“People who are serious about their goals,” the sales rep tells me. His muscles are fighting to burst out of his shirt, to confront me about my goals in person. I try, but I can’t respect a man who can’t at least steal a better-fitting T-shirt. Like I have. Leo’s workout wardrobe is top-notch, and it’s not like he’s going to miss a T-shirt and a pair of sweats.

The sales rep gives me a tour of the gym, which is full of serious people. They lift efficiently, with just the correct range of motion. Their knees never go over their toes on squats. Their grunts of exertion fill the rooms the sales rep leads me through. His sad mouth explains to me the gym rules along with the benefits of regular exercise while his bulging muscles try to intimidate me into submission. I nod every so often and pay close attention to the personal trainers working with other, more serious women. I’m not interested in the women. I’m looking only at the men.

The sales rep notices. “Do you want a consult with a trainer?”

“Not right now.”

The sad mouth turns even sadder. “Don’t wait too long. Beach season is right around the corner. If you want that bikini bod, you have to start now.”

If I ever want that bikini bod, I’ll throw myself off a cliff and maybe take a personal trainer or two with me. I store my jacket and wallet in the locker room and then get on a rowing machine with a good view of the main room.

It’s midafternoon, just when the yummy mummies and the trophy wives have an hour or two to themselves before they have to take the kids to violin classes or stop in for a quick Botox injection before dinner. It’s their playtime, and their playmates are the hard-bodied men who show them how to work their muscles efficiently. How to lift, squat, push, and pull. All with a helpful hand on the shoulder or the small of the back to assist.

I watch the sexual politics at play from the rowing machine while I hope for a rare sighting.

Peter Vidal keeps a low profile, but he was once tagged in a social media post in this gym, and I’m hoping to catch sight of the reclusive millionaire. Waiting around for Nolan to get in touch isn’t an option. There must be another way to get to Vidal.

In the end, I row, but I go nowhere.

All this effort turns out to be for nothing. Vidal doesn’t show up.