Authors: Rebecca Chance
Coco had balked at the idea of working out so early, and her
eyes were struggling to stay open, despite the coffee that she’d
grabbed and done her best to drink on the subway ride from
Fort Greene to his Chelsea studio.
To be honest, she was grateful that she could barely focus.
Brad had specified that she had to come dressed in tight
leggings and either a leotard or strappy cami.‘Nothing bulky,’
he’d said on the phone, in a swift, clipped voice. ‘I have to see
exactly what’s going on, okay? If you wear anything loose, girl,
you’re taking it off.’
Terrorised by the idea of a body sculptor forcing her to
reveal her torso in just a sports bra, Coco had dashed to Paragon
Sports, above Union Square, the night before, and bought a
tight black cami-top. She’d pulled it on that morning, over
equally tight black leggings, but hadn’t dared to look at herself,
just thrown a loose cardigan straight over both clinging pieces
of clothing. If she’d really examined all her body flaws and
bulges before leaving for her early-morning appointment,
she’d never have got up the nerve to go.
And now, as Brad walked all around her, slowly, looking
at her from every angle, hissing quietly to himself under his
breath, she wanted, very badly, to cry. Her hair was pulled
into a short ponytail, held back with a sweatband; the only
make-up she was wearing was a tiny amount of cover-up
and waterproof mascara. The studio was lined with mirrors,
which were, when you were wearing skintight workout
clothes, even more frightening than the equipment at the
back: a fearsome array of weights, poles, huge rubber tubes
with grip holes cut into them, medicine balls, Pilates balls, a
suspension rack with gravity boots hanging from the top,
and many other torture devices at whose purpose Coco
could only guess.
Brad himself was in such good shape that he put the male
models with whom Coco had worked to shame. Male models,
like their female counterparts, needed to be slimline to fit into
clothes, which meant keeping their muscles to a long, lean
minimum. Whereas every single muscle Brad had on his body
was worked out and sculpted to maximum effect; the ribbed
ridges of his six-pack, clearly visible through his tight white
vest, the split caps of solid muscle on his lightly-freckled shoulders, and his almost wasp-waist made him resemble a
professional athlete in peak condition, a gymnast or a pentathlete. Nothing was overdone, everything was in proportion.
And next to him, I look like a podgy dumpling, she thought
miserably.
‘O-kay!’ Brad had finished his circuit and was facing Coco
again. He wasn’t handsome, not really, but his body was so
good, his posture so confident, that you overlooked his onlyaverage face, with its Irish freckles and snub nose. ‘Ready to
hear the verdict?’
Coco nodded, horrified to realise that she was choking back
tears. Beyond Brad, in the mirrors, she could see her stomach
bulge, pooching out a little over the waistband of her tight
leggings, no matter how much she tried to suck it in. All the
way around, like a doughnut. It’s so unfair! she thought. I’ve
done Pilates twice a week, and I’ve lost so much weight. Below
the tight ribbing of her sports bra, there was another, smaller,
but distinct doughnut, which the cami was trying and failing
to flatten. And her hips were a whole size too wide.
She pegged her chin in the air, preparing to face utter
humiliation.
‘Oh, girl, don’t look like that.’ Brad took her hands in his,
squeezing them reassuringly. ‘It’s not so bad. You’re no Miss
Piggy. You just need some hard work and focus, that’s all.’
This kindness was unexpected and overwhelming. Coco
gulped, and felt one stray, betraying tear trickle down her
cheek.
I want so badly to look perfect for Jacob.
‘Go get some water,’ Brad ordered, tactfully releasing her so
she could wipe it away. ‘But come straight back, okay?’
She dashed to the water fountain in the corner, filling a
paper cup, and turned back to see that Brad was sitting on a big
blue Pilates ball, his hand resting on its twin, a bright smile on
his face.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna lay this whole thing out for
you. No!’ he hollered immediately as she gingerly lowered
herself onto the ball. ‘Back straight! Straight! Thighs out at a
ninety-degree angle, feet flat on the ground. Now you use your
core to keep yourself there, o-kay?’
She nodded, eyes wide, sipping her water gratefully.
‘First rule: when I say “o-kay”, you always answer: “Yes,
Brad!” O-kay?’
‘Yes, Brad!’ Coco repeated, her thighs already starting to
burn from the effort of keeping the slippery ball relatively
stationary.
‘Here’s the thing, honey.’ Brad swept his own ball around in
perfect, tight, tiny clockwise circles, his feet remaining flat on
the floor, his control exemplary. ‘You’re a woman in New York
City. The rules are different for women. It’s not fair, but that’s
life, amiright? The guys can get away with way more than you
can, especially if they’re loaded. Let’s put our cards on the
table, o-kay?’
‘Yes, Brad!’ Coco said quickly, always keen to please a
teacher, but he swept over her.
‘Jacob sent you here, and told me to whip you into shape,’
he continued. ‘So I know
exactly
what that means. Lucky you!’
He winked. ‘You scored yourself one of the biggest sugar
daddies in town. You must be a very clever girl. Did you know
I train Jacob too?’
Coco shook her head.
‘And now you’re thinking,’ Brad said, winking again, ‘Jeez,
Brad’s not that good at his job, is he? ’Cos Jacob’s not exactly
in this kind of shape.’
Swirling the ball now widdershins, Brad looked down
complacently at his washboard stomach.
‘But Jacob doesn’t need to be in kickass shape,’ he told her.
‘You know what I’m saying, right? He’s Jacob Dupleix! He can
have anyone he wants! He’s fit, he’s pretty healthy, his cholesterol levels are great, he doesn’t need to look like a gym bunny.’
Raising his sandy eyebrows, Brad looked at Coco pointedly.
‘I know I need to lose some weight and tone up,’ she said
frankly.
Brad nodded.‘It’s Manhattan, honey,’ he said. ‘Four girls for
every single guy, or some shit like that. All of ’em fighting to be
thinner and blonder and bigger-titted than the next one. It’s
not LA, but we’re getting there, you know? Now you told me
on the phone you’ve been doing Pilates and all. Where’ve you
been taking those classes, by the way?’
‘Core Pilates,’ Coco said. ‘On University.’
‘Hey, Kim and Michelle!’ Brad smiled. ‘I know those girls.
They’re the best. But you’re in for a shock with me. The best
Pilates class in the world is no substitute for hardcore one-onone training. I’m gonna tailor everything, personally, to your
weak points. I’m gonna work you like you’ve never been
worked before. In a month, you’re gonna see a major, major
change in your shape. We’re gonna slim down those hips and
work the hell outta those abs.’
He jumped off the ball in one lithe movement. ‘Well, what are
you waiting for, girl? Let’s warm up with some jumping jacks!’
Coco did her best to spring off the ball as easily as Brad had
done, tripped on the flanged heels of her sneakers and nearly
went flying.
‘I’ll just throw this away,’ she said quickly, dashing over to
the bin by the water fountain, pretending she had meant to
tumble off the ball, but pretty much sure that Brad knew the
truth.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Brad said, starting to do star jumps in the
centre of the studio, his voice as light and even as if he were
still sitting on the ball, rather than bouncing back and forth
through the air, arms swinging open and closed. ‘You know
who works out the hardest of all?’
Coco, facing him, already finding it hard to keep up with
the speedy pace he was setting, managed a panted ‘No’.
‘Gay men!’ Brad said, as if it were the most obvious thing in
the world. ‘Who’s the fussiest of all, most body-conscious?
Gay men. We’re really judgey! So, who’s the best person to
work you out? A gay man! Honey, I’m going to treat you like
you were a little twink looking for a sugar daddy. No mercy!
You’re going to work harder than you ever did in your life.
O-kay?’
‘Yes, Brad!’ Coco wheezed.
‘Great. Now, catch this!’ Brad raced over to the far side of
the studio, grabbed a medicine ball, and threw it at Coco, who
barely managed to catch it; the impact against her stomach
half-winded her.
‘Lie down, sit up, throw it to me, stand up, catch it, sit down
again, lie down, sit up and throw it to me all over again.
Twenty-five reps, off we go! We don’t stop unless you break
something, okay? O-kay?’
‘Yes, Brad!’ Coco gasped, just about managing to sit down
while clasping the ball to her chest. That was hard enough.
Twenty-five times
? she thought in panic, trying to glance around
for a clock, to see how long the rest of the session would last.
‘There is no clock,’ Brad barked happily. ‘Don’t even bother
looking.
I’ll
tell you when you’re done. Now throw me that
ball – and put some muscle into it!’
This is worth it, Coco told herself, gritting her teeth, throwing the ball so feebly that Brad had to take a step forward to
catch it.
This is totally and completely worth it.
She clambered
to her feet and grunted in pain as the medicine ball came flying
back at her, so hard that she thought she’d break her fingers
catching it.
Oww!
she wailed internally. But she set her jaw
and knelt down again, plopping her bottom back on the mat,
throwing the ball back to Brad once more.
I can do it. I
have
to do it.
I
want Jacob to think I’m a fighter, that
I’m strong, that I don’t give up. I want him to be sure he’s made the
right choice in picking me. I want to be the editor of
Style.
And I’d walk over hot coals to get there.
woman who had just appeared on Jacob’s terrace. ‘What
do you mean, Jacob called you? Why didn’t he let me know
you were coming too?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘It’s very exciting.
He told me to be sure to pour us both a glass of Cristal. There was
a bottle in the kitchen, chilled and waiting in an ice-bucket.’
Taken aback, Coco accepted the champagne coupe that the
woman was handing her.
‘I didn’t know that you and Jacob were . . .’ she started, still
bewildered, but not wanting to be rude. She trailed off, not
knowing how to finish the sentence.
So close
, she meant.
Close
enough for him to invite you round without even telling his fiancée
you were coming. And to tell you to give me a drink, when this is
practically my home now
.
‘Oh, it’s a professional connection,’ the woman said, still
smiling. ‘I’m sure that’s what he wants to talk to us both about.
Something to do with Dupleix, don’t you think?’
Of course, the woman was very familiar to Coco: it was
seeing her in this context that seemed so odd. She nodded, still
bemused.
‘And we’re celebrating,’ the woman continued. ‘Your
engagement! Your job! You must be on top of the world.’ She
clinked her champagne coupe against Coco’s.
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ Coco said, smiling
back at this perfect echo of her thoughts. ‘On top of the
world.’ She sipped some of the Cristal. ‘Ooh, lovely. But I’d
better go slowly with this,’ she said wryly, looking at the glass
in her hand.
‘You’re not pregnant?’ the woman gasped. ‘Oh, that would
be . . .’ She seemed to be searching for a superlative.
Coco laughed, taking another sip of champagne. ‘That
would be much too much,’ she said. ‘I’m only twenty-five. I
don’t want kids for quite a while.’
‘Have you told Jacob that?’ the woman asked, arching her
eyebrows. ‘I thought he was getting broody.’
‘Broody? Really?’
It didn’t occur to Coco at that moment to wonder how on
earth the woman knew such a personal detail about her fiancé;
she was more concerned with the idea that Jacob might be
expecting her to pop out babies as soon as he put the wedding
ring on her finger.
‘I’m really not ready,’ she said, furrowing her brow. ‘I mean,
I want children, but definitely not yet.’
The woman grimaced sympathetically. ‘Jacob’s a lot older
than you, though,’ she pointed out. ‘Now he’s finally made the
decision to get married and settle down, he’s probably in quite
a hurry.’
‘I’ll have to explain things to him,’ Coco said with certainty.
‘I’m sure he’ll understand I don’t want to start right away. I’ve
only just been made editor – I can’t possibly take time off for
at least two years.’
‘Oh, that sounds very reasonable,’ the woman agreed. ‘After
all, it was Jacob who gave you the editor’s job. I’m sure he’ll
understand when you put it like that.’
Relieved to hear this, Coco drank some more champagne.
‘Phew,’ she said, giggling. ‘You gave me a nasty start there.’
She shivered. ‘God, I’m cold. Shall we go in?’
‘Just a moment. Look at the sunset,’ the woman sighed,
strolling over to the balustrade. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’
It truly was. The setting sun burned hot golden-red to their
right, over the Jersey shoreline, behind the huge new buildings
that lined the bottom edge of the West Side Highway, the new
Frank Gehry office tower on 18th Street, and the three Richard
Meier glass apartment blocks at Perry and Charles. Streaks of
crimson, gold and pink traced across the mauve sky, reflecting,
dizzyingly bright, in the mirrored windows of the skyscrapers,
a whole series of miniature fires.
‘It warms me just to look at that view,’ the woman said,
leaning her elbows on the wide stone rail. ‘You’re moving in
here, aren’t you?’
‘For the moment,’ Coco said, joining her at the balustrade,
admiring the panorama. She sipped some more champagne,
relishing the warmth as the bubbles trickled down her throat.
‘But this won’t be big enough for both of us in the long term.’
She smiled at the woman. ‘Especially when we do start thinking about a family. We’ll be looking at a duplex, at least.
Downtown, though,’ she added. ‘Jacob wants to stay here, and
I don’t want to go above Fourteenth Street.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ the woman said, sipping some Cristal.
She glanced over.‘I thought you were going to take that slowly,’
she said, amused, noticing that Coco’s coupe was nearly empty.
‘Oh dear.’ Coco pulled a face. ‘I have to be more careful
nowadays, now that I’ve lost weight. It goes to my head much
faster than it used to.’ I’m below a hundred pounds! she wanted
to say proudly, but knew that it would sound like boasting.
‘You
have
lost a lot of weight,’ the woman said, turning to
look Coco up and down. ‘Perhaps even a little too much? You
look very thin, frankly.’
‘That’s what I wanted,’ Coco said happily. ‘To be thin! And
now I am. I’m really, really thin. Oops.’ She put her hand to
her forehead. ‘I knew I should have gone a bit slower. I feel
rather tipsy now.’
She took a step back from the parapet, and staggered a little
on her heels.
‘Oops! Actually,’ she said, surprised at how light-headed she
was, ‘I think I should go inside and sit down. I feel woozy all of
a sudden.’
‘Here.’ The woman put an arm around her waist, steadying
her. Coco realised that she was being turned, again, to face the
sunset.
‘I want to go inside,’ she said, but was taken aback at the
weakness in her voice.
‘In a moment,’ the woman said sweetly. ‘I did want to ask
you about how thin you are. You don’t look healthy, Coco. Do
you know that? You can’t be eating anything.’
‘No one eats anything on
Style
,’ Coco said, her brain beginning to spin in slow, intoxicated circles. ‘You know that.’
‘Of course, but people should be healthy, shouldn’t they?
You must be eating like a bird.’ The woman’s arm tightened
round her waist. ‘You feel as light as a bird. As if you weigh
nothing at all. As if you could fly.’
Coco liked that; she liked it very much. ‘As light as a bird,’
she repeated dizzily.
‘Yes! Look out there.’ With her free hand, the woman
stretched out her long, elegant arm, pointing to the horizon,
the tip of the island, directly in front of them, the high, irregular shard of the new tower at the World Trade Centre.‘Wouldn’t
it be lovely to fly over there? Like a bird? To soar over the
buildings, ride the air currents over the rivers, to the sea . . .
Wouldn’t you like to be able to fly?’
Her arm was firm around Coco’s narrow waist, supporting
her now. Coco was feeling so weak, so overwhelmed with
giddiness, that keeping her balance was becoming increasingly
difficult. Her feet felt as if they wanted to turn under her, trip
her up; she was swaying on her heels. The loss of control was
scary – but very far away, like a tiny clear voice, the last remnant
of sense in her brain was telling her to get a grip, to be afraid,
that what was happening wasn’t right.
But the wooziness flooding through her was like a whole
bottle of champagne, fizzy and delightful, and the woman’s
arm was warm and steady round her. She was still speaking,
her tone soft, dreamy, hypnotic.
‘You can’t weigh anything at all. You’re so light, you could just
float away, like a balloon, soar up into the air, over the city . . .’
Coco was entranced by her words, by the picture of herself,
a light, beautiful bird in her black coat, spinning effortlessly,
weightlessly, through the crisp evening air.
‘I
would
like to fly,’ Coco murmured, her head whirling.
And then she felt the hands close round her waist, lifting
her up, tilting her over the edge of the balustrade.