Someone Else's Shoes(67)

“You’re nailing it!” Joel had said, as they met outside after the first time she’d gone. She couldn’t stop grinning. She was wearing the shoes, because they seemed to just add to that feeling, even though she knew she would change back into her trainers once Joel was out of sight. “I feel . . . amazing,” she said, and he hugged her tightly and told her she was unstoppable.

She has been four times now, and each time she goes, even though her muscles scream with protest at the unexpected effort, she feels like some piece of her is coming back together. She finds she doesn’t mind that it’s unglamorous, that she ends each session with sweat dripping into her eyes, her hair scraped back in a greasy ponytail, flushed and makeup free. She watches the other women, from the tiny, sinewy Fatima to Annette, whose backside is barely contained by her enormous tracksuit bottoms, and they are uninterested in how she looks, where she goes on holiday, whether her body fits some prescribed ratio of muscle to body fat. They exchange wry smiles during the punishing warm-up, grin at each other’s hooks and jabs, yell encouragement when she lands a good one. Sid treats everyone as if they were a serious athlete, demanding results, issuing joke threats if they don’t push themselves hard enough. And through it all, in the corner, if she looks over, she will see Joel, his solid arms a blur as he rains blows on the punchbag, grinning at her as he wipes sweat from his brow with a forearm.

And something is changing. Four sessions in she finds she already stands a little taller at work, walks as if her core is somehow stronger. When Simon starts going on at her about some mistake she has apparently made, she nods and accepts it, but inside she imagines raining a series of lead hooks and uppercuts onto his chin—three four five six!—and she is not entirely sure, but she likes to think her failure to crumble makes him irritable and slightly unbalanced.

“Hello?” She opens the front door and takes off her coat. The television is off and she wonders briefly if Phil is even there, then tells herself that of course he is. Where else would he be, these days? She feels a faint drag of resignation and tells herself to stop, to hold on to the high she retains inside her for a few hours after each session. One two three four. Stay strong. Root yourself through your feet.

Phil and Cat are in the kitchen. They are sitting at the table, eating a lasagna in silence, and she stops in the doorway.

“Hi!” she says, surprised. They almost never cook without her. “You’ve started without me!”

“We didn’t know what time you’d be home,” says Cat, without looking up.

“Oh. Sorry. I—I meant to ring but I got caught up. Who bought the lasagna?”

“Me,” says Cat, cutting a small piece and putting it into her mouth.

It takes her a moment to register an odd atmosphere. Phil has not looked up from his food. He is forking it in joylessly, as if he merely needs to add fuel to his body.

“That’s kind of you, love. Thank you.” She puts her bag on the worktop. “Is there a plate for me?”

“In the cupboard,” says Cat, blankly, and Sam gives her a sharp look, but she can detect nothing.

She takes a plate and sits down, helping herself to a slice of the lasagna. She is starving. It makes her happy, thinking of all the calories she must be burning. She grabs some of the vegetables from the serving dish and starts to eat. Phil does not look at her. He just keeps slowly forking food into his mouth. Sam looks around the table.

“So how is everyone? Good day?”

“Fine,” says Cat.

“What did you do?”

“Not much.”

“Phil?” says Sam.

“Fine.”

Sam takes a mouthful. It is delicious. She will focus on this, she decides, rather than the strange atmosphere.

“Well, that’s good.” She waits, but nobody says anything. “This is delicious.”

“It’s just Tesco’s,” says Cat, and stands abruptly. She takes her empty plate to the dishwasher and slides it in before heading to the door. “I’m going to Colleen’s. I won’t be late.”

Sam makes to speak, but her daughter is already gone.

She turns to Phil. “What’s going on with Cat?”

Phil continues chewing.

“She’s been odd, the last few days. Don’t you think?”

Phil shakes his head, chewing as if he cannot speak.

He probably hasn’t even noticed, she thinks. And suppresses a sigh. “I had some good news today,” she says gamely. “Well, I don’t know if it’s actual good news, but Miriam Price, the woman I got a big contract from, has asked to meet me for lunch again later this week. She’s got no reason to meet me, given we finished the job, and she was happy. She said there’s something she wants to discuss. I mean it might be nothing, right? She might just want advice on something. But it’s nice, because she’s . . . one of those really impressive people, you know? It just feels good to have someone like that want to take you to lunch.”

Phil nods, putting another forkful into his mouth.

“There’s a bit of me that wonders if . . . Well, I know Harlon and Lewis are looking for more account managers. So I was thinking maybe I should bite the bullet and ask her if there are any positions available. It would get me out of Simon’s way, you know?”

“Yup,” he says.