“Right, girls!” It was David, striding into the room, which was now full of stretching women. He turned the music up loud: Madonna singing “Hung Up” to the Abba sound track. “Let’s get going. One foot on the foot bar and push it away.”
“My leg’s aching already,” Angelica moaned.
Candace made it look easy. “Remember the Higgins Ten.” Angelica began to sweat. “And by the way, this is just a warm-up.”
“I’m in hell. Did you say it’s an hour?”
“Just under. But think of the body you’re going to have.”
“It had better be worth it.” Think of Jack. I’m doing this for you, Jack. One, two, three, four . . . By the end of the hour Angelica could barely stand, her legs were trembling, and the muscles in her stomach ached, even in repose. Her inner thighs had never worked so hard. “So how do you feel?” David asked. There was a mischievous curl in his smile.
“I think I’d rather give birth than go through that again.”
“If you can just get through a couple of weeks, your body will adapt and you won’t find it so hard.”
“Or painful?”
“Or painful.”
“He’s born in the wrong century,” said Candace. “He’d have found his niche in the Tower of London manning the rack—and probably enjoyed it!” She took a swig from her water bottle. “Look at him! He’d be so disappointed if we skipped out having not even broken into a sweat.”
“No chance of that!”
“We keep coming back because you’re the best, David,” said Candace, raising her bottle in a toast.
“If I looked like you, Candace, I’d keep coming back, too,” said Angelica.
“You will,” David encouraged.
“No amount of lunges can give me those legs.” She looked at her friend, beautiful in spite of the sweat that stained her T-shirt.
“Everyone’s different,” said David. “The point is to be the best you can be. So do you want to sign up for more classes?”
“I’ll buy fifty,” said Angelica. “God help me!”
“A woman on a mission.” Candace gave Angelica a knowing look. “D’you think I can get you to Richard Ward as well?”
“Not if I come out looking like Jenna Elrich.”
“Only Jenna can look like Jenna, and she’s stuck with that for life, poor darling!”
When Angelica got home, she ran a hot bath and poured a whole sachet of Elemis Musclease under the tap. The water went brown and smelled as medicinal as Olivier’s Karvol inhalations. She restrained herself from going upstairs to check her e-mails, not due to any lack of enthusiasm but because she didn’t think she’d make it, her thighs hurt so much. She put on Dolly Parton and lit a couple of candles, dimming the lights because she loathed looking at her flesh in such an unforgiving glare. With a sigh, she slid into the water and rested her head, letting the warmth ease away the pain. In spite of her discomfort she was inspired by the Pilates class. David had a gift for motivating his clients, and she had left invigorated and determined to get back into shape. Candace had told her that it would take three weeks to see a real difference, but she could already feel it working. She closed her eyes, ashamed to find Jack’s face bobbing to the top of her thoughts like a cork. The anticipation of another witty message from him sent a pleasurable ripple through her cramping stomach.
She climbed out of the bath and dried herself, taking her time. The wait would make his e-mail all the more satisfying. She rubbed cream into her body, adding a few drops of juniper essential oil for water retention, and sprayed herself with Jo Malone Red Roses. Feeling sensual, she delved into her Calvin Klein underwear drawer, choosing a bra and panties in dusty pink. It gave her a thrill to know that beneath her jeans and shirt she was wearing exquisite lingerie.
Angelica wore little makeup. She had naturally youthful skin and the pink cheeks of a girl raised in the fresh country air. With a touch of mascara and lip balm, she was ready to read her mail. Her excitement mounted as she climbed the stairs, her pace quickening in spite of her painful muscles. It took a while for her computer to start, but finally, the screen went blue and her icons appeared in neat rows. She clicked on Mail and the list appeared. She scanned the names in bold, but there was nothing from Jack. She pressed Send and Receive just to make doubly sure, but the words “No New Mail” appeared at the bottom of the page.
With a sinking heart she had no option but to face the blank page of her next novel. For a moment she considered writing to him. Did it matter that he hadn’t responded to her last e-mail? Did their e-mails have to go back and forth like a tennis game? Even in tennis the opponent didn’t always return the ball; often he missed, or hit the ball in the net. This was like a friendly tennis match—winning wasn’t the aim. And she wasn’t playing hard to get—she wasn’t expecting to be got at all. This was an innocent friendship, and friends could write when they felt like it.