A brush with fame at the Sandton Personal Training Gym

The Sandton Private Personal Training Gym is open from 6am till 9pm and offers a sanctuary from prying, celebrity-obsessed eyes for Johannesburg’s stars of stage, screen and sports field. It allows continuity announcers, soap villains, pop-rock vocalists and Golden Lions flyhalves the chance to ensure they look good in the public eye without actually being in the public eye.
So the Sandton Private Personal Training Gym allows Gillian Bogle to execute her 75 daily chest flies on the pec deck in a semblance of privacy, so she can stave off the inevitability of her mid-thirties boob job for another year.
Only a semblance of privacy, because the staff of the Sandton Private Personal Training Gym are not immune to bouts of starry-eyed stalkerism.
Take Butch. Here he is, stood in front of his client, the marketing manager for Fiat Auto South Africa, as he feels the burn on the leg-extension machine. “Seven… eight… nine… ten. Now hold the last one. Hold it… Okay, let’s move to the hamstring machine.”
Vacant as you please. But all the while just about popping an eyeball muscle as he strains to keep an eye on Gillian Bogle on the pec deck to his right.
Having a job that requires him to count to ten all day, every day, has Butch permanently in a state of self-hypnosis. But he’s not in such a deep trance that he can’t keep tabs on his favourite soap star of them all.
“Eight… nine… ten. Okay, let’s move.”
Gillian can feel the guy’s eyes. After five years on Metropole, she’s developed stalker radar. She can feel the eyes through the back of her head. She can smell a paparazzi camera at 30 metres. Being caught a couple of times in heat magazine stuffing a cream scone into your mouth, or pulling your panties out your arse will teach you that.
Meanwhile, in between the ten counts, Butch is getting his lines straight. “Hello. Ms Bogle? I’m Butch, I love your work on Metropole. I watch it every day. I’m also a bit of an actor myself, and I’ve written a screenplay. I’ve got it here in my gym bag, if you’d be interesting in having a read of it, I’d be thrilled to know what you think.”
That should probably do it. Now he just needs to choose a suitable moment, when she isn’t sweating too much, so he doesn’t embarrass her.
“Eight… nine… ten. Okay, let’s move to the squats machine.”
Her make-up is starting to run, so Gillian will have to make the arm curls her last exercise of the morning. And the massive black guy staring at her from across the gym is starting to freak her out too. Pretty soon he’s going to approach her.
She’s noticed him doing it before. And it would be fine, but sweaty in the gym is just not the state she prefers to conduct her gracious fan relations in.
As luck would have it, the clock clicks 11 just as Butch’s client completes his tenth squat. “Okay, thanks” he finds himself blurting out. “Go-do-your-warmdown-hit-showers-and-I’ll-see-you-next-week.”
A second later, he is striding across the stretching area towards Gillian Bogle. This time he is going to do it.
But she is heading for the change rooms already. Butch gives a little skip of acceleration and coughs, “Er, Ms Bogle. Hi there!”
But she pretends not to hear him. She is three metres away, and he is almost shouting, and she doesn’t even react. Just scurries into the ladies change room like she is trying to escape.
Even Schalk, the other trainer, hears him from across the gym. He is laughing at Butch. Gillian Bogle has made a fool of him. And all he wanted was five minutes of her time.
Maybe he can intercept her on her way out if he just lurks by the juice bar…
But just as Butch’s brief window of opportunity opens, it is rudely slammed shut.
“Ms Bogle,” he restarts his spiel… But just then, Chad Wilkins, presenter of Rukker on KykNet arrives at the gym.
“Excuse me,” says Gillian, and touches him on the wrist. “I just wanna speak to my friend.”
Then they both go outside the gym to chat. And Butch is left inside. He doesn’t get another chance. After that she gets into her Z3 and leaves.
What a bitch!
Butch grimaces at the insult. And growls a little, caressing his wrist where Gillian Bogle has touched him.