'Harmonising?' I cry, bashing him with my hand.

'Ouch.' He clutches his stomach.

Despite myself, I can't help breaking into laughter. 'So anyway, what are you up to this week?' I ask a few moments later, after I've wiped my eyes with a paper napkin and sworn I'm going to get him back.

'Probably what I've been doing all weekend,' he shrugs.

'What's that?' I ask curiously.

He gestures to his phone, lying silent on the table. 'Staying in, checking my emails.'

Chapter 25.

At exactly six o'clock I turn off my computer and race out of the office to catch the tube to Wimbledon for my first-ever military fitness cla.s.s. I don't want to be late. I already filled in the form online and got ready in the Ladies loos at work. I'm wearing my new sports gear: black Lycra leggings, with these little go-faster stripes down my legs, and a matching sports vest; bouncy, top-of-the-range trainers, plus lots of sweatbands.

It's amazing, but just wearing it makes me feel much fitter already and I keep getting these little glances of approval from people on the tube, as if they think I'm a real athlete. So much so that by the time we cross Putney Bridge I'm starting to feel like one. In fact, I even catch myself looking disapprovingly at someone sitting opposite me eating a big bag of Maltesers and reading the Metro. I mean, honestly, some people!

So I'm feeling quite positive as I set off at my stop and start springing jauntily down the road towards the park, swinging my arms and blowing out clouds of white air like a steam train. Gosh, it really is quite chilly, I realise, pulling up my pink woolly scarf around my ears. Still, soon I'm sure I'll be all warmed up and rosy-cheeked with exercise.

I smile to myself. Believe it or not, I'm actually looking forward to this cla.s.s. In fact, maybe dating Seb again has helped me discover something about myself that I didn't know. All this time I thought that I didn't like sports or exercise, but perhaps I do. Perhaps I'll be really good at it and it was just my school's fault. Perhaps they made me think I was rubbish at sport, like they made me think I hated rice pudding. It was only years later, when Nan died and left me all her own recipes, that I discovered it wasn't necessarily lukewarm with a horrible skin on the top, but hot and creamy and utterly delicious.

Turning the corner I see the floodlit park ahead. According to the instructions I read online, we all meet in the car park where I'll be introduced to the instructors. I feel a beat of antic.i.p.ation. Gosh, this is actually quite exciting. I mean I love Seb, obviously, but still, what girl doesn't go a bit fluttery at the thought of meeting lots of super-hunky fitness instructors. All that testosterone and army fatigues. I should bring Fiona along . . . in fact, yes! What a fantastic idea! Why didn't I think of it earlier? She can get fit and meet someone! Forget all that online dating business military fitness is where she needs to be . . .

Making a mental note to bring her along next time, I stride enthusiastically across the tarmac. Ahead of me I can see a military van parked up, and lots of people milling around in coloured vests. Amongst them are several large muscular men in army fatigues, holding clipboards and issuing instructions.

'You're late!'

One of them gives a loud bark and I look around to see who he's shouting at.

'Girl with the pink scarf!'

His voice is like a round of gunfire. What girl with the pink scarf?? I can't see anyone ooer, hang on I'm wearing a pink scarf.

Oh s.h.i.t.

'Yes, you! Got something in your ears, have you?'

Filled with trepidation I turn back around to see this very scary hulk of a man, with biceps the size of butcher's hams, glaring at me.

'Erm . . . it's only five past,' I stammer, glancing at my watch. Then promptly jump out of my skin.

'Five past! Five past!' he rants, charging towards me with his clipboard. 'You were supposed to be here at eighteen hundred hours! On! The! Dot!'

Oh s.h.i.tty s.h.i.t s.h.i.t.

My heart starts clanging hard in my chest. Lately I've tried so hard with my timekeeping. Ever since I told Seb I was never late, I've been setting alarm clocks, wearing a watch, leaving early. I've made a major effort, and yet it's like it's my default setting. It's as if I wasn't made to be on time. Even my mum said I was three weeks late being born and had to be induced.

Yet somehow I don't think this is going to wash with Mr Angry Sergeant Major.

'Where's your form?' he thunders, bearing down upon me like the Incredible Hulk. Only he's not green. His face is more a kind of purple, and the veins are bulging in his forehead like wiggly worms.

'Oh . . . here,' I fl.u.s.ter, pulling it out of my backpack and ripping it in the process.

He grabs it from me and runs his eyes across it. I don't think I've ever felt more nervous. 'OK then, Tess Connelly,' he continues, looking up after a moment, 'my name's Woody and I'm going to be one of your instructors.'

'Hi Woody,' I smile with relief. Oh, thank G.o.d, he seems to have softened up. Maybe he's one of those 'bark's worse than his bite' types.

'So you think you're fit?' he asks, raising an eyebrow.

'Well, I won't say fit exactly, but I do walk to work every day and my flat's on the fourth floor and we don't have a lift . . .'

Well I don't want him to think I'm totally hopeless.

'Go on then, show us five press-ups, right now.'

I look at him unsurely he's got to be kidding? Right?

'What? You mean, like, right now?' I stammer nervously, looking around me to gauge the reaction of everyone else, but no one else is listening, they're all forming groups and being led out onto the gra.s.s by the other instructors.

'What do you think?' he fires back like ammunition.

What do I think? I think I can't even do one press-up, let alone five, that's what I think.

'I . . . um . . .' I've been reduced to gibberish.

'No worries, we'll let you warm up first,' he interrupts before I can formulate an answer, and I feel a rush of relief. Thank G.o.d for a moment there I had visions of me face down on the tarmac being bawled at by a drill sergeant, like in Private Benjamin.

'OK, so you need to choose a bib,' he continues swiftly. 'There's three different colours, all based on levels of fitness. If you're not sure of your fitness, go for the blue. If it's decent and can hack hard exercise, take the red. Only take the green if you think you're a serious athlete.'

'Right, OK,' I nod. Crikey, I wonder which one I should choose? I glance across at the Blues doing warm-up exercises and some are struggling to touch their toes. Well, I'm not that bad. So I should probably go for the red.

Then again . . .

'Well, we haven't got all day,' he barks impatiently. 'Come on, move it! MOVE IT!'

Sod it. I grab the green. I know it will be tough, but I need to get in shape fast. Seb thinks I'm super-fit and ran ten miles the other night, remember? I don't have time to be in the Reds, I need to go for the more intensive approach.

Plus, c'mon, how unfit can I be?

For a moment I'm sure I see a flash of surprise across the instructor's face, but then it's gone again and he's yelling, 'OK, that way!' and gesturing in the direction of the Greens that are already sprinting off towards the end of the park.

Throwing my coat and rucksack in the minivan, I pull on my bright green bib with a number thirty-four on the back and set off running across the gra.s.s. It's freezing, and I feel the icy cold blasting into my lungs as I suck in deep, hungry breaths.

'Get a move on! Don't let your team mates down,' he yells after me as I race, stumbling across the park, towards the Greens.

Only instead of getting closer, they seem to be moving even further away. It's like a mirage. Or a rainbow. Only there's no pot of gold at the end of this just sit-ups, squats and something called burpies. Which sounded fun and interesting from the warm, ergonomic comforts of my office chair, but now seem a lot less so in the cold darkness of Wimbledon Park.

Finally, when my lungs feel as if they're going to explode out of my chest, I reach them, and that's only because they've stopped running and are lined up on the gra.s.s doing press-ups. Spotting the instructor, I raise my hand in a sort of Native American 'how' greeting. I can't speak. My body's gone into shock at this sudden, unexpected blast of exercise, and I double over, trying to catch my breath.

'Enjoy your little stroll?' roars the instructor right in my ear, as he bounds up behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. Except I don't have the energy.

'Sorry . . . I was trying to catch up . . .' I manage to gasp, but he cuts me off.

'Fifty sit-ups!' he commands gruffly.

And I thought Woody was tough.

Dropping to the gra.s.s, I flop onto my back. It's barely been five minutes and I'm already exhausted. All I want to do is lie here, but I can't. I have a very scary instructor standing right above me already counting: 'One . . . two . . . three . . .'

OK, I can do this. It's only fifty sit-ups. It's not like it's going to kill me. Putting my hands behind my head, I take a deep breath and start crunching . . .

I take that back. I think it is killing me.

Twenty torturous minutes later and I'm going to throw up. And this time it's got nothing to do with spicy food, but because it didn't stop at fifty sit-ups. Oh no. I've been doing relay sprints, press-ups, burpies which involve squatting down, kicking your legs back and standing up again, and which are, quite frankly, excruciatingly painful. Not to mention jumping jacks, lunges and crawling around the edge of the park on my elbows.

No, I'm not kidding.

And yes, I did pay good money to do this.

I've never been so exhausted. If you fall behind you're only made to do more, so I try my hardest to keep up, but there's fitness and there's fitness. The rest of the Greens are like Olympic athletes. At one point we have to partner up and act as if we're soldiers and one of our squadron has been wounded in a bomb attack and we have to carry them to safety. I get Gary, a six-foot IT expert who competes in triathlons 'for fun'. Suffice to say, when I have to give him a piggyback to our 'bunker' I nearly keel over.

Which is why I'm now hiding behind a tree. Well, I'm sorry, but I had no choice. Our instructor told us to do laps around the park and my legs are like dead weights. I can barely walk, let alone sprint. And to think I could be at home watching the TV. Or having a gla.s.s of wine. Or lying in the bath. Or even doing my hand-washing. Do people really do this for pleasure? Of their own free will? Several times a week?

Peering around the trunk, I watch as several green vests go whizzing by. They'll never notice I'm gone. I'll just stay here for a few minutes, have a rest, get my breath back, then just slip back out and join them when they go past again. What a brilliant plan! Closing my eyes, I sit on the damp gra.s.s and lean back against the tree.

'Number thirty-four! Where the h.e.l.l are you?'

I snap my eyes open. Oh f.u.c.k.

'Number thirty-four! I want to see you! Right. Now!'

f.u.c.kity-f.u.c.k.

My chest tightens. I should have known I wouldn't get away with it. Even in the dark, those instructors have eyes in the back of their shaven heads. Nothing gets past them.

'Number thirty-four!'

He's really yelling now and I peek out round the side of the trunk and see him standing a hundred yards away. A huge rectangle of a man in army fatigues, like a large fridge-freezer painted in camouflage colours. Oh c.r.a.p. I'm never going to be able to escape from my hiding place. He's going to catch me slacking and punish me with about a million burpies. I'm doomed. I'm just going to have to come clean. I'm- A loud barking interrupts my spiralling thoughts and I see a big golden retriever bouncing towards the instructor. Briefly he turns to pat it.

I'm making a break for it.

Seizing my chance, I charge out from behind the tree and start sprinting across the gra.s.s. Only within seconds I suddenly feel the most intense pain in the back of my leg. 'Ouch!' I shriek, clutching it and hopping on the other leg.

Hearing a scream, the instructor twirls around and, seeing me, races over. 'Are you all right? What's happened? Let me see.'

If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd be impressed by how swiftly he scoops me up and carries me to a bench, where he sets about inspecting my leg. 'Looks like your hamstring,' he says knowledgably. 'I think you might have torn it.'

'Torn it?' I repeat, alarmed.

'Either that, or you've just pulled it. I'm not sure, but you're going to need to go home and put some ice on it.'

'What? Right now? Without finishing the cla.s.s?' Forget the fact that I might have a serious injury, I'm almost heady with relief at the thought of being able to go home.

'Yes, right now,' he nods gruffly. 'I'd take a couple of ibuprofen as well; it will help with the swelling.'

'OK,' I nod obediently, feeling suitably chastised. Easing myself up from the bench, I start hobbling over to the van to collect my things.

'Oh, and there's one more thing . . .'

Mid-hobble, I turn to see the instructor watching me, his arms folded.

'Next time, I think we should get you into the blue bibs. Beginners,' he adds, raising a tufty eyebrow and giving me a pointed look.

d.a.m.n. So there goes my brilliant plan.

'Um, sure . . .'

Well I'm not going to disagree with a burly six-foot-something instructor with guns the size of mini-tanks, am I? Only I know something he doesn't.

There isn't going to be a next time.

Dear Diary, Haven't had a chance to write in my diary as I've been so busy, what with the wedding (and that row!), the trip to the beach and the concert (remind me next time to take earplugs!!) it's been manic! And then of course there was the meeting between Seb and Gramps!! EEK!! That was a bit nerve-wracking, and didn't go exactly as I'd hoped . . .

But anyway, I have to write as I have big news . . . drum roll please . . .

I'm in LOVE!!!

Chapter 26.

Luckily my torn hamstring turns out to be just a pulled muscle, and the next couple of weeks whiz by in a nonstop montage of successful dates with Seb.