Chapter 3
izzy
“Izzy, I’m off to work.” My sister’s voice is a garble that reaches me from her bathroom, which backs onto my bedroom wall. When I hear her spit, followed by the running tap, it confirms my suspicion—she was talking through a mouthful of toothpaste and a brush.
When my bedroom door opens, I raise my head from the suitcase I am packing. Anna—or Annabella if we want to use her Sunday name—looks as chic as ever in navy chinos and a polka-dot blouse. She looks far more sophisticated than her job as a journalist at one of the trashiest online newspapers in the world might suggest. Of course, that’s because Dad’s credit card pays for her couture wardrobe. Still, she’s using her English degree, as Mum likes to remind me. And I secretly love living with my own personal A-list news gossiper. I don’t even have to trouble myself with buying magazines.
“Have a great time in NYC. I know you’ll be fabulous.” She finishes with her trademark killer smile.
“I wish I had a dose of that confidence.”
“Nonsense.” She checks her Rolex. “Right, must dash. I will see you in a couple of weeks. Text me when you land in the Big Apple. And don’t be afraid to bring me back something divine. For the record, I adore this season’s Mulberry frame bag.” Before my door closes behind her, she calls, “Powder blue.”
I lean over to my music dock and press Play. Cher’s version of “The Shoop Shoop Song” comes through the speakers and I sing along as I finish packing for all eventualities. There’s no way this bloody case is going to be under twenty-three kilos. I’m used to wearing yoga pants and sports bras every day but my book tour is going to mean promotional interviews and reader signings. I’m going to need dresses and smart clothes. Things I don’t wear often these days at all. I’ll have to wear makeup.
Since I got my book deal twelve months ago, and for the two years before that when I was desperately trying to build a brand of fitness training and nutritional advice, I’ve concentrated on my career and not much else. My boyfriend dumped me—brutally and by phone—although, he was a pretentious arsehole, so I should probably count my lucky stars. Friends stopped inviting me places because I (apparently) made them feel fat by ordering the egg white omelet, butterless vegetables, and fruit instead of chocolate pudding. It’s not often I allow myself to drink alcohol, and I hold evening fitness classes six days a week in any event, so my previous existence as one of London’s notorious Chelsea socialites, well, it died a slow but very definite death.
Sighing, I sit back on my haunches and assess the mountain of clothes, shoes, and accessories that made the first cut. Time to get tough. I tie my mass of blond locks into a ponytail and start taking anything that is not an absolute must from the piles, throwing the discarded items across my king bed to the other side of the room.
I give up two belts, one pair of ankle boots and a jacket by the time the landline phone rings. Damn it.
My sister and I live in a two-floor apartment in the Chelsea and Kensington Borough of London. It is two floors of a large white terrace house. You know the type, quite typical of London seen in movies. Old house, high ceilings, inordinately expensive rent that Mum and Dad still currently supplement for Anna and me. I’m hoping I’ll be able to change that soon.
I hop over my case, leap the clothes strewn around the cream-colored carpet, and bound downstairs for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Isabella, darling, it’s Mummy.” She says it in a way that’s almost comical. As if she’s been asked to perform her best impression of the Queen, but for a theatre audience, so she has to shout it in a sing-song kind of way. I swear, when I was a child she was well spoken, but she was Mum, not Mummy; grass was pronounced grass, not graaas. As my father’s cracker business—as in cream crackers and cheese, not Christmas crackers—skyrocketed, Mum became “Mummy” and Dad became “Daddy.” We had always mixed with the middle classes but my parents started to mingle in higher society. Anna and I were moved to a “posher” posh school. Mum slowly began to exaggerate her spoken vowels and always used our full names, Annabella and Isabella.
“Hi, Mum, what’s up?”
“Oh, darling, I do wish you would speak properly.”
Rolling my eyes for no one’s benefit except my own, I tell her, as politely as possible, “I’m packing, Mum. I have to leave for New York in a few hours.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about your little trip.” I grip the phone so tightly I feel like my knuckles might pierce my skin. “I wanted to invite you to the Savoy for tea next week for Granny’s birthday.”
“I won’t be back from the book tour then. I’ll take her somewhere when I’m in London again.”
“Well, how long is this book tour?”
“I’ve told you all about it. Two weeks. I have some signings lined up and a couple of interviews.”
“Hmm. Right. Well, at least then it will be over and you can start concentrating on more important things. Like—”
“How many times do I have to tell you before you’ll accept it? This is what I do, Mum. I’m a fitness instructor. I teach nutrition.”
“That’s wonderful, darling, until the latest exercise fad has been and gone. There is no ladder to be climbed in the profession of fitness. You have the highest class of degrees from a highly respectable university. You could be anything you want to be, Isabella. The world is your—”
“Oyster. Right. Except, this is what I want to do, Mum. I have to go. Enjoy tea with Granny. Tell her I said happy birthday.”
Hanging up the phone, I feel like pulling my hair out. Actually. But I really don’t have time for that. I must pack for New York.
* * * *
“Izzy! Over here!”
I see a paper sign marked in…is that lipstick?…with my name. Then I see Kerry’s head popping around the side, where her perfectly painted pink nails are gripping the paper.
That’s my publicist. Flawless and fabulous Kerry. I have no doubt her leather pencil skirt and pink blouse—which matches her nails exactly—and those excruciatingly high black heels, are all designer. But the fact is, with her figure and looks, it wouldn’t matter if the clothes had been dredged from a gutter. She would still look 100 percent a-mazing. Of course, the look is all part of her job. “You have to know how to promote yourself if you want to be able to promote others,” she always tells me. I’m pretty sure that’s a play on the saying about loving oneself before you can love another—you know the one. Anyway, she’s a fearless beast when it comes to flaunting her clients and that’s what matters to me.
“Kerry, hi!” I let her fold me a little too zealously into her arms and we perform the perfunctory air-kiss routine.
She sets off walking and talking, so that I am left trudging after her with my suitcases, dragging one in each hand. I managed to sleep for a few hours on my night flight but I’m still yawning as I walk.
“You have a magazine interview tomorrow,” she announces. “Your book signing on Thursday has been shuffled to five thirty at Barnes & Noble. We’ll get you there at five. It will be set up ready for you, of course. Oh, I’ve booked you a radio interview for next week. We have various things lined up next Tuesday for publication day, although most of the promo is online.” She stops and turns quickly, making me crash into her swinging shoulder. As if the bump didn’t take place, she continues. “What are your thoughts on holding one of your Salsa Yourself Slim classes in the city?”
“Ah, yeah, that sounds great.”
“Good. Because I’ve started to put some feelers out with production companies. I was thinking we could film the session.”
“Well, I already have classes on YouTube.”
She laughs at me in a way that makes me feel like a small child. “No, not just YouTube videos, Izzy. I’m talking real production, for a DVD or an online course. Interactive exercise.” She takes a high-gloss brochure from her bag and hands it to me. “Here, take a look at this. I’d love to get you into this gym. A guy called Brooks Adams owns it. You might guess that from the name, ha. Who names a gym after himself? Anyway, he’s the man everyone in New York wants to be trained by right now. Let me know what you think.”
She spins on her devil shoes and heads out of the “Arrivals” exit. I follow her to a parked black Cadillac and finally turn over my suitcases to a suited driver.
Kerry continues to talk but when she tells me she will handle everything and that she’ll ping me a full schedule by e-mail, I allow myself to zone out.
I have been to New York a number of times, with my parents, with my girlfriends, once with a boyfriend. Regardless, the view of the city never gets old. I smile at the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, set against the morning’s sky. When we get closer to the city, the high-rises force me to take a breath so deep my chest rises. The Chrysler Building. The Empire State Building. The general buzz and hum of the busy streets. Even the endless streams of yellow cabs.
It’s all busier, brighter, bigger than London. I love it. I love it so much I think maybe I was a New Yorker in a past life. Then again, maybe I was a squirrel or a hippopotamus or some such and now I just happen to love this city.