Confessions of a Gym Mistress. Rosie Dixon

to refuse any suggestion they make. “Just a small one,” I say.

      “And a large gin and tonic,” says Penny, holding out her glass.

      “Does this pub ever close?” I ask. “It’s half past three now.”

      “We operate continental licensing hours around here,” says Penny. “Now we’re in the Common Market it seems the least we can do.”

      Rex Harrington is thoughtfully tapping two coins together at the bar and there is something about the way he is looking at my legs that makes me cross them immediately—what a good job he is not looking into my eyes.

      “When is the next train?” I ask.

      “You might as well wait for the six-thirty, now. It’s a fast train and it will mean that you can have that drink with Guy. It’s a good idea to keep in with the locals.”

      I am feeling so exhausted that I don’t argue with her. I suppose it was all the nervous tension I burned up worrying about the interview.

      “Here we are, girls. Chin, chin.” Rex raises his glass and I am off again.

      An hour later—give or take a couple of hours—I am not quite certain where I am. Although it is still daylight, a strange dark haze hangs over everything and I move as if in a dream. In fact, I am not moving. I am in a car. The countryside stops pelting past the window and reassembles itself in the shape of Branwell Riding Stables.

      “Good,” I hear myself say, “I feel like a drink.”

      “Capital girl,” says Rex who is driving. “A chip off the old block, eh Penners?”

      “Absolutely,” says Penny. “Don’t do that, Rex. You’ll ladder my tights.”