The Carnival Master

4.

Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen…

Andrea counted each one silently and focused on her breathing, each inhalation hissed through tight-drawn lips.

Sixteen… seventeen…

She had added two kilos to the bench press. If she did twenty reps, three sets, that would mean that by the end of her routine she would have lifted an extra one hundred and twenty kilos.

Eighteen… nineteen…

She felt the muscles around her jaw set hard with every push. No need for a facelift if you did this kind of thing. It was called radiated stress. The whole idea was that with each exercise you isolated one part of your body, one set of muscles, to maximise the benefit to that area. But the muscle and sinew of neck and jaw always strained under the effort. The first sign of someone beginning a weight work regime wasn’t on their bodies, it was in their face.

Twenty.

Andrea eased the bench press slowly back to its resting position. It was the great thing about multi-gym equipment: you didn’t need a spotter to buddy you through your routine. But Andrea knew that when it came to building bulk and definition, it was the free weight that worked best: the system used since the gymnasia of the Greeks and Romans. But using this high-tech equipment freed her from the need to engage with anyone else in the gym.

She took a slug of water from her bottle, sprayed the bench seat and back with anti-bacterial spray and wiped everything down. The etiquette of the gym. She liked coming at this time of night. It was always quiet. Few people, no noise, no chat. Even the usual dance-track muzak was switched off.

Andrea moved across to the leg-extension machine. She performed a set of stretches to elongate and align the tendons of her legs before adjusting the seat and the cushioned shin bar. She pulled the pin from where the last person had set it and added ten kilos.

One… two… three…

Andrea felt the tight tingle that she knew was the signal that lactic acid was being released into the muscle tissue to lubricate and ease strain. It felt good. Sensual. A thrill ran through her limbs and chest. She knew these feelings came from her endocrine system releasing endorphins to combat the pain.

Four… five… six…

Her thighs were good. They responded to each abduction with a rope-ripple of muscle beneath her dark tanned skin. Yes, she was happy with her thighs. Her abs were probably her best feature, along with the stone-carved definition of her arms. It was her glutes that she was still disappointed with: both her medials and maxes. She spent hours working on them, but seemed unable to rid herself of the sheath of soft fat that cloaked their musculature.

Ten… eleven…

Andrea had six months until the competition. She had a good chance this time round, but her glutes would let her down. She had to work them harder. She would do an extra hour’s running tonight. Anything to try to burn off the last vestiges of the old Andrea. Soft Andrea. She thought of the couple in the cafe. About the girl and how she had let her boyfriend talk to her, treat her. The anger she felt whenever she thought about it drove her on harder. Another lift.

Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…

Andrea scowled through the pain of the lifts as a man came into the gym. She caught him staring at her. She met his gaze and he turned away to start his warm-up on the treadmill. Andrea was used to people looking at her. Some, like the man who had just come in, did so with an expression of part awe, part revulsion. And some, of course, just like the little shit in the cafe, with disgust.

Fifteen… sixteen…

What Andrea liked most was that moment when some men looked at her and were totally confused about their own reactions. In those faces she read a mixture of distaste and confused lust. And, of course, there was the way women looked at her. Andrea was proud of the body and the face she had sculpted for herself. Andrea the Amazon. She had added to the impact of her physical presence by dying her thick mane of hair platinum blonde. And she always wore expensive make-up: deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow to emphasise the fire in her blue eyes.

Seventeen… eighteen…

It was one of those things that people didn’t like to talk about. That there were men who found a form like hers beautiful. Erotic. She had even been paid good money by Nielsen to pose nude. And, of course, there were the men who came to the competitions. Eager little men with eager little eyes.

Nineteen… twenty.

The last extension lift was tough and despite the restrainer across her thighs and the padded shin bar isolating the effort as much as possible, her whole body tensed and strained. Her neck and jaws became made of cable and wire; her arms, tensed against the lateral grips, tautened and swelled simultaneously. She saw the man looking at her again. This time he could not look away. It was there: the revulsion. But what was also written across his threatened expression was that he was looking at something awesome.

Something magnificent.