Prime Time (20 page)

I eventually located the blazer screwed up into a small ball inside his school rucksack together with some dog-eared exercise books, an assortment of sweet wrappers and a half-eaten apple. Clearing out the débris I also came across, in various stages of disintegration, an interesting array of letters home that I should clearly have been reading since the beginning of term.

There was one enquiring whether I'd like to join the PTA or stand as a governor (not terribly); another urging me to support the Wine and Wisdom Evening (no problem with one half of it, but sadly lacking in the other); a third informing me of the system of getting appointments for parents' evening (a bit late, now I'd already found my own method of barging in and then bursting into tears), and a stern missive from the headmaster explaining the importance of the school fund which I was evidently meant to be contributing to.

I gathered them into a pile to leave accusingly in Stanley's place at the kitchen table and had a shufty round the outside pockets in case any more treasures lurked. One stiffened rugby sock later, I found a creased white envelope with my name written on the front. It was from Andrew Lazlett.

A brief, friendly, handwritten note told me that he'd had a word with Stanley and they both thought it would be a good idea if Stanley started going to Homework Club which ran from four to five each day and that perhaps if I were picking Stanley up one evening, he, Andrew, could have a quick chat with me to “catch up”. Stanley knew all about this and would be talking to me about it.

It was dated over a week earlier – Stanley hadn't said a word.

‘I forgot,' he said blithely, when he returned to find me in a post-housework slump, washing and ironing done, chicken in the oven, car full of petrol but the brochure copy still in its infancy.

‘They have a tendency to forget,' said Andrew Lazlett when he returned my phone call the following morning in his break.

‘I'd almost forgotten myself,' I admitted, as I joined him that afternoon for the low-down on Stanley's prowess on the homework front.

I'd been deeply immersed in brochure copy all day, fending off Mike's increasingly hysterical phone calls, and it was only when Stanley failed to materialise at 4.30 that I remembered he was staying on at school till 5 and that I was supposed to be there at 4.45 p.m. to see Andrew first.

I was directed to the library where an assortment of boys were dotted about at tables, heads bent over books. I spotted Stanley at the back, chewing his pen. Andrew Lazlett was seated near the door, jacket over the back of his chair, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front. He got up when he saw me hovering in the corridor.

‘Carry on, you lot. I'll be back in a minute – no throwing things.' He nodded sternly at a small, angelic-looking boy with a shock of red hair. ‘Especially you, Lewis.'

Andrew Lazlett put his jacket back on. For a moment Stanley looked up, caught sight of me, and looked hastily down again, apparently deep in concentration. Andrew joined me outside and indicated I should follow him. ‘I've simply got to have a cigarette – you won't tell, will you?'

We went through a fire door at the end of the corridor and crossed the car park. ‘Not cracked it yet then?' I said, as we slid casually behind the bike sheds. They were surprisingly deserted.

‘Only because they've all gone home,' Andrew Lazlett said. ‘It's a different story at lunchtime –' he pulled a wry face ‘ when I come round here barking at the sixth formers to put them out and set a good example.' He pulled a packet of Rothmans from his pocket. ‘I'm down to two or three a day.' He patted his middle. ‘And still paying for it. Even though I'm hardly eating a thing.'

We both considered his midriff. ‘I'm bloody starving,' I volunteered supportively. ‘I'm on this new regime where I can't have any carbs after 2 p.m. and only boring ones before that. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to an evening of hot water and vegetables. I usually live for the moment when I can fall on the wine and crisps.'

‘I know,' he said gloomily. ‘I'm off the beer too. Maybe we should start a support group.'

‘What? For those prevented from eating a single thing they like?'

‘Something like that. Though I've joined the gym in the hope I can exercise the weight off instead of dying of malnutrition.'

‘I'm joining one tomorrow,' I said. ‘The new one up by Tesco?'

‘That's where I went. They had a good offer on – hope it's still on for you.'

‘Luckily I'm not having to pay for it. I'm on this exercise and diet régime for a TV documentary I'm doing,' I said, feeling a flush of pride as he looked suitably impressed.

‘How glamorous,' he said. ‘And how's Stanley?'

‘I don't know. I think he's OK. How are you finding him?'

‘He seems fine. I suggested Homework Club because I thought it would be good for him socially. Some really nice kids come along – they seem to have a laugh together. They'll be chucking things around the room by now.'

‘I meant to see if Connor was in there,' I said. ‘He was Stanley's friend at primary school but I think he hangs around with other boys now. That's why I worry about Stanley being left on his own.' I felt a lump in my throat at the thought and dug my nails into my palms. I couldn't start that again.

Andrew looked thoughtful. ‘Connor French? From 7C? I think he comes sometimes. I'll find out for you.' He drew deeply on his cigarette and smiled at me.

‘Thanks for all your help and interest,' I said, humbly. ‘You've been so kind – you're very committed …'

‘I love my job,' he said simply. ‘I love being with the kids. It feels like a privilege.' I looked at him – he was utterly serious.

‘How lovely,' I said, feeling strangely emotional. ‘I don't think I've ever felt like that about any job I've done.' I sighed. ‘I've always thought there's something very compelling about people who have a real vocation – to have that certainty that you're doing the right thing with your life. I always feel I've wasted half of mine –'

I stopped abruptly. I'd meant to sound flippant but I suddenly felt like crying again. God, he must think me such a flake. I forced a big grin on to my face. ‘You know that feeling that you've had your day and somehow you missed it?'

He was looking at me intently. ‘What did you do?'

I kept smiling. ‘Got married, brought up a child, had a crap copywriting job.'

‘And have you enjoyed that child?'

‘Oh yes. Having Stanley is the best thing I've ever done.'

‘Then nothing's been wasted. Being a good parent is worth more than any career – I think.'

‘Have you got children?' I asked, feeling awkward now.

‘Two stepsons. Been with them since they were quite young.' His cigarette was almost finished. He took another long drag on what was left.

‘That's nice,' I said feebly.

‘And now you're in television?'

‘Oh no, not really. I just got involved in this programme through someone I know, it‘s only – it's nothing much.' I looked at the ground, embarrassed.

He looked at his watch. ‘I'd better get back.'

He stubbed out his cigarette and carefully pushed the end underneath the hedge with the toe of his shoe. Then he smiled. ‘Perhaps I'll see you in the gym sometime?'

I nodded. ‘God help us.'

‘And try not to be anxious about Stanley,' he said, as we headed back toward the school. ‘It does take them a while to settle in sometimes, but they get there in the end.' His voice was reassuring. ‘If you're worried – just give me a call …'

Chapter Twenty-one

‘Just give me a call.' That's what Cal had said too after he'd emailed today's filming schedule.
Any problems – just call.
Much as I liked the idea of hearing his voice, I couldn't quite bring myself to ring up to ask what I could possibly wear in the way of gym clothes that wouldn't spell total humiliation.

Charlotte, who regarded the gym with the same disdain she reserved for teetotallers and anyone on a diet, was no help at all, and Stanley just said, ‘Oh my God!' again when I told him I was going to be given a work out.

I'd had a quick peer in the sports shop and not only did everything cost a fortune but it was all in that sort of slinky, shiny black Lycra that was guaranteed to make someone like me look even more of a lard arse.

In the end I'd put on my least clapped-out pair of jogging bottoms, a white T-shirt and my heftiest bra.

‘You don't want to go getting joggers' nipple, love,' had been Charlotte's idea of support while she was munching her way through my biscuits that morning and laughing as I sipped at my mango juice with raw carrot.

Now, lying on the floor with a series of little pads and wires attached to me, I began to wish I'd started my starvation regime a lot earlier – like about 1986.

‘I am going to carry out a bioelectrical impedance analysis,' Nicola, the scary-looking personal trainer, had announced sternly.

‘A BIA,' she added importantly, for the benefit of the camera, ‘will pass a small electrical charge through your body and will determine how much of you is fat.' Had I imagined it or had she put a particular emphasis on the last word? ‘And how much is water, muscles and lean tissue.'

She herself had no breasts and arms like steel cords. ‘To do the calculation, we need to programme in your gender, age, and weight. You haven't got a pacemaker, have you?'

The thought of my fat ratio being read out to the entire film crew plus Cal was making me cringe already.

‘Does it hurt?' I asked feebly, wondering if I could get out of it by claiming a low pain threshold and then fainting.

Nicola gave a booming laugh. ‘Oh, you won't feel a thing. Well, not until I get you doing crunches anyway.' She cackled sadistically and everyone else laughed too.

I looked up at the circle of grinning faces. Being spread-eagled on the floor with a camera hovering above my stomach, a mike close to my nose, and Cal and Russ guffawing in the doorway wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind when I'd signed up to improve my self-image.

‘Right!' said Nicola, flexing her biceps. ‘We are looking at 29 per cent body fat. This puts you just inside the acceptable limits but is pushing at the boundaries as far as risk assessment is concerned.'

‘Could you analyse that for us?' said Cal. ‘What does it mean in layman's terms?'

Nicola looked down at me disapprovingly.

‘She doesn't want to get any bigger.'

‘You will be amazed,' she said, as the crew lugged their equipment across the floor and Matt and Russ began to set up some additional lighting around one of the treadmills, ‘how your body will change shape if you follow this programme. I am going to give you a combination of aerobic and resistance exercises so you are both burning calories and building muscle. This, coupled with good nutrition, will bring about an increase of lean tissue and help you burn fat …'

There was something about her tone that told me it wasn't going to be as easy as that.

‘OK, we'll start you off slowly,' she said, with deceptive sweetness, as she pushed me onto the treadmill. ‘Head up, arms loosely by your side, nice heel to toe action. Off you go …'

Ten minutes later the sweat was starting to drip from my forehead, my lungs felt as though they were about to burst, and my legs were two pieces of soggy bread. I grabbed at the handlebar as I stumbled slightly and almost fell off.

‘Don't hold on,' barked Nicola. ‘I need you to do this for five more minutes, can you manage that?'

No. I do not think I can.

I was allowed about 30 seconds' respite, during which time I mopped my face and drank half a litre of water before being put on the cross-trainer. This was even worse. It felt OK for about the first minute then my legs got that leaden feeling before beginning to seriously ache.

‘I–cannot-do-this,' I gasped. Everyone laughed.

The step machine was like an escalator except that instead of carrying you along effortlessly, it went down while you went up so you had to keep trudging or be deposited back on the floor. It was like being in the worst sort of nightmare from the moment it started moving. One of those where you're desperately trying to get somewhere but your legs won't work.

I clung to the handrails, every muscle from calf to thigh screaming in protest. ‘I can't,' I said weakly.

‘Bit faster,' said Nicola, unmoved.

The second step machine was even more torturous. This time you had to do all the work yourself – a foot on each plate and step up and down. I couldn't even get the plates off the ground. Nicola switched it down several levels, shaking her head.

‘This will burn 500 calories per hour if you do it properly,' she said, as I sunk to the floor whimpering. ‘And is very good for toning the legs and glutes.'

‘Your bum,' explained Tanya helpfully.

I'd given up all idea of replying. I could hardly breathe. My whole body was pulsating. God only knew what I looked like.

‘That's probably almost enough for today,' said Nicola. ‘I was going to do some weights but I think she needs to get a bit fitter first,' she explained, talking over the top of me as if I was incapable of speech, which was almost true. ‘We'll just do a few little sit ups.'

She led me to a curved frame thing and lay down in it herself, sliding her shoulders under the two bars and then gripping them with her hands. ‘And then you simply rock forward and sit up,' she said, doing 20 rapid sit-ups while explaining how this would tighten my abs.

‘I suggest you start with three sets of twelve,' she said, still propelling herself up and down at alarming speed. She stopped and sprung to her feet, her breathing perfectly normal, cheeks not even flushed. I could feel my hair in clammy tails against the back of my neck, while a glance at the mirrored wall showed my face was a boiled beetroot. ‘Now you try.'

I lay down in the frame as she had and allowed her to push and prod me into position.

‘Grip here, that's it, and up!' I attempted to heave myself into a sitting position. Nothing happened. ‘Up!' she said again.

I heard Tanya snigger. I pushed myself back, feeling the frame roll slightly and made another supreme effort to propel myself upwards.

‘Ouch!'

‘That's it,' cried Nicola encouragingly.

‘Ouch, ouch, oh, my stomach, this seriously hurts,' I squeaked back.

‘Three,' cried Nicola. ‘Four, five …'

I collapsed in a heap. ‘And if I keep doing this, I'll get a flat stomach?' I panted hopefully, thinking that maybe if I could stand it, the pain might be worth having, for the first time in my life, an abdomen that did not resemble a steak and kidney pudding. I prodded the soft layers – my finger sunk inwards for some inches.

Nicola looked at it too. ‘It will strengthen the stomach muscles beneath the layer of fat,' she said briskly. ‘But if you want to lose the fat itself, you'll have to eat less.'

While I was digesting this inspiring news, the others discussed some sort of ‘power plate induction' – whatever that was but seeing as I could now barely walk, the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that we could call it a day.

‘She should incorporate the power plate into her routine, though,' said Nicola. ‘It's very effective at toning the muscles and building up strength. Madonna's got one,' she added, as if this clinched it.

‘We'll do that when we come back to film the classes,' said Cal.

Classes?

‘You've done really well,' he said, shining one of his smiles on me. ‘You go ahead and get in the shower and we'll be down to join you shortly.'

‘You're not going to film me in there, are you?' I asked in alarm.

Cal grinned. ‘Sadly not. We'll get you coming out though – with that virtuous glow, bursting with vim and endorphins.'

It wasn't exactly as I'd have described myself as I looked in the changing room mirror. My face was still scarlet and my T-shirt clung damply to all my bulges. Beside me a long-legged, toned, 20-something was vigorously towelling her naked body. There wasn't an ounce of fat on her tanned body. I stared at her perfectly flat stomach in awe. How long did it take to look like that?

In fact, the two of us together would be a fitness equipment manufacturer's dream. They could photograph both our stomachs for their before and after pictures. The girl saw me staring and smiled uncertainly.

‘I was just thinking how good you looked,' I said, still unable to take my eyes off her perfect proportions. ‘Has it taken loads of work and dieting?'

She looked embarrassed. ‘I um, I sort of look like this generally,' she said. ‘Though I do work out, of course.'

Of course
. ‘Well, you look fantastic – you really are gorgeous,' I said, giving her a big smile.

She smiled back while edging away from me and I suddenly realised she must think I was either deeply weird or chatting her up. I blushed at the thought of either and busied myself with my towels. ‘I, um, didn't mean …' I mumbled.

‘That's cool,' she said, edging away a bit further.

They had the camera set up in the corridor when I came out. ‘Can you walk jauntily?' Cal said. ‘Put a spring in your step, looking pleased with yourself? That's great. That's fabulous – keep smiling.'

Tanya muttered something to him. ‘OK,' he nodded. ‘We'll do it both ways.'

He turned back to me. ‘And then, Laura, just come out normally – looking a bit knackered maybe.'

‘That won't be difficult,' I quipped. When I'd worn out the corridor carpet alternately skipping and trudging up and down it for the benefit of the camera, Cal finally called a halt. ‘We could do lunch here,' he said. ‘Then we could film that too.'

We all trooped into the café area. At least they were going to feed me today, I thought, as we sat down at one of the plastic tables. I really wanted a panini with ham and cheese and preferably some crisps on the side – I was absolutely starving after all the exercise – but they were all looking at me, so I ordered the tuna salad from the high protein/low fat section of the menu and had an orange juice.

Matt took some footage of me munching, panning in on the lettuce leaf balanced on my fork until I felt like a celebrity rabbit.

Cal laughed when I said this, so I put two fingers up against my head like ears and twitched my nose. He laughed some more.

Tanya swigged at her Diet Coke and spoke dryly. ‘You won't be able to do that by next week.'