The Carnival Master

4.

Andrea waited. Her head thudded with a headache brought on by deliberate dehydration: she had slashed her fluid intake over the last week to a cupful of water a day so that her body would burn the slightest reserve of fat to keep hydrated. There were half a dozen chairs in the dressing room but she sat on none. This was not the time to rest. It was the time to switch on every cubic millimetre of her body; to hard-wire her will into her flesh. Her heart hammered and electricity coursed through every sinew, every nerve, every swollen fibre. Andrea had pumped up with dumbbells five minutes ago, but now she ran through her routine, the poses she would strike on the stage, each an exposition of a specific muscle set. It wasn’t that Andrea needed to rehearse to get it right: it was that running through them ensured the optimal muscle tone.

First the mandatory poses: Double Front Bicep, Front Lat Spread, Abdominals and Thighs – one of Andrea’s best, because of the definition of her serratus anterior and obliques – Side Chest, Side Triceps, Rear Double Bicep. Then was the weak spot in Andrea’s routine, when she had to turn her back on the judges to do her Rear Lat Spread. It was then that the lack of definition on her glutes let her down. But she had put a lot of thought into the outfit she was performing in: it made the most of the lateral sweep of her shoulder-to-hip taper, drawing focus from her glutes. Her last mandatory would be the Most Muscular. From that she would segue straight into Crab Most Muscular, her first optional pose.

She heard the cheers of the crowd. The British Bitch had finished her set and it sounded like it had been a good one. Whistling. Stamping. The crowd bellowing. Calling Maxine the British Bitch wasn’t an insult, it was Maxine’s professional nickname, just as Andrea’s was Andrea the Amazon. Andrea and Maxine had taken part in a number of competitions together. When Andrea had done a tour of England, Maxine had put her up in Nottingham and Maxine would be staying at Andrea’s flat tonight. They had trained together. They had put on non-competitive exhibitions together. They were friends.

Except on the competition podium. On the podium you had no friends. Out there you needed no one and nothing except raw adrenalin and aggression. Anger, even. All hidden behind the broadest, brightest, most brainless grin. Out there, Andrea’s friend Maxine became simply the British Bitch. The one to beat.

Andrea heard more cheers as the next competitor was up. She would follow her. She needed the aggression. The anger. Andrea knew where to find the anger: it was a switch she could turn on at will. All she had to do was remember. As Andrea waited to be called to do her routine she allowed the raw fire of her hate and anger to fill her body in huge surges.

The knock came and one of the exhibition-hall staff swung wide the door for Andrea to exit. It was like a lion being released into the Colosseum. As Andrea the Amazon took long powerful strides past the attendant she heard a defiant, animal roar. And realised she was hearing her own voice.