Chapter 31
The Solstice Studio rooftop, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Why are all Antoinette’s surprises early mornings and exercise?
Why did I tell her that I enjoy them?
This is why you should never lie. Even a white one will come back and bite you on the arse.
Before the sun is even up.
I am not designed for early mornings. I am designed for waking up late morning, having a leisurely brunch and several vats of coffee before my day starts.
Mornings that begin at 5.45am have never been part of my life, so when Antoinette barged into my room at that god-forsaken hour earlier, demanding I get up, I may have thrown a few expletives her way.
When I pulled the covers over my head, she pulled them back down and threw a few expletives of her own at me.
I do want to bond with her though.
So I pretend that I actually do like surprises. Love them. Nothing better, to me, than being dragged somewhere and you have absolutely no idea what or where it is.
That’s why I’m here now, on the rooftop of some hyper-trendy wellness centre, trying to hold a plank.
And I say ‘trying’ because I am struggling.
My head is swimming and my abs are screaming at me like they’re auditioning for Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
Once again, I’m confused as to how I’m so unfit.
I suppose I’ve let thing slip a little this year.
I had a personal trainer four times a week in London so I suppose it’s not that crazy that I can now barely hold a plank without feeling bone-aching fatigue.
I don’t want to look at all the lithe young things who are doubtless planking without breaking even a bead of sweat but I can’t help myself. They all look like they eat kale for every meal.
The instructor is called Sage – because of course she is – and has been throwing side-eyes at me that land like knives.
‘Just flow with your breath,’ she says, placing a hand on my back that threatens to destabilise me completely.
My breath is currently not flowing.
In fact it’s doing the exact opposite and coming out in short, staccato bursts.
I’d tell her exactly what she can do with her namaste if I could speak.
I catch Antoinette’s eye and she looks like she’s trying not to laugh.
‘And now, glide into downward dog,’ Sage says, and I contort rather than glide, my arms and legs shaking. ‘Trust your inner strength.’
My inner strength is still in bed at the villa.
I sneak another glance at my sister, who is in a perfectly inverted V and barely breaking a sweat.
For the tiniest flicker of a moment, I despise her.
It feels like months before Sage guides us into corpse pose and I am free to lie on the ground and pant.
But at least I can see the sun rising over the LA skyline, turning everything in its path into the most delicious shades of apricot.
‘That was awesome,’ Antoinette says when Sage finally releases us from her rooftop jail. She is glowing. Literally glowing. I feel like a recently released prisoner of war.
‘I think I may have died,’ I say. ‘It’s possible you’re speaking to my ghost.’
Antoinette laughs. ‘You need to exercise more,’ she says. ‘Don’t women your age start getting like osteoporosis or something?’
I glare at her. ‘I’m not menopausal, Antoinette. I’m just a bit out of shape. That’s all.’
‘Sure, sis,’ she says.
‘I’m only thirty, for God’s sake!’
‘You’re from last century,’ she says.
‘I’m going to join a gym,’ I say.
She snorts. ‘You need a repair café.’
I scowl all the way home.
Antoinette doesn’t stop mocking me until she disappears into the shower. ‘Maybe we should have found a place with one of those alarms,’ she says as a parting shot. ‘Just in case you have a fall when I’m out.’
I throw a cushion at her, having to disguise the wince as the movement sends a shooting pain through my protesting muscles.
I need to do something about this.
I pick up my phone and type ‘West Hollywood gyms’ into Google.
The screen is instantly filled with gym suggestions. Every type of gym you can imagine from yoga studios to bounce classes. There are boxing gyms with neon lights and outdoor Pilates sessions.
Then I notice an ad.
It’s for a brand-new gym called Flexual Healing.
I chuckle at the name as I click on the link, which takes me through to the gym’s Instagram page.
They’ve only posted a handful of photos so far but it looks like exactly the kind of torture chamber that Antoinette would drag me to.
I scroll through the pictures.
And then one catches my eye.
It’s a group shot, a mix of people caught mid-class through a mirror, all solid abs and high-on-endorphins smiles, posted yesterday.
It’s one of the people that makes me pinch the screen and zoom in. Dirty-blond hair, a patchy beard, a band T-shirt that stands out because everyone else is in designer sportswear.
The image is grainy, his head is turned slightly away and the lighting is terrible.
But.
Could it be?
I zoom in even more.
And then I’m certain who I’m looking at.
It’s him.
It’s Aidan Ward.