Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

*

The whole of Thursday passes without me hearing back from the dentist. I try not to let it bother me because it’s not as if I was dying to meet him in the first place. But it does bother me. It bothers the hell out of me, because I pushed my pride and dignity aside and actually filled out his blasted questionnaire. I wrote out my weight (well, my ‘approximate’ weight minus a few pounds) and rated my religiousness. I made myself look like a desperate fool in front of my younger sisters. And, after all that, he hasn’t bothered to acknowledge receiving it.

Maybe the actual test was seeing if I would be low enough to entertain his mind games. Maybe he’s only agreeing to meet women who don’t fill it in.

Whatever. Who needs him when I have sexy Mo the Money Maker keeping me company every night? Virtually, of course. I replied to him after the whole dentist palaver wound down, and we ended up texting until 2 a.m. It’s becoming a bit of a regular thing, and I’m dying to speak to him but he’s yet to call me or ask to meet up again.

Now that I think about it, it is a bit worrying, really. Why doesn’t he want to meet up with me? He’s mentioned that his previous relationship was a bit traumatic – without going into much detail – so I’ve been assuming he wants to take things slow. But what if that isn’t the case? What if he’s already got a girlfriend and I’m a side ting for a bit of a laugh?

I haven’t heard from Hamza either, not since he asked me out again and I told him I would get back to him. And I didn’t.

I feel so down about it all – Mo, the dentist and even Hamza – that on my way home from work, I find myself taking a detour and venturing into a world I have only witnessed on TV and read about in books. Somewhere so far out of my comfort zone that previously, the mere thought of entering one, let alone joining one, was enough to send me running for my duvet whilst clutching an extra-large Snickers bar.

All the way over here I’ve been telling myself that joining a gym has absolutely nothing to do with having to lie about my weight on that questionnaire. Nor is it about wanting to get married or the fact that my mum has started dropping hints about my weight gain. It’s about getting healthy – mind and body. It’s about feeling strong, inside and out. I’ve hidden inside baggy clothes for long enough and maybe it’s time to get my confidence back?

I have no idea what to expect when I walk through the shiny, smudge-free glass doors and fearfully take a few furtive glances around. On one side, I see a room full of skeletal exercise bikes, on another I see an empty studio surrounded by mirrors and, in the distance, I see a bunch of scary-looking machines that I know I will never be able to work out how to use.

A couple of women walk past me in leggings and vest tops, showing off their perfect derrieres and toned legs. I picture myself panting away in a baggy tracksuit on one of those machines while my various bits and pieces jiggle around and everyone sniggers.

I haven’t started exercising yet and I’m already sweating. What on earth was I thinking, coming here? I should exercise in the privacy of my own home, where no one cares if there are wobbly bits flapping around; or that I have sweat dripping from every inch of exposed skin; or that I forgot to shave my legs, so my ankles look like they’re wearing fur scarves.

‘Hi, can I help you?’

A voice startles me just as I’m about to slink out, and I turn around to see the hottest guy ever behind the reception counter. My jaw drops. I don’t know if I can bring myself to talk to this creature, he is that beautiful. Not only does he have a face that belongs on America’s Next Top Model, his muscled arms are gorgeously smooth and brown and I can see his sculptured abs through his tight black T-shirt.

I’m so astounded by his beauty that, for a moment, I lose all my senses and when I open my mouth to speak next, an American accent comes out.

‘Uh, I’m just having a look around,’ I croak in said accent, giving him a shaky smile and quickly averting my gaze before he sees the lust in my eyes.

‘Well, if you’re thinking of joining, let me give you a quick tour,’ he says gamely, before sauntering over to me and standing so close that I can smell his magnificent aftershave.

Oh. My. God. My heart starts dancing a jig and I somehow mumble something coherent, while trying to stop my pupils from turning into hearts.

‘So where in the States are you from?’ he asks me genially as he starts showing me around the gym. Good question. Where am I from? I can’t think of anything!

‘Um, Sweet Valley,’ I say in the end, because nothing else comes to mind but the fictional town I spent years reading about as a teenager.

‘Sounds like a cool place,’ he says innocently and I nod in agreement, feeling a bit sick. What the hell is wrong with me? What if he looks it up and knows I lied?

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. I barely absorb a thing he says as he shows me the various workout rooms, the pool, the spa facilities and juice bar. All I do is give him sidelong glances when he’s looking the other way and try my best not to drool. I do, however, notice that he isn’t the only good-looking man in these ends. There’s one over there at the machine that you run on, there’s another down by those big weight thingies, and there’s one coming out of the changing rooms. They are absolutely everywhere. I pinch myself to see if this is some sort of twisted, yet beautiful, dream. Ouch. OK, this is definitely real then.

Forget going to Muslim matchmaking events, why have I never thought about joining a gym to find a husband? Well, probably because I’m horrifically un-athletic. But who said I have to work out that hard anyway? I can casually stroll on the running machine and watch the scenery as it goes by.

It’s no surprise that in my intoxicated state, I find myself signing a contract and I have absolutely no idea what it’s about. I could have signed away my kidneys, for all I know. But they can bloody well have them if it means I can stare at talent like – hang on, what’s his name? – Jordan every day. In my daze, I also sign up for five personal training sessions with the man himself.

I’m so excited about my newfound discovery that I text my sisters to tell them what I’ve done. Yasmin replies immediately, asking for evidence so, when Jordan is busy putting together my welcome pack behind the vast reception desk, I discreetly take a photo of him.

‘I need your emergency contact number,’ he says, coming over to me with my joining gift of a towel, water bottle, headphones and rucksack.

‘Sure, I’ll give you my mom’s, hold on a sec while I pull it up,’ I reply, giving him a dazzling smile.

Now that I’m slowly getting used to his beauty, I have relaxed in to my American voice and can finally look him in the eyes without my knees buckling. I unlock my phone to get my number out, and there, on my extra-large screen, is the picture I took, right in Jordan’s line of vision. I quickly close the gallery and glance over at him, praying he didn’t notice. His amused expression tells me he has.

I feel the blood rush to my face as I struggle to think of a legitimate reason why I would have his picture in my phone. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to my head.

‘You look like a famous Bollywood actor,’ I say, my eyes wide with innocence. ‘I thought I’d take a picture and show my grandma.’

‘I do?’ he asks, his own eyes twinkling. ‘No one’s ever told me I look Indian before.’ I’m not surprised. He’s obviously mixed-race, with his honey-coloured complexion, dark brown tight curls and cool grey eyes that you want to swim laps in.