Christmas Without Holly (2 page)

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a nurse. A sister. Usual prodding and lifting of
patients, though. Picking things up, putting things down. You know. Pretending
to be interested in the patients’ welfare. That gets quite stressful.’

This gets a laugh. He has nice teeth.

‘And I see you’ve booked three of these massages. Well,
we’ll see what we can do. You can get changed in there. Everything off apart
from your knickers. Then if you can lie face down on the table, drape one of
the towels over your back. I’ll just pop out while you change. See you in a few
minutes.’

He walks out of the room and closes the door. What a
gentleman! I walk into the cubicle and take my robe off and hang it up. Of
course, I chose today to wear a bra and knickers that didn’t match (bra is
green, knickers beige, if you’re interested), but I don’t think that sort of
thing matters very much under these circumstances, though if someone commented
on it, I’d be mortified. I leave my bra and flip-flops on a chair, grab a large
towel and saunter into the massage area.

I lie face down on the table and flip the towel over my
back. There’s a thing at the end to lower your face into so you can get a good
view of the floor while you’re being pummelled. Perhaps they could get a flat
screen TV down there so you had something to watch. I don’t think I’ll suggest
that, though. He might think I’m silly.

After a few minutes of listening to barely audible
Japanese-style music, the door opens and James returns.

‘Are you OK? I’ve just got to do a few things, and then
we’ll see about those knotted muscles of yours.’

He walks over to a table and I can see him fussing over
something, but it’s not clear what it is. Looks like a small, green, electric
blanket. He turns and sees I’m staring.

‘It’s a heat pad. It warms the bamboos up for the massage.
You’ll see.’

He unravels the pad and allows the (rather large) bamboo
sticks to rest upon it. There’s also a couple of things that look like large
drumsticks with big bobbles on the end.
 
He pours a small amount of massage oil into his hands and rubs it
around, presumably to warm it up. I can’t imagine what Clive would think of all
of this. Anything that’s even remotely new-agey, novel or unusual tends to make
his blood boil. He would see bamboo massage as a huge waste of money. Money
that could be better spent on – well I don’t know what, but not this.

In fact, I haven’t even told him I was coming here; it just
didn’t seem worth the hassle. It’s not that he’s mean, exactly – he earns a
packet out there in the Far East – it’s just that he can always find some
reason for not spending money on things that don’t interest him personally.
Like spending three days lying in Jacuzzis and being crushed underneath bamboo
poles. Stuff like that.

Being virtually naked in a room with a strange man wouldn’t
go down too well, either.

It’s annoying in a way, because I’m doing it for him;
partly, at least. Well, having a nice haircut, anyway. He likes me having
nice-looking hair. Does having my nails done count? I don’t know.

Anyway, he…oooohh. James has started rubbing the oil into my
shoulders and it’s absolute bliss. His fingers are really firm, but it doesn’t
hurt at all, not like some massages I’ve had in the past. Once, I had a Swedish
massage with this sadistic old bag who was digging her elbows into my back so
hard I felt the tears coming into my eyes.

‘I’m just going to move the towel down so I can rub the oil
into your back, then I’ll start with the bamboo sticks.’

‘OK.’ That’s just about all I can manage. I often wonder if
they can hear you when you’re talking to the floor. I don’t know what oil he’s
using, but it smells fabulous. Could be lime. He walks over to his table and
takes one of the big bamboo sticks.

‘I’m going to start with the small of your bag, then slowly
work up to your shoulders and neck. You must tell me if it gets uncomfortable
or painful. This is like a Swedish massage, really, but the sticks make it less
painful. It’s a much deeper massage, as well. Don’t be surprised if you fall
asleep; lots of people do. I’ll poke you if you start to snore!’

As soon as he starts to roll the bamboo stick up and down my
back, I can feel the tension starting to melt away. The fact that the sticks
are warm makes it a really, really pleasurable sensation. After two minutes, I
start to think that I’d like this to be done to me every day, though I don’t
think I earn enough to make that a genuine possibility.

‘How’s that feeling? Not too painful?’

I think I’m saying ‘It’s great’, but I think it comes out as
‘Mmm.’ He moves further up my back and rocks the stick to and fro as if he’s
using a rolling pin. Gradually, he increases the pressure and it seems as if my
vertebrae and back muscles are starting to separate. When he gets up to my
shoulders blades, he stops for a moment.

‘Hm. As you said, you have quite a bit of knotting up here.
I’ll need to put the pressure on a little bit. Not too much. That OK?’

‘Sure. Just do whatever it takes. I’ll scream loudly if it
gets too much.’

‘Just shouting out get your hands off me! would be fine. The
louder the better.’

He pushes harder and I close my eyes really tightly to
absorb the pain and to stop myself crying out. I can feel the bamboo roll over
the knots and it really fucking hurts. I’m glad he can’t see my face. It can’t
be a very pretty picture; eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, biting my lower
lip and silently mouthing ‘fuck’.

I don’t think Clive has ever given me a massage in all the time
we’ve been seeing each other. Isn’t that what couples are meant to do?
Sometimes, at least? I gave him a book on sensual massage a couple of
Christmases ago – just as a subtle hint, you understand – but I don’t think I
ever saw it again. He probably didn’t read it. Maybe he binned it.

James is moving up to my neck and shoulders now and it’s
even worse. As he hits a knot the size of The Titanic, I allow myself the
luxury of shouting ‘Ow!’

‘Sorry. We’ll come back to that area later on.’

‘It’s alright. I was enjoying it.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

He places the towel over my back and moves down to the soles
of my feet. I’m terrified it’s going to be ticklish and I’m going to make a
fool of myself by laughing, but the pressure is so firm that it bypasses the
tickle zone altogether and feels great.

The back of the legs is another matter altogether. I don’t
think that the muscles there are used to this sort of treatment and it’s pretty
painful at first, but the warmth and, well, sensuality seems to over-ride that,
and I get used to it fairly quickly. I decide that I could live here, as long
as I could get Domino’s to deliver once a week!

I’ve completely lost track of time and melt into a sort of
bamboo-sage haze. He works on the back of my thighs and on the sides of my
hips, this time using a different, thinner stick, which he also uses on my arms
and hands. He moves the towel from place to place so that only the area he’s
working on is revealed. I’m feeling so drowsy that I only just notice that he’s
stopped.

‘I’m just going to return to your knots and give them a
little extra pummelling, then we’ll have a bit of a break if you’re still
alive.’

I can hear him moving around and look up to see him
returning with a shorter, but thicker bamboo stick.

‘This might hurt a bit, but it won’t last long.’

‘Aw.’

‘I’m going to start on the left and move across to the
right, OK?’

I grunt weakly to show I’ve understood and brace myself. It
feels like he’s using the rounded end of this thicker stick and he slowly
pushes it against one of the knots near my shoulder blade. Oh god it hurts. The
movement isn’t rapid; more like a slow but firm push against the offending
area. He does the same thing to several other knots and then, thankfully, stops
before I pass out or start blaspheming like a docker.

‘Very good. I’m just going to pop out of the room now, to
give you a break and to allow you to turn onto your back. I think we’ll leave
those knots for today and have another assault on them tomorrow.’

‘Assault’ is the right bloody word. When I hear him leave, I
sit up and take a few deep breaths. I just hope my newly energised lymphatic
system rewards me with a huge box of chocolates and a bottle of Baileys when I
get home!

I notice that the Japanesey muzak is still churning away in
the background. I’m sure that real Japanese music doesn’t sound anything like
this at all. I read somewhere once that instant coffee isn’t really coffee at
all – it’s a coffee-flavoured hot drink. By that reckoning, this is
music-flavoured silence!

I have a big stretch (my bones cracking several times to
punish me) and lie down on my back, carefully draping the towel across my
boobs. My hair must be a mess from lying face down on that padded thing, so I
run my hands through it and then rub my face. I really must stop thinking such
negative thoughts about Clive! It’s all I seem to be doing since I got here.
Maybe I’m too busy to think them in normal life. Maybe all it needs is your
thoughts to flow free and everything starts falling apart. Perhaps this place could
use that for their next advertising campaign. ‘Come to Willows Health Farm –
everything in your life will start falling apart!’

There’s a knock on the door. I say ‘OK!’ and James comes
back in. He smiles at me and checks the electric blanket that the bamboo sticks
live in. He’s got a nice smile, but it’s a professional one. It must be
constantly on your mind to detach yourself from any sort of friendliness when
you’re doing a job like this, particularly when most of your clients are
scantily-clad women and particularly when you’ve got women like Rebecca
cruising around like some predatory spa shark.

He rubs some oil into my legs and starts on them with the
bamboo.

‘What’s that smell? The oil, I mean.’

‘Cedarwood and lime. Sounds an unlikely combination, but
they seem to go well together.’

‘You’re right, it’s nice.’

He rolls the bamboo up and down the side of my legs. There’s
more pressure than last time. He’s probably judged how much I can take by now.
I start to wonder whether my thighs will be able to support my weight after
this. I can feel severe muscle twitch coming on.

‘So how long are you here for? Couple of months?

‘Just the three days.’ I laugh. ‘I’d come here for longer if
I could afford it, but there’s also work. I couldn’t take that long off as I’m
off over Christmas as well. Well, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.
Back for New Year’s Eve.’

‘What’s it like working in a hospital over Christmas?’

‘Same as any other day, in the end. A bit sad, you know,
with kids and stuff.’

‘Do they make jokes about your name? The kids, that is.’

‘If they do, I just punch them, Christmas day or not. Then I
take their presents and sell them.’

‘Good thing, too. They just don’t know where to draw the
line sometimes, do they? What are you doing for Christmas? Anything
interesting?’

This is very similar to hairdresser chat. Is he gay, I
wonder? It would drive me mad, having to make small talk with people you don’t
know all day every day. I have to do it to a degree, but at least some of the
patients are unconscious a lot of the time, or drugged up to the eyeballs, or
too ill, or don’t understand English. As I’m about to answer, I get the
teeniest twinge of anxiety about the whole Christmas with Clive’s family thing.
Why is that? It’s Clive! He’s my fiancé! These people will all be related to me
one day!

‘I’m staying with my fiancé’s family for a few days.’

I almost said ‘my future in-laws’, but stopped myself just
in time. That’s a horrible phrase that people use! He starts work on my arms
with a bamboo that looks like it’s been cut in half down the middle. It only
hurts when he gently pushes it into my biceps.

‘That’ll be nice.’

I must have grimaced involuntarily. He smiles at me.

‘Not nice?’

‘Well, his father can’t keep his eyes off my tits, his
mother keeps smiling at me as if I’ve got some terrible disease and only have a
few months to live, and his sister giggles like an idiot every time I speak.
Apart from that, I’m sure it’ll be delightful!’

‘Families, eh?’

As he works the bamboo into my shoulders, I give a little
laugh without intending to.

‘Anything you want to share?’

‘I just realised that I’ve slagged my fiancé’s entire family
off to a complete stranger! What must you think of me?’

‘I think that you’re evil, spiteful and not worthy of their
charity! What does he do, your fiancé?’

‘He’s an investment banker. Don’t ask me what that means. He
works in Hong Kong.’

‘Hong Kong!’ James raises an eyebrow. ‘That must make it
difficult for surprise mid-week lunch dates and spontaneous trips to art
galleries! How often do you get to see him?’

I suddenly realise that I don’t like talking about this. No
one at work mentions it anymore; neither do my friends, so it’s a little bit of
a shock.

‘He comes back when his company sends him for whatever
reason. It’s usually every three or four months.’

Jesus. When you say that out loud, it sounds absolutely
fucking terrible.

‘Lucky guy!’

Lucky? Why lucky?

‘Why lucky?’

He puts the bamboo stick onto his little table and uses his
fingers to knead my trapezius muscles, where most of the knotting lies. Ow!

‘Well – that’s only three or four times a year! A lot of
women wouldn’t put up with that sort of appalling, selfish behaviour!’

He says it in such a way that it’s funny, not rude or
insulting. I like him, gay or not. I’m trying to think of a response, but
nothing comes to mind.

‘OK. We’re finished for today. You’ve done very well.
Really. Most clients run away after just a few minutes of that. I’m going to
put a blanket over you and leave you to recover on your own for a while. When you’re
ready, you can get up and get dressed. Don’t steal the blanket.’ He wags a
finger at me. ‘And don’t forget to shower before using the pool! I’ll be
checking for droplets of oil on the surface later on.’