And normal.
Sarah: I’d have to sell a kidney first. Not that they’d be worth much at the mo.
Liza: Me too.
Sarah: £6k a term or something for the one she’s been talking about. PS Ella keeps typing then dropping off.
Liza: Sure she’s fine. We would have heard by now if not. Think she’s just … not into socialising too much.
Sarah: *with us*
Liza: Yup.
Sarah: haha.
Liza: Coffee later?
Sarah: Mella’s? Half an hour?
Liza: See you there. I’m bringing plastic bags to sit on.
Sarah: Ping me if you hear anything from Ella before then? So weird she hasn’t been in touch. I’ve WhatsApped her separately but nothing – she’s read it though.
Liza: Yeah will let you know. Although she’d have pinged you before me anyway. She’s a bit of a mystery that one.
Sarah: She is indeed. Do you think we did anything to offend her? She’s posting on Facebook. Just seen pics of her and Christian from this morning!
Liza: Weird. Must be us then. Something someone said, or did. Like I said, Ella Bradby is a total mystery.
Sarah: Hmmm. She sure is. Ok see you in thirty, yeah? X
Liza: Yeah X
West London Gazette Online, 21 July 2019
Author: J Roper
A nine-million-pound refurbished health club, The Vale Club, has just opened to the well-heeled residents of West London. Based on the Acton/Chiswick fringes, the club boasts an Olympic-sized pool, a crèche, soft-play, six tennis courts and an outdoor playground.
Kirsty Macdonald, Director of Sales, says two thousand members have already joined, with staggered waiting lists already full.
‘Our clients are mainly families and working professionals and we hope to provide a fantastic service to everyone in the area to keep them healthy and fit, whilst also being a great place for socialising.’
The residents are also thrilled to have this new West London club on their doorsteps.
Cordelia Banks, a lawyer and 39-year-old mother of three, says that the club will be a ‘much needed central hub – a place for both children and adults to keep fit and entertained in a safe environment’. And Finlay Brown, a 27-year-old marketing executive, says that The Vale Club will ‘keep the residents of West London active’, and he is looking forward to meeting ‘like-minded healthy people there’.
For further information, or to book a private tour, please visit The Vale Club website.
‘Sarah,’ Liza hisses. ‘Quick. Oh my God. Look who it is. My three o’clock.’ She throws her head towards the soft-play, kids hurling themselves off the plastic inflatables like they’re on some kind of kamikaze mission.
‘Georgina Bard?’ replies Sarah. ‘Yes, she’s here all the time. With that perfect, peachy bottom of hers.’
‘No. Not her. No, look again. Behind the blondes. Hurry, she’s going. Bloody hell.’
It’s rare, but Sarah’s not in the mood for a gossip. It’s just one of those days where everything feels wrong, like a too-tight pair of trousers, except she doesn’t have the relief of opening the top button.
She’d googled her symptoms this morning in bed. Mood swings, tiredness, heavy periods. Her diagnosis had said: perimenopause. She shivers remembering what she had read next. Perimenopause can last for ten years during which time fertility declines. Ten years! It seems so unfair. She’s only thirty-nine after all.
She can’t really see who Liza could possibly be talking about anyway. Everyone looks the same here. Block-printed athleisure-wear leggings with Olivia Cunningham’s brand-new Motherhood Mania clothing-line tops. Brightly coloured slogan tees – Mother’s Little Helper! – complete with lozenge-shaped pills underneath. She jolts when she realises she cannot see Casper, his blond, bowl-haircut flying up and down as he leaps from level to level, before she remembers he’s safely ensconced in his Champions Forever tennis lesson.
‘See her now?’ says Liza. ‘It’s a good ’un.’
‘Nope.’ Sarah wonders why Liza is staring at her so intently, waiting for her reaction. A Z-list celebrity, she wonders. Unbearable if it is. But, all she can really think is: why is everyone still smiling? Three days into the autumn half-term and she’s done in. Yet here they are, all the other women (and where are all the bloody men today?) bouncing around. Long, lean legs, feet in pristine trainers, chatting so animatedly. Why aren’t they exhausted? She knows she’s probably just jealous – but what’s wrong with them? She’d never stopped to think that maybe they’re all normal and it’s actually her with the problem. She rubs a mark off her own leggings. Weetabix, she’s guessing, from Casper’s breakfast.
She inspects all the other women as she tries to find the target of Liza’s attention. She’s distracted by Thomasina Hulme, who’d been extremely frosty with her in Zumba the day before last.
‘Come on Allegra.’ Thomasina sounds increasingly shrill. ‘Come on. You can jump by yourself, without Mummy’s help. Go on.’
Sarah wishes Thomasina would shut up and stop thinking that she is instilling confidence into her little one. Allegra jumps onto a red, squishy mat. Thomasina lets out a triumphant ‘Oh!’ and looks around, hoping for some semblance of shared joy at her daughter’s leap into the unknown. To Sarah’s utter satisfaction, no one else seems to be watching.
‘I can’t see anyone new, Liza. Just tell me who it is.’ She tries to disguise the impatience in her voice. Both she and Liza had had a field day when the club had recently opened. After all, The Vale Club is the spanking new place to be for the parents of West London and their little monkeys; so far, she and Liza have pretty much spotted and done a recce on all of the members already (their best one yet being some of the cast of Strictly Come Dancing on rehearsal) and apparently they’ve since shut the waiting list.
She can see why the place is in such high demand. There’s a soft-play, a gym. There’s even a crèche and kids’ classes, boxing, tai-chi and all, so the children can pump their little fists on punch bags instead of Mummy and Daddy.
Just as she’s about to swivel her gaze back to Liza and tell her she can’t see anyone, she spots her. She’s in the corner, behind the soft-play, picking up a large bag with two tennis rackets sticking out. In her right hand is a bottle of half-finished water and, in the other, an iPhone. Sarah can see it has been personalised with a photograph on the back. She gasps. Liza’s right. Bloody hell indeed.
Ella Bradby.
Of all people. Here. Sarah doesn’t know why she hadn’t expected it. She must have just joined.
It’s just like Ella to waft in after everyone else. To check things at the club are tickety-boo. Ella isn’t a leader of the pack in that sense. More that she would always wait. Keep everyone on their toes. Wanting to see if it is actually good enough for her. Sarah’s mind is pulled back to their antenatal class, five years earlier. The way Ella had waited for a text message from someone, before she deigned to follow on to the restaurant that had been chosen for their final NCT lunch. Just let me know what the food looks like, will you? Before I come all that way. And of course