LAST CUBA LIBRE

TONY

I wake up at three in the afternoon. I don't even have lunch, I just have a huge breakfast: orange juice, coffee, soya-based protein supplement in yogurt (slimline of course) and three tablets of branched-chain amino acids to add muscle, since I'll be going to the gym later.

The Pentium is on. Suddenly someone calls on Messenger. It's Claudio.

I start chatting

Claudio writes:

Have fun last night?

Tony writes:

sure

Claudio writes:

Are you going out with Greta tonight?

Tony writes:

I have to

Claudio writes:

How are things with your cute fiancée

Tony writes:

Actually, we've been fighting for the last couple of months

Claudio writes:

How come

Tony writes:

Dunno... she says I'm getting lazy... that I've changed... the usual things...

Claudio writes:

What do you think?

Tony writes:

I try not to think

At five I slip on my Asics tracksuit and go to Fitness Time. I walk into the changing rooms and check the worksheet. Sally, my personal trainer, has increased my weights and brought my treadmill time up to twenty minutes.

I go into the gym, put my earphones in my ears and turn on my Mp3, fastening it to my belt. I listen to Aerosmith while I do ten minutes stretching, then I hang the towel on the back of the machine and start with the pectorals, three series of twenty, eighty kilos, and with the biceps, three series of ten with thirty kilos.

Lidia, a thirty-year-old bottle blonde that I haven't had yet, is doing cyclette and watching me while I do the exercises. I move onto the dorsals. Lidia takes one hand off the handlebar and gestures. I finish the series, panting from the effort, take out one of my earphones and ask, "What's up?"

"Your mobile was ringing," she says smiling.

"Oh, OK," I say taking the Nokia out of the outside pocket of my Nike duffel bag and I see it was Greta. I'll call her back to avoid any complications.

"You were strange yesterday evening," she says.

"What can I say?" I reply tiredly, watching Lidia pedalling the cyclette, her t-shirt damp with sweat clinging to a voluminous frontage.

"Is there something wrong?" she asks.

Silence for a few seconds. I choose the quickest and least painful way out. "Absolutely not!"

"Are you sure?"

Another silence. "I'm certain."

"OK," says Greta. Then she pauses. "Listen, I'm sorry. I'm pathetic."

"I love you," I say automatically, watching Lidia ever more carefully.

"Me too, darling. Well, speak to you later. Enjoy the gym."

I hang up and put my earphone back in. I start again with the dorsals, breathing in and breathing out. I finish them. I move onto the step, fundamental for tightening up the buttocks. The exercise is boring, but Robbie Williams with Escapology helps to pass the time.

Sally arrives. She smiles at me and goes over to check that a new enrolment is doing the exercises properly. She's wearing clinging grey shorts and Adidas gym shoes and she has a body to die for. Arse and legs without a sign of cellulite. I know what you're wondering. The answer is yes.

I move on to do the abdominals. I lie on the slanted bench, I fold my hands behind the nape of my neck and fit my feet into the foot straps. I come up with my back, one time, two times, up to fifty. I get up and do a bit more stretching. Lidia gets off the cyclette and comes over to me with a towel slung on her shoulder. I take out my earphone. Lidia asks me to show her my six-pack. I pull my t-shirt up to my armpits.

"Can I touch them?" asks Lidia.

"Sure."

Lidia puts her hand on my stomach, brushing the hairs under my navel, delicately feeling my perfectly sculpted abdominals, more in evidence than ever after the exercise.

"Congratulations," she says. "I just love abdominals."

"You can touch them any time you want," I say, winking.

I move over to the treadmill. I set the timer to twenty minutes, press the ON button and the belt starts moving faster and faster. Suddenly I press the OFF button, get off, take the Nokia out of my Nike bag and dial Greta's number.

"I don't think it's working out for us," I say.

"So, I was right. There was something wrong," she replies.

"Yeah, there was," is all I say.

At the other end of the line, Greta is silent. Then she hangs up. I walk backwards and forwards in the gym. I am dying for a cigarette, but I resist. I get onto the treadmill, press the start button and start running again.