2. Giselle
Chapter 2
Giselle
I keep my arms crossed over my body until the tall, dark haired man, with the obscenely green eyes who I’d caught peeking in the window of my high intensity dance class, disappears from my sight.
I’m not quite sure what to make of what just happened.
“Everything okay?” one of my regular girls, breathless from dancing, asks when I slip back into the class and head straight over to the dock in which I keep my phone.
I nod my head and pick up my phone to flick through my setlist of music tracks. “Yeah, it’s all sorted. Don’t worry.”
“Who was he?”
“He—”
“Whoever he was…” pipes up a young woman in the second row, wearing a cute athletic, tennis-like skirt and matching coloured sports bra. “He can peer through my window and watch me anytime he wants.”
A titter flies up from the women around her.
I say nothing more on the matter, pushing him out of my mind while smiling politely with a fake huff of laughter coming from my nose to let her know I heard.
“Great job today, ladies,” I praise, turning the volume down on the speaker until the catchy music track disappears, replaced with the audible sound of laboured breathing. “Are we all ready for a cool down?”
A chorus of nods and “yes, please” answers my question. The heels which are worn in my dance class are kicked off, groans slipping past lips as the girls flatten the soles of their aching feet to the pleasurably cold floor.
“God, that feels good,” sighs Melinda, a woman whose been attending my classes for the past year and a half.
I laugh, sliding my feet out of my own pair of shiny black stilettos and peering down to watch the wiggle of my toes. I could really do with a fresh pedicure – the red gel polish I picked out last time almost fully grown out – but I think my bank account would vehemently disagree.
“If your feet are still sore and aching when you get home, I’d recommend soaking them in warm water, not too hot, not too cold, maybe with a sprinkle of Epsom salts in the water if you have some on hand and then giving yourself a nice foot massage before bed.” I explain my usual go-to routine for the handful of sweaty new faces who’ve only just joined my dance class. “Getting the blood flowing should help with the constant ache and over time you’ll come to feel less pain as you build up the tender muscle.”
Bending my knees, I get myself comfortable sitting on the studio floor, the soles of my feet pressing together to allow my thighs to fall open.
“Come on down to the floor and I’ll show you how to work out the knots in your feet. Don’t forget to drink some water too; your hydration is super important! Plus, I don’t want any fainters on my hands.”
A woman in the back chokes with nervous laughter on her mouthful of water.
With the pleasurable sense of adrenaline and achievement running through me, which I always get after I’ve finished teaching. It’s not just the dancing part of my classes that work out your body, mind, and get a fresh rush of blood flowing through your veins. It’s also the series of cool down stretches, pushing the girls to their limits with just the simplest of floor work moves.
When I stand tall and direct the group of women in front of me to do the same, hands down by their sides, relaxed, I see a few of them stand taller than they had before they’d set foot inside my dance studio.
I can’t hold back my grin.
“How are we feeling after that? Good? Bad? Somewhere in the middle?”
“Good,” chirps one woman.
“Way better than I did this morning,” says another.
My smile only grows, my heart swelling with pride.
“Brilliant, ladies! That’s exactly what I like to hear!” I clasp my hands together and rest them beneath my chin. “So, I have another class next week, Tuesday, 6 p.m., if you’d like to get involved. I hope to see you there. All you have to do is book through the gym website and that will secure your spot! If you’re new, I’d also like to mention the other class I offer. It’s a meditation class, focusing on bringing your body and breath together and we dabble in a bit of chakra work too, so if that’s something you’d be interested in attending, the sign-up sheet is also under the ‘classes’ portion of the gym website.”
I cross the floor to throw open the windows and allow in a flow of fresh January air while my class packs up for the day, zipping up their gym bags and shrugging on their thick winter coats.
A quick flick of my wrist to check the time on my watch lets me know I have about thirty minutes before my next dance class is set to arrive. I’ve got just enough time to pop downstairs for a smoothie and a protein bar to nibble on to hopefully quell the sounds of my rumbling stomach.
Dragging a pair of tracksuit bottoms over my skin-tight dance shorts, I slip my own feet into a pair of fluffy sliders, shove my phone into my pocket and grab the key to lock up the studio. I follow the crowd of women frothing out into the corridor, heading towards the main area of the gym.
“Thanks for today’s class, Giselle.” A busty blonde around my age smiles softly at me. “I’ve really noticed a difference in my body confidence since I started attending your classes. It’s changed my life for the better.”
I give the blonde’s arm a squeeze as my heart soars.
“It’s Calla, isn’t it?”
She nods.
“I’m so glad my classes have helped boost your self-esteem, Calla. That’s exactly why I created them and why I’m so passionate about my job and the people I meet along the way. Thank you for being on that journey with me.”
For a second we exchange mirrored toothy smiles, and then I’m wrapping my arms around her and feeling that sense of female camaraderie wash over me.
Like pretty much every single woman I’ve ever known or spoken to, I know exactly what it’s like to have low self-esteem, to not like what I see reflected back at me in the bedroom mirror, to critique the way I look, and focus on the flaws etched onto my skin.
I know what it’s like to ask someone else what my worth is, allow them to define it, rather than turning to myself and asking the woman inside of me.
When I did eventually take back my worth, I realised how much I’d love to combine my passions for dance, spirituality and body confidence to see what I could create. I was already in the fortunate enough position to be a dance coach for teenagers in the musical theatre business, so I took the way I knew how to command a room and run dance classes and applied to rent out a studio room in this very gym.
It wasn’t easy, it’s still not, but when I hear women like Calla tell me how much they love my classes, how much I’ve helped their confidence, how much I’ve changed their life for the better that makes all the blood, sweat and tears I’ve shed along the past couple of years, worth it.
Giving Calla another squeeze on her upper arm and a smile, we part ways; her, heading in the direction of the exit, me, rounding the corner to the juice bar.
“Afternoon, Giselle,” purrs Freddie, the resident cafe assistant, from behind the counter, a washcloth draped over one of his broad shoulders. The slightly leering smile he sends my way, has shivers threatening to ripple down my spine, but I ignore looking directly at Freddie in favour of peering at the chalkboard behind him which displays today’s special smoothie creations.
“A berry blast? What’s in that exactly?”
“Cherries, strawberries, raspberries, blackberries… if I can find them—”
“I’ll take one of those, and…” I glance down at the selection of fresh fruit in one of the metal baskets atop the counter and at the heap of different flavoured protein and oat bars thrown into the other basket. Picking an energy bar at random, I place it down beside the card reader. “I’ll take a protein bar too.”
“Good choice,” Freddie remarks, holding out his hand for my staff ID card which, once swiped, will grant me my smoothie and bar for a discounted price.
It’s impossible to miss the way he purposefully touches the skin of my hand as he places the card back into my grasp and smiles at me again, his eyes bouncing to my face, then to my sports bra cladded chest for a beat and then back to my face again. “I’ll get on making your smoothie for you.”
Ducking my head, I fish my mobile out of my leggings pocket and open a popular social media app at random. Anything to stop Freddie from trying to make conversation with me. Believe me, he’s made his advances towards me quite clear in the past; I’m aware of just how attractive he finds me.
The feeling isn’t mutual, however. He isn’t really my type – too lean and long and lanky with not a single tattoo in sight. Unless he’s got some hidden away somewhere. I don’t really care to find out.
I like my men on the taller side, someone to still tower over me even when I’m in my platform heels, with a decent smattering of ink and, typically, a shock of brunette hair.
At least, that’s how my ex looked, and it had never been his looks which had caused the problem in our relationship. It had been his penchant for other women, at the same time we’d been sleeping together, but…
I stop myself before I can go down that trail of thought.
The smoothie machine grinds alive nosily, I double tap a blurry photograph posted by an old school classmate and ignore the swoop in my stomach which always happens when I think about the past.
I’m a completely different person compared to who I was back then, a better person, and I don’t doubt for a second that the people I once thought I knew like the back of my hand, would even recognise me if they passed me in the street.
It’s the way I like it, but it’s no less jarring to see ghosts of my past come back to haunt me.
I make the mistake of glancing upwards to see how the smoothie making is coming along, my eyes clashing with Freddie’s as he watches me and not the thick sludge of mixed berries sliding out of the smoothie maker spout and landing in a biodegradable cup.
Shit.
I look back down and switch social media apps.
No, Freddie isn’t my type, and even if he was, I still don’t think I’d be accepting his advances.
He’s a well-known playboy. One who’s often heard bragging about his conquests in the staff room, and that’s exactly the type of man I stay away. Not because he’s my co-worker, but because sleeping with, or getting into a relationship with someone with a reputation like Freddie’s can only end one way.
Painfully.
And I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.
I wouldn’t be celibate by choice for the past three years, if that wasn’t the case.
Sure, there’s been dates and kisses exchanged but nothing has ever gone any further than that before I’ve put a stop to it.
No, a man like Freddie isn’t going to be careful with my heart and that’s what I need, something, after many years of soul searching, I know I deserve.
“One berry blast for—” I scoop up the cup, tap my phone to the contactless card reader until it beeps to signal the acceptance of payment and shove the straw between my lips, mumbling a “thanks, Freddie” while walking away before he can finish the rest of his sentence.
Chewing on a piece of not quite mushed up berry, I hightail it back to the main portion of the gym, my traitorous eyes searching the busy sea of people using the gym equipment, to see if I can find the nameless, tall, brunette man who I caught peering in my dance class window just over an hour ago.
“Who are you looking for?” Rosie, one of the handful of female personal trainers at the gym and my best friend at work, asks, sidling up to me and taking a sip of my smoothie for herself. She winces at the tart taste of blackberries suddenly coating her tongue.
“Um… just…” I scratch an itch above my heart. “I met the man whose filling in Amy’s old personal training position.”
Rosie’s eyebrows rise upwards in shock. “It’s been filled already?”
“Yep.” I pop the p. “I didn’t get his name though, so I just—I just wanted to see if I could spot him, but I can’t.”
“Is he good looking?” Ro muses aloud, staring out at the wall of treadmills.
My head bobs yes of its own accord, watching as Rosie swings her head to me with wide eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I playfully chastise her, knowing the words sitting on the tip of her tongue before they can even escape.
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You forget I know exactly what you’re thinking, Ro.”
“I was just going to say it’ll just be interesting, is all! A new personal trainer on the team, a new co-worker to fight over whose turn it is to clean out whatever gunk is lining the microwave after meal prep has been reheated…”
“Sure. It’s interesting all right.”
At least my body thinks so, if the way my nipples pebble beneath the lining of my sports bra when I bring the image of the tall mystery man to mind, has anything to say about it.
He was attractive, there’s no denying that, and obviously my body very much agrees.
Peering down at my hands, I watch my thumb trace over the simple gold band sitting on the middle finger of my left hand. I can’t count how many times it’s accidentally been mistaken for a wedding ring at a quick glance before people have realised the ring is sitting on the wrong finger.
I bought the ring from a jeweller a month into my chosen celibacy. My eyes had watered at the price, but the precious metal glinted on my finger beautifully, serving as a token of the choice I had made and the reasons why.
It still sits on the same finger now, years later, unblemished and shiny, a stark, constant reminder.