Authors: Nicola Yeager
Five minutes later, I can tell he’s finished with my back.
He gives me a small pat on the shoulder.
‘OK. You can turn over now. I’ll just pop out. Back in a few
minutes.’
He leaves the room and I hear the discrete ‘click’ of the
door. I wonder where he goes? Does he stand outside having a fag? I sit up and
roll my head around for a few seconds. It’s amazing the difference this sort of
massage makes. I lift the towel off my back, turn over and flick it across my
front. I have to say that my self-pitying blubbing over Clive earlier on seems
a bit silly after hearing what happened to James and his girlfriend. Still, he
seems happy enough with his cool beach life and photography. I wish I was that
self-contained. Am I self-contained at all? Am I one of those women who has to
have a husband or bf to feel that she’s worth anything?
When he comes back in, I give him a quick smile and he
smiles back. I think my smile was a sort of apology for bringing the subject of
his girlfriend up and making him talk about it, and his smile is a sort of
‘It’s OK. We’re cool.’ new-age vibe thing he’s sending back in return. That
could be a load of bullshit, of course.
But all is well. He starts on my hands and arms and I soon
sink back into that warm ocean of pleasure that a really good massage can
bring. I start thinking about fields with really high grass and the wind making
ripples through them. No, I’m not high.
He doesn’t say anything while he’s running the bamboo up and
down my forearms and my brain is desperately searching for some innocuous small
talk, but I can’t find anything. It’s like some days when you go to the
hairdressers and you just aren’t switched on to having that sort of lightweight
banter that they always use to pass the time. After a few minutes, my brain
comes up with a priceless, original gem.
‘Are you doing anything nice for Christmas?’
That seems OK. After all, he asked me about my Christmas
plans yesterday and it’s only six days away.
‘Well – I’m rather looking forward to doing nothing at all this
year. My parents have decided to go to the Caribbean to avoid all the usual
Christmas stuff. They’ve been saving up for two years.’ He laughs. ‘They found
a hotel in St Lucia that doesn’t take children!’
‘They’ve got the right idea! So what are you going to do?’
‘Nothing. Just chill out. I’m not interested in the whole
thing, you know? I may have inherited it from them. Lack of belief, that is.
The religious part is interesting historically with its roots in pagan stuff,
Saturnalia and whatnot, but I can’t get worked up about any of it. Everyone
stuffing their faces with huge amounts of food they can get all the year round
in the supermarket makes me feel a bit sick now, you know?’
‘I agree with you. I couldn’t go without Pringles, though.’
‘Well, that goes without saying; particularly the sour cream
and chives type.’
He rolls a smaller bamboo up and down my deltoids. The
warmth is making them turn to jelly.
‘Did you and,
er
…’
Damn! I can’t help it! What’s wrong with me? I keep bringing
his girlfriend into the conversation! But he takes it in his stride.
‘Well, she felt the same, basically. We didn’t used to do
very much. A couple of decorations, exchange presents, watch a few DVDs. The TV
can’t compete with DVDs now, can it? Rhoda didn’t like the false jollity, I
don’t think. Buying more of what you usually bought just because the shops want
you to. She hated the TV ads for Boots and Superdrug particularly. John Lewis
and Argos ads made her homicidal.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep bringing it up. I’m not
being nosy or anything.’
‘I know.’
He rubs oil into both of my thighs and massages each of them
with his fingers before setting the bamboos on them. It feels like he’s
separating the muscles from the bone underneath. I think of ordering chicken
off the bone in an Indian restaurant. I stifle a scream.
‘I think the only regret I have about her is that we didn’t
spend more time together. We were both busy with our own things a lot of the
time. Me with my massage courses…’
‘Yeah.’ I’m now thinking about ordering an Indian takeaway.
‘It’s what happens. You can’t go back and change it.’
He shrugs. I start thinking about Clive and me. What if
something happened to me or him? Could we have spent more time together? Well,
obviously. He spends most of his time thousands of miles away. As James works
on my feet (getting a tiny bit ticklish now!) I think of Caroline again and get
uneasy.
If James could find it within himself to be unfaithful to me
when we were both in the same country, what could be happening when he’s living
on the other side of the globe? A chill passes through me. What happens when he
and his mates go out on the town? What are the girls like who work in his
company over there? What are any of the expat females over there like? It
doesn’t bear thinking about. I must shut it out. Thinking like that is
destructive and silly.
But I can’t stop it. It’s like I’m a cut-price version of
Kate Middleton, waiting for Prince William to sew his wild oats, while she
lived like a nun, existing in suspended animation until the day came when he
was ready to commit.
Waity
Katie, they used to call
her. That would make me
Waity
Holly, which doesn’t
quite have the same ring to it. Doesn’t rhyme, for one thing.
‘Are you OK?’ James has finished and he’s clearing things up.
‘Yeah. Yes. Just thinking about something.’
‘Last session tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll finish off those
small knots in your shoulders and you’ll be able to play the violin again. Just
lie down and recover for a few minutes, then get changed. Don’t do any swimming
for a few hours. Actually, I’d suggest you have a sauna, if you feel in the
mood. See you soon. Remember to drink plenty of water.’
‘OK. Yeah. ‘Bye.’
The door closes and I’m on my own again. I hope I haven’t
upset him. I wonder if I should have a
naan
with that
Indian takeaway.
After I’ve had a shower and got dressed, I take a cautious
peek into the reception area and there’s no sign of Rebecca. This is good, as
I’m really not in the mood to be on the receiving end of her lifestyle choices
at the moment. I take James’ advice and head to the spa area, get changed into
my swimsuit and pop into the sauna.
While I’m having my face burned off (though not as badly as
in the steam room!), I listen to the chat of two women who look like they’ve
already been in here for an hour or so. They seem to be friends and they’re
discussing what they’ll be getting when their respective divorces come through.
The little blonde one with the slight squint will be getting the house but not
the car, which she didn’t realise was a company car (dumb bitch!). The very
overweight one with spiky hair and badly-applied lipstick will be cleaning her
husband out entirely. House, car, money, everything. Neither of them mentioned
children, I notice.
Is this what it was all about in the first place, I wonder?
Right from the very beginning? Wasn’t there a time when they went out with guys
because they found them sexy or had a laugh with them? Was it always connected
to how much money someone had? When they were looking for a husband, was being
rich preferable to being nice or sexy?
I begin to wonder who I’ll end up like; these two or
Rebecca. It’s not much of a choice, I decide. I wonder if any of them have ever
worked. I wonder if they both looked like they do now when they were twenty.
It’s getting too depressing to ponder, so I get out and have a shower.
After a Rebecca-free lunch, I spend the rest of the
afternoon sitting around and doing not much at all. If you were at home, you’d
find plenty of things to do, even if you were on your own, but here there’s
absolutely nothing to do but sit around reading, have a swim, have a treatment,
have a sauna, have a meal, have another swim, drink some mud-coffee and have
another steam bath.
It occurs to me that three days in a place like this is just
about right. What does Rebecca find to think about while she’s here? Maybe she
doesn’t think about anything!
While I’m sitting in one of the rest rooms, looking out of
the window at a couple of peacocks strutting around, I decide to go back to my
room, read the other paperback I luckily brought with me, have a little sleep
and then wake up in time for dinner.
I’m already starving, I realise, and I can see now why some
of the guests here smuggle in chocolate and biscuits. In fact, during my yoga
session this morning, I started thinking about heading for the nearest
McDonalds drive-thru, ordering two Big Macs, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, two
large fries, a Big Breakfast, two sugar donuts, a chocolate milkshake (and a strawberry
one for good measure), a Happy Meal so I had a toy to play with and a fruit bag
so I didn’t feel quite so guilty afterwards.
The smell of McDonalds is pretty distinctive, so obviously
I’d have to eat the whole lot on the drive back. It’s amazing what a healthy
couple of days can do to your head!
As I’m on my way back to my room, I bump into - you guessed
it – Rebecca. She apologises for not meeting me for lunch, but they had a
last-minute cancellation for an Indian Head Massage and she just had to take
it.
She’s been here so many times that I assume the staff
actually give her a ring in her room if something like that comes up, knowing
she’ll probably take it. She may as well just give them all her credit cards
and say ‘Just take as much as you want!’
Reluctantly, I let her drag me back to the spa so we can
have a chat and a cup of myrtle and hibiscus herbal tea. I don’t know why I
allow things like this to happen. I must be truly weak!
After I’ve had a run-down of all the things she’s done today
and all the things she’s having done tomorrow (seaweed wrap, another Silky
Locks, gel overlay on fingernails and some other stuff I’ve forgotten), she
gets on to the subject of my massage with James, which, I suspect, is what she
really wants to talk about.
‘What are his hands like? I just want to know what it’s like
when they’re on your body!’
This is so weird, that I don’t know what to say for a few
seconds.
‘Well, he’s using these bamboo sticks. He doesn’t use his
hands much. It’s like being massaged with a warm, oil-covered rolling pin most
of the time.’
‘That sounds really kinky! I must admit that I haven’t tried
one of those yet. I’ve spoken to some of the other girls (!) here and they said
that everyone’s interested in him. Maggie – do you know Maggie? – Maggie said
that he seemed a bit distant when he did her. I don’t mean ‘did her’, if you
get my drift, just that he didn’t talk much. She said it hurt quite a bit, but
there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with a bit of pain from a
masterful alpha male!’
She nudges me in the side with her elbow as if to
demonstrate what pain is. It works.
‘I have to tell you though – this place isn’t really where
you should come if you want ‘extras’.’ She giggles at her use of this word. I
look at her as if she’s mad, though I’m wondering if it’s me that’s mad for
listening to her. She then goes on to describe the goings on at a well-known
health farm in Lincolnshire, where she had a full-body massage where the
muscular masseur took her to ‘you-know-where’ three times.
Where is ‘you-know-where’, I wonder? Skegness? Grimsby?
‘And this time it wasn’t just me and my imagination, if you
know what I mean. I can tell you the name of the masseur there, if you like.
For future reference. It might be something you’ll want to look into what with
Colin being so far from home all the time.’
For a second, I wonder who Colin is.
‘It’s Clive, not Colin.’
‘Oh well, whatever.’ She leans over and places a friendly
hand on my thigh. ‘I like you, Holly. And I can see you’re going to be just
like me in a few years. I suppose I think I can help. Point you in the right
direction with things.’
She wriggles down in her seat and sips at her herbal tea. I
can tell she’s going to get serious. This is like a nightmare. This place
should warn you about people like Rebecca on their website! Perhaps a little
gif of her in the corner with a big X across it.
‘There’s a certain sort of lifestyle that girls like us want
and there’s certain sort of man that can give it to us. I’m married to one of
them and you’re engaged to one, I can tell.’
I’m now hoping that some sort of catastrophe will suddenly
occur, like a passenger jet crashing onto the lawn or a plague of hornets
entering the spa area. I wouldn’t say no to all-out thermonuclear war at the
moment!
‘These are men who want a good-looking wife that they can
show off to their colleagues. Someone who’ll be there when they’re needed.
Someone who’ll give the impression of stability when it’s needed. Someone to
keep a nice home for them. But the downside, the price we pay is that those men
are not going to be around all the time. My hubby…’
Aaaarrrgghhh
!!!
‘…travels all around the world, even though he’s based in
Saudi. He’s extremely important and his company value him very highly. He’s on
a fantastic salary and when he retires he’ll get a fantastic settlement.’
I’m wondering: ‘What sort of job is this? Are they looking
for new recruits? Me! Me!’
‘Now I’m sure, like my hubby, your Clive takes his pleasures
when he can find them. When you’re not there, of course. He has to. He’s a man
and that’s what men are like. It’s like trying to ask a dog to stop weeing on
lampposts. But, as long as we’re careful, we girls can do the same thing as
well.’
We girls can wee on lampposts? It’s a feminist’s dream come
true!