Changing Room Epiphany
Copyright© 2026 by PostScriptor
Chapter 4
Ollie was back sitting with Ben Travis in his office. Ben poured a small glass of single malt scotch for each of them.
“Cheers!” he said as he lifted his glass and took a small sip.
“Read your review of “Hamilton” in the Guardian. You weren’t overly kind to them,” Ben observed.
“I wasn’t overly harsh, either. They weren’t bad or outstanding. I think that they have been showing up every night and doing their thing and have gotten a bit tired of it by now. Lacked energy. It didn’t help that the main characters in the story were all being played by their understudies that night. We were promised a rather premier cast and got the second team.”
Ben nodded, “I see what you mean. Well anyway, on to the main event: you have your story of naked women, men on steroids and all of them gawking at each other done?”
Ollie handed over a flash drive.
“It’s all on here. So, what is the plan? When is it going to run?”
Ben had a smirk on his face.
“Well, I have a surprise for you. Your article is going to be the centerpiece, but we have increased the scope. It’s going to spread over a couple pages.”
That startled Ollie a little, and he hope that it wasn’t going to result in something that would disappoint him. Ben sensed his confusion and concern.
“Ollie, you’re going to love what we are doing. Guaranteed.
“First, we tracked down other people who left the gym for the same reason that you did, and we have short interviews with them as well as photos. We ALSO sent out one of our star phototogs who took photos of various people going in and out of the gym—a couple of MPs, some BBC news readers, a couple of actors and actresses, and even a few minor aristos! And the frosting on the cake, our guy got into the gym and took photos of the changing rooms when no one was about and a few when there were some of the beautiful people there. A shame that we have to block their faces and naughty bits. This is going to be fabulous.”
Ben’s enthusiasm even had Ollie grinning. It was going to be a bloodbath.
The meeting of Marc, Jean and Ella took place in Jean’s private office.
Jean started the conversation.
“I understand that Marc has made you familiar with our plans to expand GITC, first into select cities in the UK and then in places on the Continent. I also understand that he has mentioned that we would like you to participate in the process.”
“Yes,” Ella replied, “Although we hadn’t talked about the details of what you would want my role to be.”
Jean nodded her head in affirmation.
“If we make you a partner, which would be our intention, then there are two distinct tasks that we would ask of you.
“The first is for you to help us with our strategic plan. Not by bringing in your company, but your effort. We cannot, at least at this time, afford to hire your group, so that your assistance would be solely on you. We can’t pay you for it at this time, but it would be part of how you would buy into the partnership. Is that possible?”
Ella pondered what Jean had proposed for a little while before answering.
“I could, as an equity owner, provide strategic assistance, so long as the firm was informed that I was doing it, and that I was doing it on my own time. That would require that I keep time records that I could use to show that I was keeping a strict separation between hours working on this project versus hours worked for the firm.”
“As for the compensation, I understand that would be deferred until the company came to the point where I could be paid.”
“Great,” Jean said.
“The second issue is investment into the GITC expansion plan.
“When we formed the partnership, Marc put in his existing gym business, that was appraised at around £300,000. I brought £300,000 cash into the business to renovate, modernize and market the existing business.
“The question is: how much could you bring into the partnership? It wouldn’t have to be all yours, although some would. Could you use your contacts in the business to raise the funds? That would include investors, banks, or anything else you can think of.”
“Have you laid out a business plan already? Because that would be an important, indeed necessary, thing to present to investors. As for me, I could probably put in £50,000 from my own funds almost immediately, and more once I track down the prodigal husband.”
“We have a rudimentary draft of a business plan for the expansion, and if you commit to the project, one of the first things you will do is to review it and prepare a final version of the plan.
“Just to be upfront: the £50,000 is a reasonable deposit, but you will need to bring in a great deal more. In fact, you will be the final word on just how much we will need,” Jean stated flatly.
“I can add more from my personal assets, but I think that Marc is tapped out. The gym is breaking even, and Marc is getting a salary, but I am not yet, just so you know.”
Ella looked at the two of them.
“Fine. Give me the plan as it is and give me a week to review it, and we can make some decisions from there.”
The meeting broke up with everyone in a mildly optimistic frame of mind.
As Marc and Ella walked down the hall towards the back entrance, where Marc had parked his car, Jean called to him.
“Marc, before you leave could I speak to you about that machine that was acting funny today?”
Marc looked at Ella, “Go ahead to the car. I’ll be right behind you.”
He returned to the doorway of Jean’s office.
“What machine acting funny?”
“That was just an excuse. I want you to keep on working on Ella, tell her how you like to watch a little woman on woman sex. When we bring her into the partnership, I think I’ll want a three-some; I want her licking me.”
Marc smiled and shook his head with a smile. God, Jean was ravenous.
But, as Bobby Burns said, the best laid plans o’ mice and men are aft gang agley, and that would be the fate of the trio.
The next morning, Ollie was sitting in his new flat’s kitchen at the island, enjoying the view out his window, sipping coffee when he checked for messages. There were ten more from Ella that he declined to hear, but one from someone who alarmed him, a private dick called ‘Humble’ Jones.
He would periodically use ‘Humble’ to do investigative work. Humble was his nickname — Horace was his real name, ‘me folks loved Roman ‘istory and named me after some poet’. But his nickname came about because he was one of those people who were almost invisible to others when they wanted to be. An excellent thing if you were tailing someone to an illicit rendezvous.
He called him back immediately.
“Humble?” he asked when the phone picked up.
“So who’s askin for ‘umble’” came the reply.
“It’s me, Ollie. I got the message that you called.”
“Hey mate, glad you called back. I needed to tell you sumpin’
“I got me a call the other day from some bird, I fink maybe your missus, wanting me to tracks you down. I guess you flew the coup wifout letting her know.”
Humble laughed at that. He’d had on several occasions ‘flown the coup’ on women who became too demanding.
“Anyway, she was looking for a Sherlock to find you, and someone gave ‘er my number. I put ‘er off and tolt her I was too busy on a case right now. But I fink she’s gonna find someone to poke into your business. I thought you might want to know.”
“Humble, I appreciate your telling me. I suspect you’re right. I’m kind of separated from the old ball-and-chain right now, and I cleaned out the stash on my way out the door. She’s probably feeling a bit short of readies right now and wants to give me the squeeze.
“Tell you, old lad, I’ll pop £50 quid to you for giving me the heads up so I don’t get ambushed.”
“That’s kind of you, Ollie. You’ve always been one o’ the good’ens.”
Ollie hung up and thought about the implications.
Despite what he had told Humble, Ella had plenty of her own money. She could pay her own way for quite a while.
If she was willing to put out the cost of using a PI to find him, it meant that she was being pulled (in more than one way, he laughed to himself) into investing it the expansion of the gym.
He suspected that she had been squirrelling money into a secret account, at least since she got her promotion. She had been quite closed about her wages since she was hired by the consulting group. She had upped her spending on clothes, and she had contributed to the household account during that time, but she might have put away as much as £100,000.
Ollie knew that eventually he would have to be in touch with her, but for her to invest in the gym now would be a disaster. At least until the article on the gym came out exposing their unusual practices. If they survived that, then at least a part of the money was hers to invest and lose, but that decision would be entirely on her head.
Ollie pondered on what he should do. He couldn’t help it if a PI was researching him online, but that info was all open anyway. The things he had done recently were supposedly private, but the nature of things was they would eventually come out. Not immediately, though.
He concluded that what he needed to do was just hide out in his new digs until after paper slammed the GITC, just a couple of days ahead.
Ollie’s next act was to call his new friend, Donna. She could help him stay in the new place for a couple of days.
Donna came over within the hour.
“Okay, Ollie, what do we need?”
He gave her the shopping list of eats that would last him through the weekend. She looked at it for a moment and then spoke,
“My oh my. This won’t do.”
“Why not?” Ollie asked, sincerely perplexed.
“There’s not nearly enough for the two of us to hole up in your flat.”
“The two of us?”
“Yes. You did ask me to come by to help you hide out for the weekend, n’est-ce pas?”
“Mais oui. But I was expecting to be alone. Not that I would complain if you wanted to stay. Do you?”
“Of course, my dear man. Didn’t you notice?”
She walked to the front door, opened it, and pulled a small travel suitcase into the house. Then she started laughing.
“You should have seen your face when I brought in my necessities to make it through the weekend. The shock! Did you expect me to wear just one outfit the whole time?”
“Truthfully, I had no expectations at all. But now I’m struck dumb with the thrill of anticipation!”
Ollie explained to Donna why he was trying to keep out of sight; his wife trying to find him, and that he felt that the new flat was at least for the time being a ‘safe house’.
With that understanding, they sat down at the table and revised the list. Donna didn’t just increase the quantities, but she also added a number of things to the list that Ollie had missed.
“There we are,” she said, as Ollie handed a couple hundred in cash and she left to stock up the larder, “We will see you anon. Now keep your head down low.”
Ella’s PI was a bit mystified. He knew Ollie (as many of his profession did) and he was finding neither hide nor hair of him at any of his known hangouts. Nothing was showing up on his internet sources either. He concluded that Ollie didn’t want to be found, because it was as if he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Well, London, at least. He’d gone to ground and maybe left the city for a while.
~&~
It was a special section in the Sunday edition.
“Gym in the City, GITC”, it ran, “The new place for the Elite to meet is Rated ‘R’.
In smaller type, “Is it for exercise or for Exhibitionists, Voyeurs and Pulling?”
Ollie wrote the piece relating his own experience, but in the third person, as if he had been an observer, not a participant, not the butt of the joke.
He was fair about the positive things that GITC provided, the newly remodeled facility, the new, more modern equipment. Its location, not actually ‘in the City, but not far away — still, it would be convenient for the investment bankers, financial gurus, and other riffraff that worked in that hallowed Square Mile. He also mentioned that GITC was pricier than similar gyms a little further out.
On the other hand, Ollie wrote about the shock of a person discovering that they were expected to share the most private spaces, the changing rooms and showers, with members of the opposite sex, whether one wished to or not. It was embarrassing and awkward for people who were coming to the gym because they weren’t in the best shape, or whose bodies were sub-par. That the young and fit at the gym seemed to have a certain glee at mocking and deriding the less fit, only made matters worse. What woman wanted her small breasts or stomach that extended due to childbirth on display to these cruel people? What man with his beer belly, flabby arms and chest, and especially if he had a small penis, wanted the fit group, men and women, to harp on his flaws and his ‘short comings’?
Plus, there was the ultimate sin: fit members of the gym staff hitting on the spouses of members right in front of them.
The hint that the gym was trying to raise money by seducing wealthy members to expand into a chain, no direct accusations, just the inference, was deadly.
Olle’s article, in total, ripped the GITC apart.
Ben Travis had promised Ollie that the hit was going to be far worse and indeed it was.
One middle aged woman (anonymous) told her story of finding herself shamed and humiliated when she realized, while naked in the showers, that it wasn’t just women but young men as well who were suddenly sharing the space. A young, fit model, who allowed her name to be used, told her story of being sexually harassed and propositioned the first time she came to the gym. She never returned.
The worst, though, was provided by the photos of people entering the gym, several members of Parliament, a BBC television personality, fashion models, and other celebrities. Photos taken outside of the gym, their faces could be shown; the faces inside in the changing room and showers were blurred to cover the faces and the naughty bits, while the interactions of the naked people still told the story. Showoffs, peepers, pervs and pick-ups in living color.
Before the end of the day, the GITC was a major scandal, with MP’s demanding to know which bureaucrats had allowed this entity to exist. Several of the people whose photos had been caught as they entered the building were going on record that they had only gone into reconnoiter and weren’t actual members. No one really believed them.
Ben and the publishers were thoroughly delighted. The edition was sold out across the city, and they were even reprinting the special report to sell as a stand-alone.
Marc and Jean were hiding in their flats, not showing their faces to the journalists waiting outside to pepper them questions and take photos of the now notorious owners of GITC.
~&~
The period preceding the article was far more pleasant for Ollie and Donna.
Donna, who Ollie was by now calling ‘Red’, a term of endearment, could come and go, since she wasn’t particularly tied to Ollie at that time, and she continued to keep her estate sales business up and running. In the evening, though, she was back with Ollie, and they were making dinner together, watching their favorite shows, and gradually things progressed on the sexual front.
It really wasn’t fair to Ollie. As a man, how could he be expected to fend off the charms and wiles of a determined woman?
Indeed, Donna had liked Ollie from the start, and she had gone long in-between love interests. Spending dinner and the evening with him as he reviewed ‘Hamilton’ had given her a great deal of pleasure and she was convinced that she wanted to at least spend time with him to see if there was anything there.
She stayed over the Friday night before the hit on GITC was published and although Ollie tried to resist her charms, “I’m still married, even if I’m estranged from Ella,” but it would be a stronger man than Ollie who could say no when she disappeared into the en suite and walked back out au natural, wearing only her high heels.
The next day-and-a-half was not spent exclusively in bed, but she certainly helped restore Ollie’s belief that he was a sexually attractive man.
She did initially find his back brace a little curious, but when he explained why had was wearing it, she was amazingly supportive.
“After all,” she stated, “aren’t women’s brassieres doing much the same? Keeping our girls up high on our chests and improving their shape for our male admirers?”
Ollie laughed, “Rest assured, Red, your bosom needs no improvements!”
~&~
The Sunday of reckoning, Marc was up first and making a pot of coffee when he got a call from Jean.
“Marc, have you seen the papers yet this morning?”
“No, why?”
“Your little bimbo’s man has just destroyed us.”
“What has he done?”
“Get a copy of this morning Daily Blade and take a look,” then she hung up.
Marc pulled on some sweats and a shirt and ran across the street to a kiosk that sold all the papers and magazines.
“Oh, Mr. Marc,” the old Pakistani man who worked the mornings at the stand said, recognizing him.
“I think that you will be wanting this!” He stood there with the Daily Blade in his hand offering it to Marc.
Marc dug up the coins to pay him and scooted back to his flat.
When he looked at the front page it was filled with the normal scuttlebutt about Parliament and the Royals, a column on the financial markets. Then he saw it in a box at the bottom of the page, “Scandalous goings on in the gym? See the special insert.”
He threw the rest of the paper to the floor as he singled out the section on the GITC. He began reading until he had to run to the sink and vomit.
That was when Ella emerged from the bedroom, wearing nothing except one of Marcs shirts.
“Marc! What’s going on? Are you feeling ill?”
“Damn right I’m feeling ill. The Morning Blade has done a hit job on the gym!
“Go ahead, read it!”