Chapter 13
Brooks
Day 1.
Izzy arrives at the gym around nine. She’s wearing large sunglasses, even though she’s inside and looking down from the mezzanine level to where I’m training a client.
“Don’t tell me Tom Ford has started doing shades for artificial lighting,” I call up to her.
She lifts the glasses to the top of her head and scowls down at me as she sucks through the straw of a smoothie cup.
“Steve Sitwell from NYC FM is here. He wants to talk to us about our competition,” she says.
“Yeah, well, he’ll have to wait. I’m busy. And, baby, there is no competition.”
“What have I told you about calling me baby?”
I get a cheap thrill out of watching her huffily stomp away from the balcony rail.
I put my client through one more round of squats, then guide him through stretches. “Nice workout, Jimmy,” I tell him.
“I’m feeling good, Brooks.”
“That’s the aim. It’s week twelve so we should revisit your goals and think about where you want to go from here. Let’s finish stretching those hamstrings and go up to my office.”
Upstairs, the door to my office is closed, despite the fact I left it open. When I step inside, I’m assaulted by woman. A floral scent, not perfume, hits my nose. Izzy is sitting behind my desk with a pink laptop. A bright box of tissues has been placed on the edge of the desk. And the shelves that line the back wall are empty.
“What are you doing? Why are you sitting at my desk? Why does it smell like a beauty salon in here? And where the hell are the tubs of protein that were on my shelves?”
She holds up a finger. “Just one sec.” She continues to type on her screen as my blood reaches boiling. “There. E-mail sent. What was your question? Oh, your protein crap. I removed temptation. You can thank me later.”
“Thank you?” I’m about to lose my shit when I remember my client standing behind me. “I need my office, so you and your pink laptop will have to vacate.”
“But where will I work?”
“I don’t know, Izzy; the bistro, anywhere that isn’t my office.”
She rolls her eyes and closes her laptop. “Are you an only child? I bet you are.”
Pointing out to the hallway, I say, “Out. Now.”
“Fine. Don’t forget we need to speak with Steve Sitwell.”
Lord, give me strength.
“Come on in, Jimmy. Take a seat.”
As he and Izzy pass each other, she tells him, “If you want a clean, refreshing nutrition plan, Jimmy, I’ll be in my new bistro office.” I know she said that for my benefit by the smug look she casts across her shoulder before she leaves.
Jimmy takes a seat on the opposite side of my desk and chuckles when I pick up the pink tissues and throw them into my wastebasket.
“Did you get married and forget to tell me, Brooks?”
“Man, don’t even joke about that shit.”
By the time Jimmy leaves, I’m ravenous. The almond milk, ginger, and carrot smoothie I was allowed for breakfast—which was as disgusting as it sounds—is just an unpleasant memory. In fact, it did nothing to curb my appetite this morning. Silently cursing Izzy, I head down to the bistro. I spot her right away, talking to a man I assume is Steve Sitwell. Not ready to deal with another round of smart-ass quips on an empty stomach, I catch Angie’s attention.
“Good morning, soldier. What can I get you?”
“Eggs, please, Angie. Could you rustle me up two poached on brown?”
“Um, well, you know I never refuse you, Brooks, but…” She glances to the table where Izzy is sitting.
“She told you not to serve me, didn’t she? Well, she needs to remember whose name is above that door. I’ll have the eggs please, Angie.”
“Okay, handsome. Whatever you say. Coffee?”
“Yeah, great, thanks.” I sit on a stool in the corner of the bistro while I wait, drawing as little attention to myself as possible.
As I’m waiting, a message comes through to my cell from Madge.
HOW IS THE FIRST DAY GOING?
I fire a quick reply.
THE WOMAN IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!
She replies with only five words.
THINK OF THE GREATER GOOD.
It had better be for the greater freakin’ good. Two weeks of this is going to be painful.
“Here you go. One coffee. Two eggs on toast.”
“You’re a star, Angie.” I’m licking my lips as I pick up a knife and fork. But when I look back down at my plate, it is snatched away.
“I absolutely do not think so.” Izzy holds my plate in one hand, her free hand on her hip. “No dairy. No bread or pasta. And absolutely no caffeine.”
Have you ever been told you have tickets to see your favorite band? Like, the band you’ve been desperate to see live all your life. Then, right before you get to the arena, you’re told the concert is canceled? Yeah, well, that’s how I’m feeling about my eggs right now.
“Give me my eggs.”
“No.”
I stand up. “Give me the eggs, right now.”
“No, Brooks. You agreed to follow my plan.”
“Izzy, I’m starving.”
A camera flash draws my attention from my little heaven on a plate. Steve Sitwell is taking photographs of our latest altercation. Great. Fucking marvelous.
“You know what, Izzy? Fine. You’re right. We agreed to follow each other’s plan to the letter.”
“Yes, we did.”
“Great, well, you can eat the eggs. I want you to have more protein for your weight training, so go ahead. Devour my first real meal of the day. Oh, and don’t worry about me, I’m sure I can find some sparkling water to fill me up.”
“I’m not hungry. I had breakfast three hours ago.”
“But we’ve established that hunger doesn’t dictate whether we eat. So, let’s take a seat and you can tuck in.”
Her eyes flicker toward Steve Sitwell and I know she’ll agree. “Fine. They look delicious.”
I follow Izzy, Steve, and my breakfast back to their table. I’m forced to swallow my drool as I watch Izzy eat my perfectly poached eggs, while Steve interviews us about our plans for each other.
* * * *
After lunch—if you can call a plate of cucumber and arugula lunch—my grizzly has been sufficiently tamed for me to tackle my first workout session with Izzy.
We’re in Studio A, the dance studio where Izzy filmed her Salsa Yourself Slim DVD. It’s a decent-size space, with a wall of windows and three walls of mirrors, meaning it’s bright and uplifting. In part due to the light, in part because there are so many Brookses reflected in this room. Izzy doesn’t seem to find that entertaining when I say it aloud.
Izzy is standing at the head of the room, flicking through tracks on her iPhone. Satisfied, she sets it in the dock and Latin music fills the room.
I stand in the middle of the space in my shorts and T-shirt, wondering what on earth I am going to be doing. “My plan is to show you some basic moves today; then, because I’m only allowed to follow your workout plan, you’ll have to use my YouTube videos. I spoke to Charlie and she’s getting a projector in here for you.”
You spoke to my staff? I bite my tongue, literally.
“Great. Let’s get going, then.”
“Not so fast, bulldog. You need to stretch. Arms up.”
Following her lead, I stretch out my core, my arms raised above my head. But when she folds from her waist to touch her toes, my testosterone gets the better of me. I stare unashamedly at her Lycra-clad ass, thinking how much I would like to get my hands on those cheeks.
“Brooks, seriously, focus!”
Oh, she’s hot and she knows it.
I bend to touch my toes. Once the stretching is done, Izzy comes to my side and shows me some basic salsa steps. I watch her first as she steps forward and back, her hips rolling with each move. I don’t have to imagine how good she’d be at grinding down on me because she’s showing me all her moves. My hands ache to take hold of her waist and pull her to me.
A cough at the doorway steals my attention and forces my lascivious thoughts back into their cage. Steve Sitwell is standing on the threshold with a lady I don’t recognize. “You don’t mind if we sit in, do you? This is Elaine. She’s from Diet and Fitness Magazine.”
Elaine looks short next to Steve, perhaps because he’s so tall. She holds up a hand in a short wave. “I’d like to get some shots of you training, make a few notes. Kerry sent me along. We would like to run an article in the magazine about your competition.”
It seems bizarre that there is interest in this. Perhaps they can already see that these fourteen days in Izzy’s company are likely to end in murder, and definitely blue balls, but I’m hoping that’s not so obvious.
The music gets going and Izzy tries to incorporate the few steps she has shown me into a routine. I feel like the biggest dick in the world—in a bad way. Seemingly, if it isn’t running or team sports, I have two left feet. Try putting two left feet, rigid hips, and no fucking clue what I’m supposed to be doing to a Latin beat. You’ve got the image. It’s like King fucking Kong stopping in the middle of city destruction to do a badly coordinated Riverdance. At one point, I’m fairly certain Elaine snickers.
“This is ridiculous. How much longer do I have to do it? I haven’t even worked up a sweat.”
Izzy clicks off the music. “We’ll go through it one more time. The reason you’re not sweating is because you’re overthinking. If you forget the steps, just keep moving. It’s a great workout for your core and legs, as well as cardio. You just need to stop hating for long enough to actually work out.”
She misses the roll of my eyes as she turns back to the music dock. “From the top.”
Grrrr!
* * * *
Standing in front of the mirrors in the weights section of the gym, I don’t have enough fingers to count the pairs of male eyes watching Izzy.
“Brooks, these are four-kilogram dumbbells. I can lift more than this. I’m not a five-year-old.”
“Could have fooled me,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’m starting you off light. I don’t know how strong you are yet. But we aren’t going to lift heavy weight. You don’t want to bulk up; you want to be strong and toned but still feminine. To do that, you need to do more reps of lighter weight. So, quit moaning and get to it. You had me dancing around like a fool for an hour; you can listen to me now.”
“It’s not dancing like a fool, it’s—”
“Goddamn it, Izzy, just give me a break. You’re exhausting.”
She scowls but starts her first set of bicep curls.
“Roll your shoulders down and back. That’s it. Can you feel the difference?”
As well as rolling her shoulders she rolls her eyes. “I know how to do bicep curls.”
“If you knew how, you could have started correctly in the first place and saved me having to tell you.”
Something that sounds very much like bugger off leaves her mouth. I’m beginning to think of it as a term of endearment.
Once we’re done with weights, I set her off running sprint intervals on the treadmill. By the time I’m done, she’s slumped on the end of the tread belt, her head between her legs.
“Are you all right? Izzy?”
“Yes. I’m good.”
“If I push you too hard, you have to tell me.”
“I said I’m fine, Brooks,” she snaps.
I hold up my hands. “Let’s stretch, then. Do you need my help?”
She shakes her head and rises to her feet. I leave her to stretch but keep an eye on her. I know I pushed her hard but right until the last, she seemed to be able to take it.
When she’s done, I leave her wiping down her face and topping off her water bottle, and I make my way up to my office. I’m starving and the worst part is that I have vegetables and more vegetables to look forward to for dinner.
I flick on the light as I step into my office and do a double take. My desk has been moved to one side of the room, flush up against the wall. A new, second desk, with that goddamn pink laptop and a new box of pink tissues, takes up the other half of the office space.
“Izzy!” I shout, moving out to the balcony. She’s not tired anymore; she’s laughing hysterically, bent over her knees. “You think this is funny?”
She holds up a hand as she tries to speak. “I ca…I can’t…I can’t even…”
“It’s not staying.”
Everyone in the gym has turned to look from me to Izzy; even those wearing headphones are taking them out. “I need somewhere to work, Brooks.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I bought it online and had it delivered.”
“Well, have them collect it again because it is not staying.”
I storm into my office and pace the floor until she comes upstairs. “What a stupid waste of money,” I snap.
She’s not laughing anymore. “It’s not a waste. I’ll use it while I’m here. Plus, it’s my money to do what I like with.”
“You know, I had you pegged from the moment I saw you. You think the world owes you some kind of favor because you have money.”
“Excuse me. You know nothing about me. Don’t lay into me over a bloody desk. What about you? Mr. Fucking Miserable Obnoxious Twat. Who made you hate the world, huh?”
“You need to get out. I’m hungry. I have a raging headache. And you…you are just not my kind of person.”
“Bloody ditto, Brooks. But we’re in this thing together so you need to just suck it up.” She opens the drawer of her new desk and pulls out a hardback book. “Here. If you’re hungry you can pick one of the main courses from my book. Those are your options for tonight. And I will know if you cheat.”
I snatch the book from her hand. “More rabbit food. Fantastic.”
She turns on her heel to leave. “Grow up, Brooks.”
“Me grow up? Me? Enjoy your steak tonight, princess.”
“Oh, I will. Enjoy your tofu.”
“I definitely will!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
* * * *
Just when I think my day can’t get worse, I’m filling a basket with tofu and bok choy in my local store, and then my cell phone beeps.
OMG DAD. SAW THE PICS OF YOU DOING SALSA. WTF?
I put bean sprouts into my basket and reply as I head to the cashier.
DO NOT USE WTF IN MESSAGES TO ME. I MAY BE OLD TO YOU BUT I KNOW WHAT IT STANDS FOR.
Another beep.
BUT SERIOUSLY. YOU’RE A DANCER NOW, TWINKLE ADAMS?
She’s just about the only person who could make me smile right now.
ENOUGH OF THAT. IT’S A PR THING FOR 2 WEEKS.
Beep.
I READ ABOUT IT. NOT LIKE YOU AT ALL. ANYWAY, CHECK THIS OUT…
Typing…
And my day can get worse. Infinitely so. The twelve-week scan of Alice’s new baby stares up at me from the screen. FML.
I’ve been so concerned with Izzy and work that my mind hasn’t been on Alice and the baby. Cady’s text plunges me right back there.
I manage to reply to Cady that I’m happy for them all. I guess on some level, I am. As I walk home, I try to imagine how life would have been. Alice, Cady, maybe another kid or two. We could have been happy. But her parents, their background, and their need to marry their daughter off to some rich kid ruined us.
Instead of cooking food I don’t want, I pick up my guitar and slump on the sofa. When my cell phone tells me I have another message, I contemplate ignoring it, but I could never ignore Cady.
HOW’S THE TOFU?
Izzy.
STILL SITTING IN A PLASTIC BAG. I SEEM TO HAVE LOST MY APPETITE. HOW’S THE STEAK?
Beep.
ABOUT TO GO IN THE PAN. IT’S FILET. HOW LONG SHOULD I COOK IT FOR?
Ah, that’s the last thing I want to hear.
DON’T TORTURE ME. YOU GET TO EAT STEAK AND YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN IT.
Typing…
HOW ABOUT WE CALL A TRUCE LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO MAKE YOUR TOFU EDIBLE AND FOR YOU TO COOK ME A STEAK?
As I ponder the options, my cell announces another text.
I HAVE HOT OIL IN THE PAN…
Fuck it. Even Izzy’s company beats the hell out of dwelling on what could have been.
ON MY WAY.