The trouble with trainers

Do you ever spot a muscle-bound fitness trainer and his lithesome charge pounding London's parks and feel a twinge of envy? Don't bother. Apart from having to pay them at least £50 an hour for some personalised physical torture, fitness trainers have become emotional tyrants worse than the cruellest of lovers.

This growing tribe of get-fit gurus are now in such demand in London they've started behaving like Hollywood publicists. The celebrity gravy train is what they're after - as soon as they secure a famous person (which leads to dozens more, as celebrities always travel in packs), they trade up. And the unimportant, unrich and unfamous get tossed aside.

'My trainer literally dumped me when he got Pierce Brosnan as a client,' says a journalist friend who launched him in a newspaper article. 'First he started showing up late, then he stopped showing up at all.'

I myself was unceremoniously dumped by a Pilates teacher with a private studio behind Portobello Road. It started well - she approved of me and, I imagine, my Filofax full of potential referrals. But then, during one session, I yawned, which is tantamount to falling asleep at a dinner party. Soon after, she sat me down and said, 'This is not working out.' I was cramping her style. My slot had already been promised to someone else. To this day I feel nervous when I see her (she always blanks me).

The tyranny of the fitness trainer began when they started travelling in the same circles as their clientele. Simon Waterson - the ex-commando trainer who gave Halle Berry and Geri Halliwell their muscles - has written a workout book and gets flown to film sets around the world. David Marshall, the man who trimmed Sophie Dahl to a neat size 10, has a thicker cuttings file than most of his clients. Jamie Baird, Madonna's man, operates from the secluded heights of the Agua gym in the Sanderson hotel. Anyone can book in for a session, providing they also book into the day spa (or the hotel) and are prepared to wait.

Nowadays, the Super Trainers have become mirror images of the celebrities they coach. The list includes the world's bestselling Pilates author, the G-string-leotard-wearing Lynne Robinson (who taught Elizabeth Hurley) and Matt Roberts, another bestseller who has just five per cent body fat and looks like Action Man (clients include Melanie C and Trudie Styler).

Sure, they'll do press-ups and Pilates with you, but you'll probably have to look up their website, call their agent and publicist, read their book(s), buy their video(s) and pay for ten sessions in advance for the privilege.

Then - and this is what really counts - you must be extremely solicitous (and sign a disclaimer that you won't discuss them with other clients) and obedient. Even then, you'll be put on probation. If you fail to attend a session, arrive smelling of Martinis or put on rather than take off weight, you're out. They have waiting lists - and the waiting lists have waiting lists.

Because today, personal trainers are no longer the exclusive bastion of actresses and City types. Among those who have wasted a fortune on unused gym memberships and become convinced that personal trainers are the answer, they are as much part of their self-care regime as the dentist, the doctor, the reflexologist and the hair colourist.

It may seem ludicrous but it's not uncommon to have multiple trainers. Jenny Halpern, the society PR girl, admits to having three. One works out with her in the KX gym, another focuses just on her abdomen and the third, the very hot Dave Baptiste (who also trains Trinny Woodall and French Connection owner Stephen Marks) takes her out to the park. 'He says, "I'll see you at 7am" and I just nod,' she says. 'I would never have the willpower without him.'

This cosy state of co-dependency allows trainers to get away with the unimaginable: they can bully spoilt celebrities and boss the bosses of bosses around. 'It's an interesting dynamic that goes on,' says psychotherapist Katalin St Clair. 'The most controlling of individuals will allow himself to be dominated by his trainer. This role reversal is almost unique.'

'They have an attitude that falls somewhere between that of a drill sergeant and a psychoanalyst,' says Naomi Campbell's former PA, who regularly dropped her off at the Harbour Club for her one-on-one training sessions. 'In fact, celebrities' personal trainers hold a position that is the envy of just about everyone in the showbiz industry. They can insult, goad and scream at even the most unreasonable prima donna and get away with it.'

And if you don't achieve the result they want, you're fired.

'If they're no fitter or thinner after several sessions, it doesn't say much for my abilities, does it?' says Henry Furniss of The Firm, who trains Nicky Clarke, Jemma Kidd and Tania Strecker.

Eric Gatch, a personal trainer with a very wealthy clientele, agrees. 'If it's not working for a client, it's not working for me,' he says.

But though the market may be good for these personal trainers at the moment, they cannot afford to be too blasé.

They shouldn't forget that referrals are their lifeline. 'I looked at my books and I realised that it was one person - Lady de Rothschild - who started the family tree,' admits Furniss. 'She told her son about me, who told Jemma Kidd, who then told her friends.'

It takes just one member of the tree to become disenchanted and tell the next person and then for the whole tree to move elsewhere.

But in truth, who's envious if their move takes them to yet another egocentric, power-crazed guru who burns a hole in their pocket and dumps them the minute someone more A-list calls up?