Brie & Body Building

By Lauren Rebbeck

Illustration: Shutterstock

AN UPLIFTING SHORT STORY BY LAUREN REBBECK

Marcie’s wonderful friend had supported her through her break-up… and into a whole new way of life

OK . . . last box. The last box containing the shards of a once picture-perfect life in the countryside. The last box to be hauled from her best friend’s ancient turquoise Micra, squeezed into a very questionable spot on a side street half a mile away.

The last box to be lugged up the two flights of stairs to her new temporary home, with all its raspberry pink walls. Marcie’s arms ached. So did her heart.

Marcie was incredibly grateful to her best friend Zo. She just wished she had slightly less offensive taste when it came to decorating. But while Zo’s taste in home décor might be questionable, her loyalty certainly was not.

Zo had listened on the phone day after day to Marcie’s neurotic suspicions (“not neurotic – accurate,” Marcie corrected herself). It didn’t matter how stressed Zo was after a day of brokering financial negotiations, or how frazzled she was from the underground commute back to her little pink flat, or how exhausted she was after a sweaty workout. If Zo received a less than smiley emoji from Marcie, there would be an incoming video call.

So, when the day finally came that Brandon confirmed all Marcie’s wild suspicions and announced he was breaking up with her but that he’d had the “decency” to pack up her belongings, Zo was on her way in fifteen minutes.

Her creaky turquoise car spluttering fumes as she raced to Marcie’s rescue was powered by sheer will, a little bit of petrol and pure rage. Zo threw expletives at a sheepish Brandon, grabbed the “thoughtfully” prepared boxes of Marcie’s belongings and bundled her best friend into the passenger seat. Then it was back up the M3 to London.

They’d left the boxes in the car (which was steaming and puffing violently) and headed back to the flat for a good cry, a bad film and a few bottles of wine. Today was a fresh start.

So, Marcie bent to lift the last box out of the boot. It wouldn’t budge.

Marcie had always been petite. Pale, quiet and tiny, “a delicate dormouse,” as her mum would annoyingly refer to her.

She tried again, every muscle in her skinny forearms burning. It slipped from her grasp: fossils and geodes crashed to floor. Marcie’s fortitude shattered like the crystals on the pavement. She fell to her knees and scrambled to gather them, struggling to see through her tears. But she couldn’t miss the neon pink manicure helping her gather them.

Zo was beside her, wordlessly bundling things back into the cardboard box.

With a strong sweep, she’d shifted the box on to her hip with one perfectly manicured hand, and with the other hoisted Marcie to her feet. Half-hugging, half-marching, they retreated to the safety of Zo’s pink flat.

Zo arranged Marcie’s prized geodes and fossils across the mantelpiece (freshly painted black to match the zebra stripe floor-to-ceiling drapes in the living room.) The natural rock formations looked hideous against the garish décor, but Zo grinned warmly.

They look perfect! Like they were meant to be here, Mouse.

Zo had affectionately called her Mouse since they were in primary school, spinning a cruel playground chant about “Mousey Marcie eats cheese sandwiches” into an endearing moniker. But unlike her mum’s nickname for her, Marcie adored it.

Zo had that effect. She was an intoxicating blend of confidence, fun and spontaneity – Marcie’s opposite. Being Zo’s friend was never predictable. Just when you thought you had her figured out, she’d learn Mandarin. Or become a qualified sommelier – just for fun. Or train to be an amateur body builder.

Yes, Zo was a high-flying finance broker who could dance modern jazz, sing opera, write code, and could now also deadlift ninety pounds. Oh, and she was probably doing all this while wearing pink Spandex. Marcie’s only aspirations were to finish reading the novel in her bag before Christmas rolled around again.

Zo’s groomed eyebrows furrowed. She plonked herself on the velvet sofa beside Marcie, wrapping her in a hug. Her expensive jasmine shampoo was comforting, the scent released as Marcie’s tears dampened Zo’s blonde hair.

“Oh Mouse, you’ll get back on your feet,” Zo whispered, her strong arms reassuringly tight around Marcie’s shoulders. “And till then, I’ll carry you.”

Marcie laughed, wiping a tear on to the velvet cushion.

“I bet you could, too!”

Zo flexed. “Too right I could!” She stood up and adjusted the waistband of her pink crop top. “But not if I keep missing my gym sessions. Fancy joining me, Mouse?”

Marcie balked. “I’ve never set foot in a gym.” Just the thought of it made her want to hide her face in a bag of extra cheesy Doritos. She cringed at the thought of all that complicated gadgety equipment, grunting muscle men flexing, non-sweating gym bunnies in full glam.

“You should come, it’s great for building confidence and releasing endorphins,” Zo persisted, excited.

When Marcie looked puzzled, Zo explained.

The happy hormone! And after all you’ve been through, you deserve some of that. Also, what else are you going to do tonight?

Marcie liked to walk. To stretch her legs out in wild green nature. She didn’t need a high-tech gadget to maximise her quad strength. But she was in London now, not Dorset. There were no cliffs to ramble, no trails to hike. What else was she going to do, other than wallow in self-pity? Spy on Brandon and his new girlfriend on Facebook? Nope.

Marcie groaned and heaved herself off the couch while Zo jumped up and down in excitement.

“Yay! You’ll love it, I promise. And I’ll even treat you to pizza afterwards. Sound good?”

“While you know I love cheese, doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” Marcie raised an eyebrow.

“Strong girls like double meat feasts, too.” Zo winked.

Marcie scuffed her muddy trainers on the pavement outside the entrance, stalling. They were the only item of clothing she was wearing that actually belonged to her. She was head to toe in some of Zo’s tamer attire: a baggy, pale pink T-shirt and leggings that she’d rolled up to fit her.

Brandon hadn’t packed her anything suitable for the gym – how thoughtless of him.

Nope, Marcie thought. This gym is going to be a Brandon-free zone.

“Come on, Mouse.” Zo smiled, throwing the door open and sprinting up the stairs towards the gym. It was as if she was excited to sweat.

Marcie took a deep breath and followed her, huffing a little by the time she reached the studio at the top.

She caught her breath in surprise; it wasn’t what she was expecting at all.

No giant soulless warehouse with harsh fluorescent bulbs bathing the sculpted specimens in crop tops with perfect lighting for their social media posts. Just an airy little room, with racks of purple weights and kettlebells lining one wall, a few rubber resistance bands and yoga mats hanging beside them. Five women chatted in a circle and waved as Zo bounced towards them, excitedly introducing Marcie.

The trainer, Gail, flashed a smile of perfect white teeth at her. Marcie shuffled awkwardly as the women spaced themselves out around the room, arranging their mats and stretching. They hadn’t started yet, and she was sweating.

“Let’s go, girls,” Gail announced to a communal whoop, as Shania Twain blasted through the speakers.

“One more, Marcie!”

“Go on, girl!”

“You’ve got this, honey!”

Her arms shuddered as she tried to push. Too tired to resist, she remembered all the times Brandon had preened and flexed when she’d asked him to open stubborn jars of gherkins for her, or lift the sofa so she could vacuum up crumbs.

Just the thought of Brandon drained Marcie and she collapsed to the floor, defeated. She lay face down, awaiting a sigh of disappointment from the fit onlookers. It didn’t come.

Come on, Mouse! One more and you’ll have smashed ten push-ups! You didn’t think you could do one!

Zo face, next to Marcie’s, was sweaty and proud. The rest of the women had gathered around and they too were beaming, offering encouragement.

From the floor, Marcie realised that each woman had her own exquisitely normal silhouette. They had curvy bits, and skinny bits, and wobbly bits, and entirely perfect imperfections that she hadn’t noticed before, hiding in plain sight below a transparent cloak of confidence and flattering activewear.

These gym goddesses were real women, just having fun and getting fit together. Nothing scary about this.

“You can do this, Mouse,” Zo whispered, the rest of the women chanting her name. Marcie’s arms trembled as they thrust her slender body up from the floor into a push-up, rounding off her set to a perfect ten.

Ecstatic, Zo piled on top of her best friend, wrestling her to the ground in a giant hug.

Marcie chewed her bottom lip as she walked. The route from the gym to her flat had become muscle memory over the three months she and Zo had lived (and worked out) together. She was even warming to the hot pink walls. Her sparkly new rose quartz geode did look gorgeous against them.

It was these pesky rocks that weighed on her mind though, as her front door came into view. She’d read the job description five times that morning, and thought of nothing else.

Geology Research Assistant at the British Museum – it was as if someone had strung the perfect job in the perfect museum for the perfect salary together on a piece of string and was dangling it in front of her. But she daren’t grab it.

She was a country mouse in a big city. A librarian from a village in Dorset with an amateur enthusiasm for fossils and rock formations. What if they turned her down? She’d be crushed.

Marcie was pulled from her internal struggle by the sight of two packages on the doorstep. One was eagerly expected: a new pair of gym leggings. They were grey (Marcie wasn’t ready for fluorescents yet), but they did have an orange stripe down the side.

There was another package, though. A hefty cardboard box took up the entire doorstep, a scrap of paper taped to the top. Marcie stooped and read the familiar scrawl.

Marce. You left a box at mine. It’s too expensive to ship, but thought you’d want your rocks back. Brandon.

Exasperated, she sighed aloud. “They’re geodes you cowardly –”

She gasped.

She stood there, box in hand. Upright. Her arms didn’t shake, her form was perfect. Not too long ago, she’d been unable to lift a different heavy box, but now she now stood strong, confident, managing the weight of it all on her own.

A little bit of time, perseverance and confidence had led to this incredible transformation – though three gym sessions a week with the support of her bestie helped too.

Marcie tucked the box under her arm and unlocked the front door, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

Five minutes later, she was wearing her new orange stripe leggings, relocking the door, and calling Zo on her phone.

Fancy meeting up for a pizza, Zo? I’ve just submitted my CV for the British Museum job. I want to celebrate with some molten cheese.

The fresh air of the Wye Valley might as well have been nitrous oxide for the giddiness it evoked in Marcie. She loved her new job at the museum, but she was glad when Zo agreed to a digital detox in the countryside. She needed to empty her mind of all the new and fascinating fossil research that had been consuming her life.

She leaned against a fence post as Zo trudged towards her across the boggy field, unable to match her pace.

“So much for no woman left behind!” she puffed.

Marcie stretched out her arm and pulled her friend into a half-hug. She’d always loved walking, but marvelled at how much her stamina had improved since she’d joined the gym with Zo.

“Don’t pity me,” Zo teased. “I’m only slower than you because these new wellies are giving me massive blisters!” She winced and shifted her weight between her pink stripey wellies, as they shared tea from a flask.

No time to rest, Zo. Let’s head back to the cottage before it gets dark.

Marcie started to squelch back across the muddy pitch.

“Mouse! Oh, no. Mouse, I can’t move!” Zo shrieked. “My wellies are stuck in the mud!”

“Can’t take you anywhere!” Marcie teased, as she grabbed her friend’s perfectly manicured hands and pulled, trying to lever her out of the sucking mud pit. But Marcie underestimated her newfound strength and pulled a little too hard, yanking Zo right out of her wellie!

Zo cannoned into Marcie, knocking them both to the muddy ground – a tumble that would have hurt if it hadn’t been so sludgy.

Mud oozed from the pair as they howled with laughter in a pile in the middle of the field. Too hysterical to get up, they used their fingers to draw cat whiskers on each other’s faces with mud, thereby polluting the only remaining bit of exposed skin.

It took about five minutes before Zo realised her boot was still stuck in the mud yards away, claimed by the squelchy depths. This threw them into another five minutes of laughter, before Marcie heaved herself to her feet.

She held out a hand to Zo, who grasped it, and tried to stand up using only her one-wellied foot.

“I’m working my quads harder out here in the countryside than we do in the gym!” Zo breathed as she tried to balance on one wellie. “Erm, Mouse . . . How on earth am I going to get back with one shoe?”

The pair went silent. While this mud was soft and squelchy, they’d trekked a good two miles or so across wild terrain and gravelly pathways, climbing over broken bracken.

“Mouse, I have no signal.” Zo looked panicked beneath her mud mask and cat whiskers.

“I doubt there are Ubers out here anyway, Zo,” Marcie joked. She took a breath and turned away from her friend. “Nothing for it then.”

“You’re leaving me here!” Zo shrieked, genuine panic in her voice.

Marcie shot her a hurt look.

Never! Get on, and I’ll piggyback you to the cottage.

Zo snorted, then winced, rubbing the back of her exposed ankle.

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Your blisters hurt when you laugh?” Marcie questioned.

“I feel things very deeply!” Zo insisted. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Marcie had turned away and dropped to a squat, bracing herself for the weight of her friend.

“Isn’t this what we’ve been training for?” Marcie challenged. “Come on, Zo, no woman left behind.”

Zo surrendered, sighed, and then clambered on to Marcie’s back.

Marcie’s arms looped around Zo’s legs, and her feet poked up towards the sky, one covered by a stripy welly, the other by a mud-drenched sock.

Slowly the pair waddled their way over the field and started to retrace their steps to the cottage.

“You’re stronger than you look. I’m going to have to start calling you Mighty Mouse!” Zo teased, clinging to Marcie’s shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t mind me hitching all the way back?”

“Well, it’s only fair,” Marcie assured her puzzled friend.