his reach. Not even the elite public boys’ school she had sent him to when his parents had died, a historical institution where he could so easily have sunk, instead of swum, were it not for his intimidating height, his strangely attractive bald head (a result of falling out of a tree at ten), and his sporting abilities.
‘What if someone needs to know where you are?’ asked Poppy, picking up her iPhone. It was amazing how people couldn’t seem to function unless they were ringing or texting or emailing. Danger to them was a poor audience rating or a broken fingernail – not a burned out body on the field and the roar of gunfire.
Calm down, calm down.
Winston selected a clove of garlic from the dish in front of him and chewed it carefully. A clove a day kept you in tip-top condition; it was a tip on his website.
But clean your teeth afterwards, especially if planning close contact with someone!
‘Need to know where we are?’ he repeated. ‘Simply tell them we’re incommunicado.’ Forcing himself, he gave Poppy one of his brilliant smiles that the camera loved so much. ‘And by the way, I won’t always have my mobile on.’
Her eyes flickered. ‘But what if I need you urgently?’
Winston took a swig of warm water with a slice of lemon and grated ginger. Fantastic for the circulation. Another tip on his website.
‘Poppy, if I was in a coma, would you be able to ask me something important?’
‘No, but …’
He felt his smile growing tight. ‘Remember? No buts. Just
toned
butts.’
That was another of his
Work Out With Winston
slogans. The audience loved them.
If someone had told him a few years ago that he was going to have his very own breakfast television show, advising the nation how to tone up their pecs and abs
and
the rest, he’d have laughed in their face. He was a Royal Marine, not a fitness clown. Or at least, he had been a Green Beret until signing his release papers, just after his thirty-fifth birthday, when the horrors of war had finally got to him.
Block it out, Winston told himself fiercely. It was the only way to survive.
After getting out, he’d met up with a former batch mate who was working as a fitness instructor for an exclusive health club in London. ‘You ought to do the same, mate,’ said the man, who was more of a colleague than a friend. Winston didn’t do friends; it wasn’t good to let someone get too close. His parents’ early death had taught him that. ‘The money’s great, and you won’t believe the celebrities I come across. There’s …’
But Winston wasn’t bothered about big names. It was a job he needed. Something regular that could help him obliterate the images that had been indelibly stamped on his mind over the years. So many stories, so many lives, some of which he’d been able to save and others where it had been impossible. The little girl desperately screaming at him for help, before the sniper’s crack felled her to the dusty ground. The burning shack where he had instructed his men to stay outside while, ignoring his own safety, he had stumbled in to drag out a woman screaming for her children. The kid with one leg who followed them around, pleading with them to take him home. ‘UK good place. This bad.’ The screaming masses who spat at them, who blew up the tanks, who would cut their throats if they could – and did.
Not to mention Nick. Always Nick. Sitting on his shoulder. Cemented into his memories.
Initially, when he’d returned to the UK, Winston had still expected someone to take a potshot at him. It took every ounce of strength not to jump if a car backfired or a siren screamed in his ear. At times, he loathed London with its crowds and shop windows full of clothes and unnecessary stuff for the house, with crazy price tags. How he despised all those self-centred people, obsessed with buying things to make themselves ‘happy’ when there was a whole world out there, just trying to survive.
At other times, he marvelled
‘What if someone needs to know where you are?’ asked Poppy, picking up her iPhone. It was amazing how people couldn’t seem to function unless they were ringing or texting or emailing. Danger to them was a poor audience rating or a broken fingernail – not a burned out body on the field and the roar of gunfire.
Calm down, calm down.
Winston selected a clove of garlic from the dish in front of him and chewed it carefully. A clove a day kept you in tip-top condition; it was a tip on his website.
But clean your teeth afterwards, especially if planning close contact with someone!
‘Need to know where we are?’ he repeated. ‘Simply tell them we’re incommunicado.’ Forcing himself, he gave Poppy one of his brilliant smiles that the camera loved so much. ‘And by the way, I won’t always have my mobile on.’
Her eyes flickered. ‘But what if I need you urgently?’
Winston took a swig of warm water with a slice of lemon and grated ginger. Fantastic for the circulation. Another tip on his website.
‘Poppy, if I was in a coma, would you be able to ask me something important?’
‘No, but …’
He felt his smile growing tight. ‘Remember? No buts. Just
toned
butts.’
That was another of his
Work Out With Winston
slogans. The audience loved them.
If someone had told him a few years ago that he was going to have his very own breakfast television show, advising the nation how to tone up their pecs and abs
and
the rest, he’d have laughed in their face. He was a Royal Marine, not a fitness clown. Or at least, he had been a Green Beret until signing his release papers, just after his thirty-fifth birthday, when the horrors of war had finally got to him.
Block it out, Winston told himself fiercely. It was the only way to survive.
After getting out, he’d met up with a former batch mate who was working as a fitness instructor for an exclusive health club in London. ‘You ought to do the same, mate,’ said the man, who was more of a colleague than a friend. Winston didn’t do friends; it wasn’t good to let someone get too close. His parents’ early death had taught him that. ‘The money’s great, and you won’t believe the celebrities I come across. There’s …’
But Winston wasn’t bothered about big names. It was a job he needed. Something regular that could help him obliterate the images that had been indelibly stamped on his mind over the years. So many stories, so many lives, some of which he’d been able to save and others where it had been impossible. The little girl desperately screaming at him for help, before the sniper’s crack felled her to the dusty ground. The burning shack where he had instructed his men to stay outside while, ignoring his own safety, he had stumbled in to drag out a woman screaming for her children. The kid with one leg who followed them around, pleading with them to take him home. ‘UK good place. This bad.’ The screaming masses who spat at them, who blew up the tanks, who would cut their throats if they could – and did.
Not to mention Nick. Always Nick. Sitting on his shoulder. Cemented into his memories.
Initially, when he’d returned to the UK, Winston had still expected someone to take a potshot at him. It took every ounce of strength not to jump if a car backfired or a siren screamed in his ear. At times, he loathed London with its crowds and shop windows full of clothes and unnecessary stuff for the house, with crazy price tags. How he despised all those self-centred people, obsessed with buying things to make themselves ‘happy’ when there was a whole world out there, just trying to survive.
At other times, he marvelled
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