pray for various horrible illnesses, research the best liposuction clinics in the five boroughs, and neglect my professional responsibilities. Pathetic. How could I expect to be promoted if I can’t even bother returning an e-mail or two? Bruce was right—I was in danger of losing it. Well, not anymore.
On Friday afternoon I left early since I figured it would be my last chance for a while, with Pruscilla’s return just one short weekend away. While I’d been embroiled in online research, Thelma had spent the better part of the week pulling her hair out in Pruscilla’s office, which was by now a complete mess. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and it floated out of the office and hung over my cubby. I didn’t envy her—she’d probably be in there all weekend. But it was hard to feel sorry for her. The simplest things seemed confusing for Thelma, even deciphering Pruscilla’s handwriting proved nearly impossible for the poor woman. But it was no trouble for me. I’d gotten quite used to it, in fact, and almost looked forward to typing her long-winded reports and memos (Pruscilla’s typing is slower than her writing), since it afforded me the rare opportunity to look busy while keeping my headspace completely free. I was getting quite good at drawing it out as long as possible.
The first week Pruscilla was gone, I didn’t mind interpreting for Thelma all of the purple little Post-its Pruscilla had left stuck to everything. But then she started bothering me twenty-five times a day with questions about how Pruscilla does this and how Pruscilla does that, and since I wasn’t put on this earth to save Thelma’s ass (and neglect my work besides), I developed a set of avoidance techniques to divert her ceaseless calls for help. Mostly, that meant pleading ignorance. For example, Thelma has no idea that part of my job is to coordinate the printing of all promotional materials. Nor is she aware that I have input all of Pruscilla’s notes and market-research data for all new product launches for the next 18 months. Best of all, she thinks most of my time is spent returning Pruscilla’s e-mail. If she wants to be a good manager, she’s going to have to learn a little bit about self-reliance.
As I got ready to leave, she yelled out, “Evie, Evie! Wait!” In her hurry to stop me, I could hear a flurry of papers swishing to the floor. But I pretended not to notice, and scooted down the hall to the elevators. If Thelma doesn’t get it by now, then there’s nothing anyone can do to help save her. Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned working at Kendra White, professionally speaking, it’s to form alliances with the right sorts of people, not to go down with a sinking ship. That, and never name a lipstick after a disgraced White House intern.
Although there are tons of gyms in Brooklyn near our place, I decided I’d be more likely to go if I joined one near work. Not too close to work, of course, in case somebody should see me, but close enough so that I can walk over during lunch if I want. Part of the Kendra White benefits package includes paying fifty percent of employees’ gym memberships—not that KW is such a saintly place to work; judging by all the fat ladies who work there, paying for gyms was a pretty safe bet—which meant I could afford something pretty nice. I remembered a place I passed by once when the subway station was closed because of a bomb threat and I had to walk to the next line.
It was still there. Mid-Town Fitness. Inside, it was the archetypical New York City health club—iron and granite decor, with a three-storey-high, half-block-long plate-glass window facing the street. Half a dozen Wall-Street types hung off a climbing wall off to one side. A battalion of machines crossed the length of the room, ten rows deep. Scores of pony-tailed socialites wearing diamond earrings bigger than the earphones on their Discmans walked, ran and stepped off the calories from the salads they ate for lunch. Up above, weight machines on a mezzanine. I scanned the room for a fatso, but the only person I could find who didn’t look like she’d been born there was the dumpy old woman spraying down treadmill consoles with a bottle of pink disinfectant. It was perfectly awful, but morbidly fascinating.
I was so enthralled by the moving sea of boobs and biceps that I hadn’t noticed a young red-headed tart descend on me from behind the front desk.
“Hi, I’m Missy. Can I help you?” she asked sweetly.
“Um, no, I don’t think so,” I said, turning to leave.
“Would you like a tour?”
What I’d like is to get the hell out of here. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t sound so sure,” she laughed. “Have you ever been a member of our facilities before?”
“What do you think?”
She tried not to look, but her eyes inadvertently traveled down to the waist of my bulging trench coat. A single vein throbbed at the center of her forehead. “I’m gonna guess…no?”
“That’s right, Missy, the answer is no. No, I haven’t been a member here before.”
“Come on, it’s not so bad. Let me give you a quick tour. You’d be surprised how friendly everyone is,” she said, oblivious to my extreme discomfort, and started walking. “Let me show you the women-only section. If you’re shy or uncomfortable about a co-ed workout, it’s the perfect…” I reluctantly followed as she yammered on and on. The deeper we got into the bowels of the place, the uglier and heavier everyone became. I felt a little better. It seems the thin and the vain crowd the machines at the front by the window because they enjoy being gawked at like zoo animals by passersby.
“…and wait till you see our new eucalyptus and tea-tree-oil steam room! Have you heard about it? New York Magazine did a piece on it last month. Did you know that eucalyptus can clear your body of cancer-causing toxins? My hand to God! Our smokers really seem to enjoy it. Do you smoke? You can get a regular steam, too, if you prefer, but I don’t see why anyone…”
“Can I see the weight room?” I asked. Muscle, I’d learned, burns more calories at rest than fat does, if you can imagine that. So my plan was to get ripped.
“Of course! Of course!” she said, and trotted toward the stairs. “Our weight room is equipped with the latest air-pressure machines, free weights…”
Missy droned on. At the top of the stairs, I leaned on a railing to catch my breath and look around. Abs as far as the eye could see. Mostly men up here, thank God. Struggling with these ridiculous machines in front of skinny little girls would be worse.
“…of course, if you’re trying to lose weight, you’ll need at least three days a week of strength training, so we’ll customize a program just for you….”
Then I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirror-covered walls. My face was red as a beet, and I felt like how those guys lifting the huge barbells looked—like they were about to have an aneurysm. Could I really do this? I peered over the railing down at the floor below. Rows of well-conditioned pony-tails swayed from side to side as their owners marched silently onward with fists clenched. Would I ever look like one of them?
“…so if you opt for the deluxe membership package, you have access to both the cardio and weight rooms, along with towel service, of course, and—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I don’t know if I can do any of this. I don’t know how.”
“There are three personal trainers on the floor at all times whose job it is to show you exactly how everything works and to make sure you have the right form!” Missy looked around wildly. “Jade? Jade! Come on over here, would ya?”
The fellow in question jogged over from the old bald guy he was spotting.
“Hey, Missy. Is this lovely young lady a new member?”
“She’s thinking about it. She’s never been to a gym before.”
“Hi! Jade Hollowell,” he grinned, and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” His eyes were so green and his teeth were so white, it was hard not to stare at his face.
I grabbed his hand and looked down at it. Veiny. “Hi. I’m Evelyn. Evie, actually. Evie Mays. Hi.” I am such an idiot.
“Jade’s one of our top trainers. He’s been with us five years,” Missy