Life, In Person

I’m slicing the heart out of an artichoke when Adam asks how I slept.

“Fine,” I say. “You’re sweet to ask.”

“The nightmare?”

“Gone. I started with that app you suggested. It’s so calming, I’ve never slept better in my life.” Almost true, but not quite.

“Glad to hear it,” he says.

“What about you?” I ask. “Nervous for that big meeting? Sleepless nights?”

“Big, strong, manly bloke like me,” he says. “Yes. Yup, absolutely terrified.” Which makes me laugh, jostling the heaped quarter teaspoon of salt so it snows onto the countertop. I pinch up a little and throw it over my left shoulder before brushing the rest into the sink.

“You’ll do great,” I tell him, straightening the corner of the Tupperware and tweaking the fan of sun-dried tomatoes before snapping a pic. I add it to an almost-finished blog post, deciding at the last minute that the filter I’ve chosen makes the chicken look flavourless. That’ll get comments, and not the nice kind. I pause to finish my pep talk before looking for a new one.

“Your pitch is ready,” I say. “You’re ready. And they’ll love you. How could they not?”

I scroll back through the filters. Too orange. Too blue. Too dark. Too much contrast.

“What would I do without my cheerleader?” he asks, as I land at last on a filter that looks right. I tap, drag, scroll and type. Sweep for typos. Change a sentence I don’t like.

“Flop sweat?” I suggest. And he winks, which warms me better than one of my famous Cayenne B12 juice shots. I take the blog post live and wait for the first trickle of views to come in from my most loyal followers.

I wriggle into some food-grade latex gloves and activate my GoPro as I turn to my juicer. Adam talks about his boss for a while as a beetroot bleeds onto the chopping board under my knife. I can’t focus on him properly until the gory vegetable is safely juiced, the gloves are in the bin and the knife and board are in the sink. He doesn’t get annoyed, and I feel warm again.

“You’re lucky, your boss is a reasonable human. I love my clients. But some of them… they be crazy,” I say.

I’ve made him laugh.

I spoon the guts out of a grapefruit and put them through the juicer. Followed by the chunked flesh of half a cucumber and an apple. I pull a quarter of the petals off a fennel bulb and add them, making the juicer growl as it works hard. I slide the tip of a spoon over a gnarled ginger root, scraping off its skin and breathing in the scent, before throwing it into the relentless machine. I film the juicer’s grind, and the waterfall of blood-stained juice collecting in the pretty mason jar under the spout. Millennial pink.

“Tell me about what you like,” he says.

“Oh, I don’t know… I walk my neighbour’s dog sometimes. She’s called Stella. Great floppy, curly thing. So cute… I’ve started baking. Found a fabulous vegan pecan muffin recipe.”

A thought, and…

“Wait. Was that a sex question?” I ask.

“You’re adorable,” he says. Which strikes me as not-an-answer. “Have you heard of The Mandalorian?” he asks.

“Is that a sex question?” I ask. But all he does to that is blow a tiny kiss. And now there’s millennial pink in my cheeks.

“I want to know what you do for fun. When demanding clients give you a day off?” he asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say again. “What do people do?”

“Movies?” he asks. “Have a favourite?”

Juice done, I flourish as I pour it into a waiting glass - slim and slightly frosted - and garnish it with a grapefruit slice. Then I turn off and take off the GoPro, and set it aside. I badly want to look over the footage but make myself leave it alone. The video is for YouTube tomorrow, so editing can and should wait. It should. It will.

I snap a picture before transferring the juice to a to-go bottle. Then stow it in my Lululemon sports bag, which I notice is sitting in a pretty beam of sunlight so I snap a pic of that too. For Instagram. Something’s not right. I dig in the bag and adjust my Fabletics yoga mat so it’s peeping out the top. Better.

“Hmmm… Favourite movie,” I say, after the pic goes live on the ‘gram. “Dangerous question.” And I’ve made him laugh again.

“Oh?” he asks.

“If I say a scary movie, so we can cuddle up while we watch it… I’d win a cuddle but ultimately lose. Because nightmares.”

“High risk tactics,” he agrees.

“If I name a romantic comedy, you’ll think I’m one of THOSE girls. If I name something nerd-cool, you’ll quiz me to see if I’m lying to make you like me.”

“You could… see how I handle the truth? That way I’m the one being tested.”

I check the ‘gram. Twenty likes on the bag pic. As I’m looking, a client emails in a crisis. She’s gained weight, even though she swears she’s been following the diet plan we drew up for her. And she has a wedding to go to in two weeks. I can almost hear the tears in all the exclamation points screaming at me from the screen. Help me, Cleo!!!

“Don’t worry,” I answer her. “I have a free slot in an hour. I’ll meet you in the park. We’ll get you feeling fabulous. Chin up, Liz.”

When I check Instagram again, she’s left a comment on one of my yoga selfies saying I’m the best personal trainer she’s ever had and I’m saving her life. I like it, watching the little heart fill in red. Then turn to my iPad and the analytics for users of my app. Cleo’s Body & Soul. Same as my blog - where you can email me at Cleo@CBody&Soul.com - my Twitter handle, my Instagram, my YouTube channel, my Tumblr, and my Facebook page.

I try to be reachable.

I pull up Liz’s client account. Then pause.

“My favourite movie… is Alien,” I tell Adam, lips tingling with the truth. What will he think of that?

Liz has not been following the diet we drew up, if her food journal is anything to go by. I smile. My clients all know I see this information when they use my app. Yet they always fib to me. I send her a session confirmation request.

“Ok,” Adam says, “now I’m afraid of you.” But he laughs with it. And asks, “The original?”

“Always, though I have some love for the 3rd one.”

“Hmm. Some cuddling potential. Check. No nightmares. Check. I’d say we’re both winning.” So then I’m smiling for a different reason.

Liz confirms her session, triggering a notification that pings my phone. That was quick.

I flip to Twitter and find a handful of likes and retweets on a motivational post about getting up when you fall down. But also a message from a woman accusing me of promoting an unhealthy, unattainable body image to young women with my “clearly fake” yogic pics. That makes me frown. I never touch photoshop. It would completely invalidate the before and after pics my clients like to post and tag me in. It’s against everything I believe and try to teach my clients. It’s a toxic lie that— I take a deep breath, engaging the solar plexus, and delete the woman’s message without replying.

“How about your next day off we watch it?” Adam asks. "My place?"

I seal the Tupperware over the chicken salad and put it in my bag, rushing now. Double-checking my look. The right leggings with the matching sports bra under the right co-ordinating tank top. The right woke-up-like-this hair and make-up. No scuffs on the brighter than bright trainers. Anti-inflammatory juice - check. Microfibre towel - check. Yoga mat - check. Keto lunch - check. Heading out the door. Can’t be late for Liz.

-----

The tube is crammed.

No up-turned eyes. Headphone cables like nooses round all the necks.

A couple mimes an affectionate dumbshow for the girlfriend’s phone camera. Then retire into their separate apps to choose filters and post the pics. We’re connected underground now. I didn’t notice that happen.

Her lips never actually touch his cheek.

My seat-neighbour’s knee presses into my thigh as he spreads his legs and leans forward; he’s losing at Plants vs. Zombies. Beneath my own music, I can hear him swearing. He doesn’t realise he’s touching me.

The mother and daughter opposite have an entire conversation without looking at each other. The mother on her phone, fingers flying. The daughter tapping her Kindle at even intervals. She’s a fast reader.

My own fingers itch to check for comments on the morning’s blog post. What do people think of the chicken and artichoke salad? Has anyone tried making it? Do they like it?

I get out my juice and sip instead. Occupying my hands. It’s come out well today. Bright and fresh but not grimacing bitter over the grapefruit. Good grapefruit is vital. I’ll mention that in the recipe notes. People will like it, surely. The video will be popular. I’ll put a clip from the video on the ‘gram. Link in bio to the YouTube channel. Should get a lot of traction. Maybe some new subscriptions. More engagement on the app. And it’ll help people too, this recipe. Soothe their aching joints and combat any inflammation from slips in their diet. Trans fats are such poison. But no one’s perfect. I’ll put that in the caption on the Instagram clip. No one’s perfect. Which could feed into a new motivational post. Maybe a picture of me falling out of a difficult yoga pose. If there’s a pretty one somewhere. I think there is. That would show that Twitter woman from earlier. Unattainable…

I give in.

The blog post has a flood of views and a swell of comments. Hearts in their eyes. Promises to try the recipe on the strength of a nice clutch of looks-deliciouses. A few ladies have tagged their friends, spreading the word about me. I’ll have to keep an eye on my email, check my junk folder now and then to be safe; I might get a new client or two. I flip to Twitter and tweet a link to the post. Comfortable now that it’s being well received.

The thumbnail looks great.

I’m at my stop.

-----

Liz is already at the park when I arrive. Head to toe neon yellow Sweaty Betty. Like a sunflower, bless her. But walking in a tight circle like a cat that’s found another cat asleep in its bed. Maybe some calming breath work and stretching before we start.

“Liz!” I wave. It’s easy to greet her with the Body&Soul smile. Professional but friendly.

“Cleo, thank God. I don’t know what’s happened. I swear I’ve been so good. I’ve been craving chips like you wouldn’t believe. But I never had any. The girls did take me for afternoon tea. I could hardly say no, they were so sweet. For my birthday you know. And I guess, well, Sidney got divorced and we all got together for a slap-up dinner to cheer her up. There was a lot of wine. Then dancing, which meant cocktails. And we stopped for a curry on the way home because, well, we were all starved and—”

“Liz, Liz… it’s alright. We’ll get you back on track. And there’s no harm done, you look great.”

“Oh, well… oh. Alright.” Pink patches on the sweet round cheeks.

“How about some stretching and centring breathing to start?”

Later, I pick a song to help Liz get in the right headspace for working hard. I know what to pick because she synced her Spotify with my app, and one of her playlists is called Skinny Boss Bitch Workout Mix. When the song starts she bounces on her toes, setting her heavy breasts at war with her sports bra.

“Let’s do this!”

Lovely, sunflower Liz.

-----

“One more, Liz, there we go!”

“Dear God, you’re a monster, Cleo,” she says, collapsing to the grass. “Can you get a snap of me for the ‘gram? Pics or it didn’t happen, you know.”

“Sure,” I take the phone she’s holding out, and get a pic. She looks happy. Sweaty and glowing, and thrilled at how hard she’s worked. She did well today, and I tell her so.

A minute after we’ve said goodbye she posts, and tags me in the photo. No filter. Lovely, authentic Liz.

“@CleoBody&Soul - the meanest Goddess you ever met, thank you!”

It makes me chuckle, and wonder what her life is like. Who she is. Does she have kids? Or pets? What does she do for work? I can’t believe I’ve never asked. Until my phone alerts me to an incoming text, and pushes her out of my mind.

“Cleo? You there?” Adam asks.

“I’m here.”

“Did I freak you out before?”

“No.” I add a cute smiling emoji, although my palms are hot and tingling.

“Oh, good,” he says. And I know the half-truth I’ve been letting myself believe is about to turn to so much perfume on the wind.

“Only, you didn’t answer when I asked if you wanted to hang out…”

He’s typing, little dots bouncing.

I wait.

“In person,” he says. And the bottom drops out of my stomach.

There it is; my tapestry of white lies.

That I even know this man I’ve been falling for. That I’ve ever even been in the same room as him. That the whole thing is anything more than a sandcastle of texting and online messages, and that Adam wanting to take things real-world doesn’t mean high tide is coming.

I must take too long, make him nervous, because more dots start to bounce. He’s typing again.

“I know we’ve not taken that step yet. I feel like we’re ready…”

Are we? Ready for the Adam I’ve built in my head to meet the one that exists in reality. And for his vision of me to try to stretch itself over the fact of me standing in front of him. For the curated, photo gallery versions of ourselves to fade away.

In person.

Face to Face.

Eye to eye.

And then he’s rambling. As if now he’s started he can’t stop. Message after message pinging through, stacking up on my screen.

“I want to meet properly… Tinder and texting are nice and all… I think three months is long enough, right?… I think we could really be something… Don’t you?… All I know is I’d love to see you…”

See me.

No filter. No Body&Soul Persona in Lululemon camouflage. Nothing more than… me.

The phone vibrates my reluctant fingers as if trying to wake them up.

“In real life,” he says.