chapter 3: slow progress

Jade came back to the gym three or four nights a week, and I was convinced that she would start to make progress quickly. However, after a couple of weeks of regular workouts and weigh-ins, I was frustrated to find that she still hadn't lost an ounce. As I watched her lycra-clad body bounce and sweat on the running machine, I couldn't figure it out.

I gave her some encouragement as she finished her run: "That's it Jade, great stuff! Come on, push it, feel those calories burning off!"

When she had finished I let her slow the machine to a walk, and leant against its hand-rail to talk to her.

"Jade, I'm a little confused. Your workouts seem to be going really well, but you haven't lost any weight. Are you sure you're really sticking to the diet plan we agreed?"

She nodded, wide-eyed, still flushed and breathing heavily from her run. I continued, "It's just... well, that tummy doesn't seem to be getting any smaller." I reached over and patted her round belly to emphasise the point. "I guess we just need to work you harder."

I eyed her heaving frame, every curve straining against the tight workout clothes. A plump roll of love-handle peeked out where her shirt had ridden up. She was flushed red and panting like a dog; I wasn't sure how much harder she could really work.

"From now on, I want you to keep a food diary. It's not uncommon with people who are used to eating more, or snacking throughout the day, that they think they're sticking to their diet but actually are consuming more calories than they should. Just note down everything you eat and drink, and we'll review it together next week."

The week came and went, Jade brought me her food diary and I had her read it out to me. Apart from a couple of minor transgressions which she promised to fix, it didn't shed a lot of light on why she was still so fat. I was a bit stumped - I had never seen someone push themselves so hard in the gym and still fail to lose any weight.

As a couple more weeks went by, my frustration began to grow more and more. It's not my proudest professional moment, but I must admit I started to show my exasperation. The change to my encouragement during exercise was subtle and subconscious at first - instead of support ("Come on, you can do five more minutes") I started to edge towards mocking ("Is that the best you can do?"). And at weigh-in time, perhaps I read out her weight a little more loudly and allowed myself to show my disappointment in her ("Another week and you still haven't lost a single pound of fat, Jade").

If it started off as a subconscious change, I had soon rationalised it to myself. I read some studies about how certain people respond to different kinds of coaching. Maybe a little embarrassment was the additional spur she needed; maybe she needed to be challenged, not encouraged.

And so it got increasingly obvious and increasingly humiliating. As well as weighing her and measuring her fat with the callipers, I would carefully record the girth of her waist, belly and hips with a tape-measure. I started a wall-chart to track any developments, writing her precise weight and size up there for the world to see. She obeyed my instructions to wear tighter and skimpier workout clothes, ostensibly for the greater freedom of movement; really, I hoped that she would be ashamed of her stomach, boobs, love-handles and buttocks bulging out of the revealing tops and shorts which I sold her from the gym shop.

My verbal 'encouragement' also got more and more insulting. One day, when it was nearly closing time and Jade was reaching the end of a long workout session, it reached a peak. The fat girl was toiling and wobbling away on the cross-trainer, and I got a little carried away, shouting at her: "Come on, that's a pathetic effort! Don't you want to lose some of that blubber?" She was in no condition to speak, but nodded feebly as she jiggled away.

"Then try harder, big girl! Come on, unless every ounce of your flab's shaking, you're not working hard enough!"

Her plump breasts were bouncing wildly and her round gut had forced its way out between her top and the straining lycra shorts. It wobbled and swayed in front of her, shining with perspiration, as she worked away. She had already finished the planned cross-training programme but she panted and sweated even harder at my words, so I decided to keep on beasting her. "Come on, move that lardy butt! Is that all you've got, fatty?!"

I was really shouting, and everyone in the gym heard me call my client 'fatty'. There was a chorus of unconcealed laughter and Jade slowed to a halt on the machine, then turned her reddened face to me and burst into tears. Without a word she climbed off the machine and waddled as fast as she could into the changing room. The bottoms of her round butt-cheeks peeked cheekily out of her gym shorts, and that fat stomach was still jutting out, slick with sweat, its overhang bouncing over her waistband. The laughter subsided as she disappeared, sobbing, through the changing room door.