The Cupid Effect by Dorothy Koomson

with her had been left till last because she was the woman I’d be sharing an office with. Out of all the other three lecturers I’d met, she was the only one who seemed to be able to speak in short sentences.) That night I had my body introduced to the equipment and the ways of the gym. That should be reintroduced, welcomed back into the fold of the gym.
    This wasn’t information I liked spread around, it was a shameful secret I’d buried and hidden from – but I’d joined a gym once before.
    I was in college then too. Young, impetuous, easily brainwashed. If that wasn’t bad enough, I joined then, dot, dot, dot, went on a regular basis . To add insult to potential injury, I went every other day, in fact. On alternate days, I did aerobics.
    It’d been a membership of necessity, though. Everyone I knew had gone travelling for the summer, or returned to their home towns, or had left college. They all had a life. I did not. And, that summer, I became depressingly thinner and healthy. Depressingly, because I’d always have lodged somewhere in my memory the image of what I’d look like if I took care of my body, exercised, drank less and slept more. And, much as I’d love to be bright-eyed, clear-skinned and a size ten all the time, I’d much rather have a life, see my mates, drink alcohol, eat what I want and watch telly. It was a fair trade off, as far as I was concerned.
    Now, however, I was lost all over again. Whilst Drew worked as a management consultant in Leeds, he lived in York. So on those days when he left work on time, he liked to drive straight home to spend time with his girlfriend. Also, when I finally saw Drew for the emotional tease he really was, I stopped calling him as much. Didn’t need to ring him up to say ‘hi’ or to just listen to his voice. Didn’t need to ring him to get a laugh. He was simply a good friend who I didn’t speak to that often.
    My only real anchor in this city was Jess. And she liked to see her daughters and husband quite often, too. With only a handful of acquaintances in Leeds, and the knowledge that it’d be a while to get some – particularly if the Mel/Claudine/ lunch/mouth-foot thing was any indicator – I was forced to take refuge, once again, in the high-energy embrace of the gym.
    This time, though, I was treadmilling or cycling, just to sort out my lungs. To make my cardiovascular system work properly. Nothing more. My hands, my body were going nowhere near any weights or complicated machinery. I knew my mind, all it’d take would be one well-timed movement in front of a mirror and I’d be launched back into trying to get that final year of college body again.
    Just in case my body decided it was going to stay any longer than necessary in the gym, I wore the most ridiculous outfit: royal blue, daisy-covered cycling shorts and a baggy sweat top with ‘Michigan State’ emblazoned across it. My black socks were rolled down to just above my ankle bones and my trainers had seen better days. To stop my hair frizzing, I’d scraped my black bob under a scarf. Gorgeous was not the word for me. Truly.
    I stood with my feet on either side of the treadmill’s moving part as I keyed in 30 mins to the treadmill.
    I paused, stared at the LCD. A bit too ambitious for my first time here in eight years.
    I pressed CLEAR, then keyed in 10 mins . Wimp. You’re a big girl’s blouse .
    All right, 20 mins it is. I can do twenty minutes. No problemo.
    I focused on the TV screen in front of me. The Simpsons was on. Without sound, though. In the background, around the gym, the constant beat of something lively and funky pulsed. It was designed to get you moving in time to it. To get you motivated and moving. The genesis of perpetual motion. I opted to walk quickly, but not in time to the music. If I wasn’t careful, I’d train myself to head to the gym every time I heard that beat.