Page 19 of Going Overboard

I can’t believe people actually get up early and go to the gym on purpose.

I told him to piss off, obviously, and rolled over to try to go back to sleep, but he reminded me that we’re a couple who do everything together, including the gym – what if someone saw him there without me, they might think there was trouble in paradise already…

I wasn’t buying it but then he said that at some point I was probably going to ask him to do something he didn’t want to do, and that he wouldn’t say yes – not unless I made the same effort.

So here I am, in the gym, but as the saying goes: you can lead a girl to the gym, but you can’t make her exercise.

So I’m currently sitting on an exercise bike, next to Brody, not pedalling – just using it as a chair, occasionally taking my pulse, messing with the controls for no reason other than pure boredom…

It’s strange because while it is super luxury in here – to me at least – it also looks like a torture chamber.

Things with straps and weights and machines that look like they encase your body – like something nightmarish from a sci-fi movie.

Or maybe I just have an unhealthy relationship with being healthy.

I find it absolutely fascinating that one of the walls is entirely covered with mirrors, so you can watch yourself working out presumably. Jesus Christ, I think if I saw myself huffing and puffing on a treadmill I would probably never want to leave the house again.

At least it’s clean and nice, the music is chill, and it’s not that busy. Obviously I would rather be in my bed, but it could always be worse.

Brody is on a mat, doing stretches which I don’t think I could do if I tried. He makes them look easy, although he does breathe heavily now and then.

‘What exactly do you get out of this?’ I ask him.

His head lifts slightly.

‘Well, my back is killing me, because someone made me sleep in a bath last night, so I’m trying to loosen it up,’ he replies.

‘No, I mean coming to the gym, generally, every day…’

He rolls onto his side, his head propped up on one hand.

‘For my job, obviously,’ he replies. ‘And because I enjoy it.’

‘But isn’t cricket the one where you just stand around?’ I check. ‘And have a tea break?’

‘Do you think we just smash packets of custard creams in the dressing rooms?’ he asks.

‘Now that sounds like fun,’ I say.

Brody gives me a look. I don’t know, I might be finally winding him up. Good, because I’m trying really hard. That’ll teach him, bringing me to a gym in the early hours.

‘You really think cricket is just standing still?’ he asks me.

‘That’s what it looks like… ’

‘I’m a bowler,’ he tells me, sitting up properly now. ‘You have to be fit and strong.’

‘To chuck a ball?’ I narrow my eyes.

‘Jessa, some fast bowlers exceed ninety miles an hour – can you even imagine?’

Oh, yeah, this is definitely working.

‘Can you?’ I ask.

‘I’m medium-fast,’ he tells me.

I’ll be honest with you, I don’t really know what that means, but I have the perfect reply.

‘So, you’re telling me there’s room for improvement,’ I reason. ‘No wonder you’re in the gym every day.’

Brody stares at me, his head cocked, a faint smirk on his lips like he can’t decide if he’s offended or entertained.

‘All right then, princess, impress me,’ he says. ‘What do you do for work? Assuming you’re a working royal…’

I fuss with the buttons on the exercise bike. One of them turns on the fan, blowing cool air in my face.

‘I do high-end property staging,’ I tell him.

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ he asks.

‘When people are selling their houses, I go in and stage them,’ I explain. ‘I dress them up to look their best. Set the scene. Help them to get the most out of the place to attract the right kind of buyer.’

‘What does that even mean?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised – almost sceptically.

‘Sometimes I bring furniture, sometimes it’s more like décor,’ I tell him. ‘It’s all about telling a story, selling a lifestyle to potential buyers.’

‘Do they get to keep the furniture?’ he asks.

‘No, it’s just for staging,’ I reply. ‘Think of it like a set. ’

He lets out a laugh and lies back down, arms stretched behind his head.

‘That’s not a real job,’ he concludes.

‘Erm, it is,’ I correct him.

‘It’s literally playing house in other people’s houses,’ he points out.

‘Says the man who does PE in other people’s fields,’ I clap back.

‘Fair play,’ he says, smiling to himself. ‘As long as we’re both happy, eh?’

I guess he’s right.

And I am – happy with my job, at least. I love it. Transforming spaces, making them what people want them to be, telling a story. Perhaps that’s why I’m getting a kick out of faking it with Brody, it’s just a different sort of staging.

Sort of like me sitting here, in the gym, not working out. Sometimes how things look matters much more than how they are.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself anyway.