Summer at Blue Sands Cove

3. Spinning-1

3

Spinning

Although it kept her fit like nothing ever had in her life before, Grace would be the first to admit—drunkenly, to Joan, at least—that she had signed up for spinning classes in order to get in the kind of shape that would one day allow her to cycle all the way from the bottom to the top of Melrose Hill—what local kids had called the Hill of Suffering for as long as she could remember—both without stopping and at faster than walking pace. No official local had ever done it. Some smarmy bastard called Matt who had done a few stages of the Tour de France had visited one summer and pulled it off, but he had moved away shortly after and therefore didn’t officially count.

Grace, captain of her university road racing team, had always dreamed of returning home one summer, years after disappearing out into the world, to wow everyone from school who still lived in the area with her cycling prowess, and prove once and for all that she wasn’t the lush they all remembered.

Not all of the time, at any rate.

Over the years her road racing prowess had faded into weekend leisure rides, but you had to go a long way in South Gloucestershire to find any decent hills. Spinning class had proven the antidote to her flat-road bullying, and the thought of taking down the Hill of Suffering had been her motivation.

And then she had met her instructor.

The spinning class was so popular you had to show up thirty minutes early to be sure of getting a bike, and Mike Anderson, he of the back muscles and buns to die for, had proven why. A minor celebrity—after a brief career in a failed nineties’ boy-band he had done the naughties’ rounds of the reality TV shows before starting a career as a fitness instructor—he had matured into a forty-something dreamboat which had all of the women and some of the men drooling over his physique, his smile, and his take-me-home-for-tea eyes.

Grace joined the queue to enter, Mike standing by the door as always, greeting each attendee like an old friend. When her time came, she couldn’t bring herself to speak, only to stare into his dreamy eyes and make a throaty grunt.

‘Grace … how lovely to see you. You look well, but … you’re troubled by something, aren’t you? Hit that bike hard tonight, my love. It’ll clear out whatever negativity has been building up.’

And she was past, without even responding, but with a delightful warmth in her heart as behind her, Mike asked about another customer’s cat.

‘Neutering can be traumatic, can’t it? But Bobby will be fine in a couple of days, you’ll see.’

With Mike’s seeming clairvoyance driving her on, Grace was ready to hit new heights tonight, to exorcise her memory of Gavin once and for all. As Mike straddled his bike at the front of the group, on a machine that rather bizarrely stood on a revolving pedestal in order that over the course of the class all the attendees could get a full view of every angle of their godlike instructor, Grace readied herself to hit higher speeds and greater elevations than ever before. Hill of Suffering indeed. It would look like a children’s slide the next time she went home.

‘Oh, that’s not good.’

Mike, speaking into a microphone in his smooth, milky voice, sounded a little alarmed. Most of the people who had been warming up with a few brisk revolutions came to a stop and watched their instructor, barely daring to breathe.

Mike climbed back off the bike and began to stretch his right leg.

‘Well, excuse me for a moment. It appears I might have tweaked my groin. If you could wait a moment, ladies and guys, I’ll go put a little spray on it and see if we can’t get through the class that way.’

And he was gone, out through the studio doors, leaving the attendees to mutter to each other in hushed, fearful voices. What had happened? Would Mike be able to continue the class? And if he was injured, how long would he be unable to ride?

He returned a few minutes later, visibly limping. He climbed up on to the pedestal and stood shaking his head. His cheeks even appeared damp as though he’d been crying.

‘I’m sorry to inform you all of this, but I’m afraid it’s quite a serious tweak. I won’t be able to ride for at least a month.’

‘Will the class be cancelled?’ someone near the front wailed, as other attendees began to sniff, one or two to cry. ‘I can’t get by without this. I need you, Mike.’

‘And I need you guys too. You’re my flock. But this is just one of those things that happens sometimes. In a month or two I’ll be fine, and I’ll be back on the bike again, and it’ll be like I was never away. However, I can’t leave you without an instructor, so I’ve found someone to cover for me.’ He lifted a hand and indicated the door, just as it swung open.

A woman in a vest and combat trousers stood there, her muscled arms mottled with tattoos. Frizzy black hair was tied back and she wore a sour pout as she looked around the room. A vicious scar had punctured her cheek, leaving behind a red star shape which appeared to have been coloured in with felt tip pen.

The woman stalked through the group to the front, fists clenched as though spoiling for a fight. Mike smiled and waved her to stand next to him.

‘This is Doreen,’ he said. ‘She’ll be taking over as your instructor until my groin is back in tip top shape.’ Then, unclipping the microphone and headset, he handed it across.

‘Over to you,’ came his last soft words, and then he was walking out of the room, giving regretful waves as he passed, comforting a couple of people who were crying, reassuring the same woman as before that her cat would be fine.

The door closed behind him, and the room felt suddenly cold.

‘All right, you scum, on your bikes,’ Doreen snapped, climbing up onto the instructor’s bike. ‘I just got out of prison. You want to know how you survive in prison? You train, and you fight. Are you ready to train and fight, you worms?’

A couple of people shouted ‘Yeah!’, but most people just looked afraid.