow now – the sky’s a funny sort of yellow-grey colour.
‘My dad worked here for years. He used to get the train up, and