The Cupid Effect by Dorothy Koomson Page A

I’d become a Pavlov-type animal, not salivating every time I heard footsteps because I thought food was coming, but wanting to run everywhere, simply because I caught a snatch of something high-paced in a passing car. And th—
    â€˜Hi, Ceri?’ A voice cut into my thoughts.
    Without breaking stride, I turned to the person who’d spoken.
    AAAGGGH! Claudine. Damn.
    I might’ve known she’d frequent these parts. Very few people got those elongated, willowy looks with clear, glowy skin if you didn’t habitually visit the gym. Of course, the first night I make it here since receiving my training programme, she appears. And on the treadmill next to me. I’d spent the last few days keeping an eye out for her and Mel, then running away. Very fast. I still physically cringed at how I managed to fit the whole of my foot very neatly into my mouth. I hadn’t wanted to do that again. And now look.
    â€˜Hi,’ I said brightly. Too brightly. That sounded fake. Like I’d been avoiding her and now was overcompensating. Which, of course, I was.
    â€˜Are you all right?’ She stood with her legs wide open, each foot resting on the platform beside the moving part of her treadmill. She’d paused in keying in information into the treadmill display. ‘You looked pretty fierce just then. Is something bothering you?’
    â€˜No.’ I jumped like I was doing a jumping jack, so I could get off the moving treadmill and stand with my feet on either side of it. My heart sprinted in my chest, my whole body heaved in my attempt to get more oxygen. ‘I’m fine.’ Breathless, but fine .
    Claudine’s face became a picture of concern as she said: ‘You looked like you had something on your mind, that’s all. You can tell me if you want.’
    â€˜I, erm, I was actually thinking about Pavlov’s dogs, brainwashing and music and if it’s possible to brainwash people in the same way that Pavlov did with the dogs, but using music.’
    Claudine’s concern mutated to fear. With every moment her impression of me was lowering.
    â€˜ Really? ’ she asked.
    I nodded, aware that I sounded like a complete loon. ‘Unfortunately, yes. I don’t have big subjects like boyfriends to occupy my mind.’
    â€˜Right.’ Claudine pulled the big red button on her treadmill display to get it working, hopped on then started walking. ‘You’d better not cool down too much, unless you’re about to stop.’
    I hopped back onto the treadmill, started to walk again.
    Beautiful as she was, Claudine was clearly proof of my gymlife relativity theory. She had trendy, up-to-date label gear that was obviously used. After about two seconds of warming up, which I was still doing, i.e. walking briskly, she started to jog. Slowly, at first, each step carefully considered, expertly dealt onto the machine. She’d obviously done this before, several times, regularly. Ergo, no life. The worst part, as she increased her pace, her slender arms pumping away, her long, svelte legs working without wobbling, was that there was no moisture in sight. Me? After five minutes of my brisk walking, my body was a tidal wave of sweat. Every ounce (I still hadn’t got around to metric-sizing my thoughts) of moisture in me was taking a day-trip to my outer epidermis. Claudine didn’t even have the decency to ‘glow’, she simply increased her stride, running. Now that was a concept, running. On a running machine.
    My feet moved quicker. Didn’t want to be outdone. There was my pride at stake. My lungs, clearly left out of the pride rousing lecture, complained almost straight away. They burnt their displeasure into my chest. Piss off! my brain replied. No one outdoes us .
    I monitored Claudine from the corner of my eye – each time she upped pace, I upped pace. I matched her stride for stride, step for step. Soon, we were running equally. Both of us