Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

Not that I want to disclose too much personal stuff, but I’m a bisexual woman with an active sex life, and I know that this very fact makes me a target of interest for an avaricious media and public. Help! If you’re ever in SoBe, look me up!

Best wishes on your continued success,

Lucy Brennan

To: questions@jillianmichaels.com

From: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

Subject: I Know It’s a Long Shot, But. .

. . on the off chance that you do answer emails personally, I’d like to start by saying that you are numero uno, top of the pile, exactly where I want to be. I’m not going to give you all this creepy “I’m your biggest fan” stuff — I suspect you’ve had your fill of that — but what I will say is that you are a massively inspirational figure in my life.

Jillian, I too am a personal trainer, a zealous warrior against the horrendous plague of obesity which is swamping our nation in blubber. I’ve recently become a bit of a media celebrity myself, having disarmed a gunman on the Julia Tuttle Causeway, right here in Miami Beach. I’ve had a lot of media attention as a result, with a cable-television company anxious to strike up a deal. I was wondering if it would be possible to pick your brains about the benefits and potential pitfalls of TV stardom.

Not that I want to self-disclose too much, but I’m a bisexual woman with an active sex life, and I know that this very fact makes me a target of interest for an avaricious media and public. Help! If you’re ever in SoBe, look me up!

Best wishes on your continued success,

Lucy Brennan

I’M UP AT 7:07 with the sunrise, as I am every morning at this time of the year. It’s like a freakin switch. I can’t sleep when the sun’s up; even if I’m in a darkened, shuttered room without a chink of light, my body knows . So I’m into my workout clothes, stretching out, then pounding the sidewalks of South Beach. I see a couple of runners up ahead, a guy and chick, but I’m easily catching those mofos, then leaving their fake asses for dead. I bomb into Flamingo Park, where I stop at the bars to knock off four sets of fifteen pull-ups and chin-ups. I get back to my place on Lenox and shower, then take the Caddy up to Soho Beach House to see Valerie Mercando. We’re having a breakfast meeting at the back patio. I get there early as I wanted to see this joint, and I’m highly impressed. This will be the new Brennan hangout!

Valerie Mercando comes in, shielding her eyes against the morning glare, older than I imagined from her highish phone voice. She’s dressed in a light blue power suit, radiating a cool which says “I can do sass, but right now I really want to get down to serious business,” kind of like a Latina Oprah.

This is my beeyatch , of that I’m sure.

At my recommendation, she orders the same breakfast and insists on paying for both, and we get a table outside. Valerie, putting her shades back on, tells me that Thelma sent all the details for the show on to her. — Conceptually, I think it’s sound enough, but that is for you to decide. Financewise, I think they’ve come in a little low. .

— I’ve got to confess, I haven’t seen any offer.

— Didn’t you open the attachments?

— Not yet, I admit, having overlooked them and feeling a bit of an asshole. — You have to appreciate that this is all happening very quickly for me.

— Yes, it must be quite overwhelming. But at this stage I just want to say two crucial things: one, sign nothing. .

— I hear you.

—. . and two, do you want me to come along to the meeting this afternoon? I’m happy to do this, and act on your behalf on an interim basis. There’s no pressure on you to formally engage me, and if you go for somebody else, I’d happily brief them. Obviously, though, we’d love to work with you.

— Look, I’m convinced. You’re a straight shooter, so am I. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already earned your 10 percent, I tell her, feeling a thump inside at my use of the term straight shooter, which came from one of Mom and Lieb’s management books.

We shake hands and talk nonstop for over an hour. As we start to vibe, so Valerie’s tone becomes less businesslike and more open. — Camera crews are always chasing the cops. Be prepared for that kind of intrusion for around two weeks, she says, when I tell her about the media fuckers, — then it’ll be like it never happened, unless some other development puts it back in the news.

— It feels like it’s kinda over already.

— Don’t worry. You have something real to sell. Heroism is an unusual quality these days, we don’t see a lot of it. We try and tout our military, then have the Pentagon practically admit it’s also a hotbed of rapists and psychos. But individuals who can step up to the plate, they really capture the imagination.

— I agree.

Then she breaks into a little giggle. — Some say we’ve got a lot to answer for in TV, especially reality television. Let me be frank. She drops her voice. — I came into this game wanting to do quality stuff, but there’s just no demand. People are so scared, dumbassed, and pliable, they just switch over if they feel challenged, into a world of useless parasites like Paris or the Kardashians, who have money. They want to either imagine themselves in that circle, or just see them get fucked.

— For sure, I nod. Hell, I like this woman, she doesn’t pull punches.

— So we’re crying out for a real hero. Therefore you’ll be getting a lot of attention, and she lets a sly glance sweep over me, — though I don’t suppose that will be a problem!

For a second or two I wonder if this dirty bitch is flirting with me, but quickly dismiss the notion. — One of the things about looking fit is that the damaged goods tend to leave you alone, I explain. — But this is South Beach, so you’re never too far away from a cocky asshole, or self-absorbed douchebag.

— Well, be aware that people are obsessed with celebrity. If you suddenly find yourself on the psycho radar, call me, she offers. For some reason, that fat little Julia Tuttle Causeway chick with the bangs and grotesque chin strap flashes into my mind.

Sorenson.

Valerie cracks a smile, albeit a slightly uncomfortable one. She’s an agent to her fingertips. — Right, she rises, — I’ll see you at the channel this afternoon.

— Wow, I’m so looking forward to it.

I walk Valerie outside as the valets get our cars. We shake again on the deal.

From the sublime to the ridiculous: when I get to Bodysculpt, Marge Falconetti is waiting for me, a lost look on her face. With most clients, and mine are almost exclusively women, you try to find the key. Is it sex: wanting to be seen as attractive, to get some fucking pipe laid? Is it their kids: staying alive, fit and active, and becoming a positive role model for them so they can see them grow up, and meet their grandchildren? Is it fear of the Grim Reaper: has the doc said, lose the fucking blubber suit, or else? With those ones you still have to force them toward progress, but at least you have some kind of handle. With Falconetti, though, it is simply wanting her crappy lifestyle maintained. All I have to do is to keep the scheming bitch on this side of type 2 diabetes so that no medical crisis upsets the apple cart. Seeing me three times a week for an hour gives her approval to sit on the couch watching her soaps, throwing potato chips into her mouth. She doesn’t want to change, she wants me to validate what she’s was doing. At $75 per session, I am perfectly prepared to offer damage limitation, to go through motions and try to keep her flabby ass from uncontrolled expansion.

But there are some delusions that need to be shattered. After all, I’m a fucking professional. — Losing weight will not help you fight type 2 diabetes, Marge. If you’re prediabetic, you have to do what the doctor says with your diet.