Nine Perfect Strangers (29 page)

50

 

Frances

Nobody came. The hours passed as slowly as if they were passengers stuck on a plane not moving from the tarmac.

Everyone kept returning to the keypad and trying out random combinations of numbers over and over.

Frances tried the alphabet code with multiple words: LSD. Psychedelic (hard to spell). Unlock. Open. Key. Health.

That red light flashed again and again and it started to feel personal.

Moods began to fluctuate in odd and unexpected ways.

Heather became quiet and withdrawn, her limbs floppy. She went to a corner of the room, put three yoga mats on top of each other, curled up on her side, and fell asleep.

Lars sang. Endlessly. He had a deep, melodic voice but he changed from song to song as if someone was turning a dial looking for a particular radio station.

Eventually Tony said abruptly, “Christ Almighty, put a sock in it, mate,” and Lars looked startled, and stopped in the middle of “Lucy in
the Sky with Diamonds,” as if he hadn't realized he'd been singing for all that time.

Carmel made an irregular
kwock
sound by clicking her tongue and Frances challenged herself to see how long she could put up with it. She was up to thirty-two
kwocks
when Lars said, “How long do you intend to keep that up for?”

Some people exercised. Jessica and Zoe practiced yoga poses together. Ben did an extraordinary number of push-ups, and finally stopped, breathing heavily, drenched in sweat.

“You should conserve your energy,” suggested Napoleon mildly. “While we're fasting.”

Fasting didn't feel like the right word to Frances. Fasting implied an element of choice.

Napoleon didn't speak as much as Frances would have expected. She had thought from their first meeting that he was a talker, but he was quiet and contemplative, frowning at his watch and then glancing up at the camera on the ceiling with a quizzical look, as if to say, “
Really?
”

“What if something has happened to them?” said Frances eventually. “What if they've all been murdered or kidnapped or fallen ill?”

“They've locked us in,” said Lars. “So it seems like they planned this.”

“Maybe they did plan it, but it was just meant to be for an hour or so,” said Frances. “And
then
something terrible happened to them.”

“If that's the case, we'll be found eventually,” said Napoleon. “Our friends and families will notice when we don't return from the retreat.”

“So we could be here for another, what, four, five days?” said Frances.

“We'll be so thin,” said Carmel.

“I might lose my mind,” said Ben, and his voice sounded shaky, as if it were already happening.

“At least we have running water,” said Napoleon. “And bathrooms. It could be worse.”

“It could be better,” said Tony. “Room service would help.”

“I
love
room service,” said Frances.

“Room service and a movie,” sighed Tony.

They locked eyes and Frances looked away first because she was accidentally imagining herself in a hotel room with him. Those tattoos on his butt as he came out of the shower. That
smile
.

She gave herself a mental slap across the cheek, and thought of her dad sighing, “You were always so crazy about the boys.” Fifty-two years old and still no sense. Just because they both liked room service didn't mean they were compatible. What would they talk about while they ate their room service? Football?

“We'll offer them
money
,” said Jessica suddenly. “To let us out! Everyone has a price, right?”

“How much?” said Ben. “A million? Two million?”

“Steady on,” said Lars.

“They're not going to let you out on a promise,” said Tony, but Jessica had already walked to the middle of the room and was addressing the camera.

“We're prepared to pay a fee to get out of here, Masha!” She jammed her fists into her waist. “Money is no issue for us. We've got no shortage of cash. Honestly, we're happy to pay for … ah … an upgrade. We want to skip this part of the program, thanks, and we're happy to pay a penalty.” She looked around the room uncomfortably. “For everyone, that is. We'll cover the cost for everyone to get out.”

Nothing happened.

“I don't think Masha is motivated by money,” said Napoleon quietly.

Frances thought,
What does motivate her?

She remembered her counseling session and the way Masha's eyes had lit up when she spoke of how the VCR had once been a window into another world, but presumably movies no longer interested her. She had definitely wanted Frances to know that Australia needed her brains. Approval? Admiration? Was that it?

Or was it love? Was it that simple? She just wanted love, like everyone. But some people had such a peculiar way of manifesting that need.

“We don't even know if they're watching us,” said Lars. “Maybe they've all got their feet up somewhere and they're watching
Orange Is the New Black
.”

“We did not pay for shared accommodation!” Jessica jabbed her finger up at the camera. “I'm not sleeping in here again tonight! We paid for a double room and I want to be back in my room! I'm hungry, I'm tired!” She lifted up a strand of her hair and smelled it. “And I need to wash my hair right now!”

“Oh my God.” Ben put both his hands on his temples. He ran about in a comical half circle. “I just remembered what you said! You're pregnant! You said last night you were pregnant!”

“Oh yeah,” said Jessica, turning to her husband. “I forgot.”

51

 

Delilah

“She's not pregnant.” Yao's face was pasty with panic. “She is absolutely not pregnant.”

Delilah, Masha, and Yao were in Masha's office, watching the live CCTV footage of their guests in the meditation room.

“I would never have allowed a pregnant woman to take those substances,” said Yao. “Never.”

“So why does she keep saying she is?” asked Masha.

They'd been here for hours. Masha and Yao stood and paced as they watched, but Delilah had finally sat down in Masha's chair.

Delilah was tired and hungry and kind of over it. Maybe she was kind of over being a wellness consultant. Four years now and the guests were all starting to blend together. They were all so self-absorbed, and sometimes she felt like she was a minor character in a story about everyone except her.

Over the years only a handful of guests had ever asked Delilah a single question about herself. Which, fine, the guests didn't have to talk
to her at all if they didn't want, but they all assumed she would be so fascinated by
them
! The things they told her: about their marriages, their sex lives, their bowels! If she had to hear another story about someone's irritable bowel syndrome, she would slash her wrists.

And then there were the complaints that came thick and fast: the softness of their pillows, the temperature of their rooms, the
weather
—like she could control the weather.

It was nice when people seemed to truly believe they were “transformed” at the end of a retreat, but Delilah wasn't quite as evangelical about this whole transformation business as Masha and Yao.

Yes, she enjoyed yoga, her core strength was excellent, she had a six-pack and she liked having a six-pack, meditation was relaxing, mindfulness was great, and she had no problem introducing drugs into the equation, that made life interesting, and sure, it might give people some insights into their psyches, although, honestly, most of their psyches didn't seem that, you know,
complex
. This wasn't God's work. This was a health resort.

Delilah was skilled at giving the impression she cared as much as Masha and Yao. She could talk the talk, walk the walk. God, she'd done it with dairy products when she was Masha's executive PA.
Yes, yes, I'm just passionate about yogurt
. Then after Masha's heart attack she'd left dairy and done it with
insurance
. All those years working as a PA had been great training to be a wellness consultant: nod and smile and agree and make things happen behind the scenes and don't ask questions unless absolutely necessary. Masha paid well. Delilah had nearly reached her savings goal. She was going to travel for a year.

“I did pregnancy tests for all the women,” said Yao. “Even the older women. She's not pregnant.”

“So why did she say she was?” asked Masha again.

“I don't know,” said Yao. He was very upset. Almost in tears.

“So she can sue us for giving her drugs,” said Delilah.

“She doesn't need money.” Masha gestured at the screen. “Like she said, money is no issue.”

Delilah shrugged and sighed. “Maybe she just wants to make a point, like: ‘What if I
was
pregnant and you gave me drugs!'”

“She's not pregnant,” said Yao again.

“She doesn't know we know that,” said Delilah. “And her husband's sister is an addict so, you know, they're really antidrugs. Pity we didn't know that.”

Masha swung around. “But they should be happy, their therapy went so well! They kissed!”

“That's because they were high,” said Delilah. Sometimes Masha had a bizarre innocence to her. Did she really think the kissing between those two
meant
something?

“They kissed for a very long time,” said Masha to Delilah.

“Yes,” said Delilah. “That's what happens when you take Ecstasy. That's why they call it the love drug.”

The first time Delilah took Ecstasy she kissed Ryan, her boyfriend at the time, for over two hours straight, and it was incredible kissing, the best kissing of her entire life to date, but it didn't mean she wanted to
marry
the pompous British twat with his tight purple shirts. It was just kissing.

“It wasn't just the drug,” said Masha. “I led them to many important breakthroughs.”

“Mmm,” said Delilah.

Like all of Delilah's bosses ever, Masha was a total narcissist. Delilah found it hilarious when Masha spoke so solemnly to guests about the “dissolving of the ego,” as if her giant-sized ego could ever be dissolved. Over the last few years, Delilah had observed Masha's ego flourish, nurtured by the guests who hung on her every word and the doglike devotion of Yao.

“I have a gift for this,” she said, straight-faced, when, really, what the hell would Masha know about relationships? In all these years Delilah had never known her to be in one. Delilah couldn't tell if she was straight or gay or bi or just had no sexual orientation whatsoever.

“I thought they would be more positive at this stage of their journeys,” said Masha. “More
grateful
.”

Delilah exchanged a look with Yao. Wow. That was
almost
an acknowledgment of a mistake. At the very least it was the acknowledgment of a moment of doubt.

Yao looked terrified, as if his whole world was falling apart. The dude was obsessed with Masha, probably in love with her. Delilah couldn't tell if his interest was sexual; it was more like the way a superfan behaves around a rock star, as if he couldn't quite believe he was allowed in the same room as her.

“It will all be fine,” said Masha to Yao. “We just need to carefully consider how we proceed.”

“We should feed them,” said Delilah. She knew this from her waitressing days. Get some complimentary garlic bread out to the table. Stuff them with carbs and they'll stop complaining about the long wait on their mains.

“It hasn't even been forty-eight hours yet!” said Masha. “They all knew the retreat would include fasting.”

“Yes, but they
didn't
know it would include LSD,” said Delilah. “Or being locked up.”

She thought that Masha had badly overestimated her guests' commitment to transformation. When people said they came to Tranquillum House to be “enlightened,” what they really meant was “skinnier.”

Anyway, as far as Delilah could see, no one in that room looked particularly
transformed
. There was no way in hell Heather Marconi was coming out of that room and giving them a five-star review on TripAdvisor.

Masha, being Masha, had never doubted that this new protocol was going to be a success. She had no concerns about the issue of consent. She said it was too risky to ask for it because the ones who most needed help would be the ones most likely to refuse. The glorious ends would justify the means. No one would complain once they experienced their personal transformations!

“Let's keep our focus on solutions,” said Masha now as she contemplated her guests moving about their temporary prison. She didn't even look that tired.

Delilah remembered a night more than ten years earlier, when she was working as Masha's PA. Someone had discovered a major error in their analysis for the budget they were presenting to the board of directors the following day. Masha had worked thirty hours straight, right through the night, without stopping, to rectify the error. Delilah had stayed in the office with her, but she'd had a couple of power naps to keep herself going. The presentation was a triumph.

Six months later Masha had her heart attack.

Six years after that, when Delilah had honestly kind of forgotten Masha's existence, she called to ask Delilah if she'd like to train as a wellness consultant at a health resort she was starting up.

Masha liked to tell guests that they would hear about Delilah's supposed “wellness journey,” but they never heard about it because there was no wellness journey. Delilah resigned from her job as PA for the chief executive douchebag at an insurance company. Her wellness journey was basically a train ride from Central Station to Jarribong.

“I think we should let them out,” said Yao. “They were meant to be out by now.”

“We have to be ready to adapt,” said Masha. “I told you both that at the beginning. For dramatic results, you need dramatic action. I know this is uncomfortable for them, but that's the only way people
change
. They have water. They have shelter. We are taking them out of their comfort zone, that's all. That's when growth occurs.”

“I'm just not sure that this is right,” fretted Yao.

“Turn up the audio,” said Masha.

“Obviously we're obligated to report this to the police as soon as we're out,” said a woman.

“Who's that?” said Masha.

“Frances,” said Yao, his eyes on the screen. Frances had her back to them. She was talking to Lars.

“
Frances!
” said Masha. “She loved her experience. She seemed to get so much out of it!”

Lars was saying, “Morally obligated. Legally obligated. We've got a duty of care. They'll kill someone eventually if we don't.”

“I don't know if I'd want them to do actual jail time,” said Frances. “I think their intentions were good.”

“Right now, I'm deprived of my liberty, Frances,” said Lars. “I'm not too worried if someone does a little jail time for this.”

“Oh God.” Yao moaned into his knuckles. “It's a disaster. They're not even … trying!”

“It's not a disaster,” said Masha. “They'll work it out. It's just taking a little longer than we expected.”

“They don't seem any different after the therapy,” said Yao. “They just seem so … angry.”

Delilah suppressed a sigh. It's called a hangover, you fools.

She said, “Would anyone like a green tea?”

“Thank you, Delilah, that's very thoughtful,” said Masha gratefully, and she touched Delilah on the arm and smiled that soul-warming smile.

Even before, when Masha didn't look anything like a goddess, when she was just a frumpy high-level executive who was really good at her job, she had charisma. You wanted to please her. Delilah had worked harder for Masha than she'd ever worked for anyone, but now it was time to close this chapter in her life.

Clearly the police were going to be involved. Delilah had been the one to access the drugs on the dark web, a process she had enjoyed and a new skill to add to her r
é
sum
é
along with PowerPoint. She thought her actions probably wouldn't be enough for her to go to jail, but they might be, and she felt like she wouldn't enjoy jail.

Part of her had known all along it was going to come to this. There was a kind of inevitability to it, from the moment Masha had first handed her the book about psychedelic therapy and said, “This is going to revolutionize the way we do business.” Delilah remembered thinking,
This won't end well
. But she'd been feeling bored for a while. Experimenting with drugs was interesting and she'd kind of wanted to see the train wreck.

They micro-dosed guests' smoothies for over a year without ill effects. People had no idea. They believed it was the organic food and meditation that caused them to feel so great. They rebooked because they wanted to feel that great again.

Then Masha decided she wanted to do more than micro-dosing. She wanted to do something “revolutionary.” She wanted to “push the envelope.” She said they would be changing the course of history. Yao had argued. He didn't want to change the course of history. He just wanted to “help people.” Masha said this would be helping people in a way that would truly change their lives forever.

The clincher had been when he'd tried the psychedelic therapy himself with Masha as his guide. Delilah hadn't been there—it was her weekend off—but when she saw Yao next he had an even crazier, more obsessive blaze in his eyes than before, and he was quoting from the research as if it was the research that had changed his mind when it was just the power of hallucinogenic drugs and the power of Masha.

Obviously Delilah tried the psychedelic therapy too. Her experience had been awesome, but she wasn't stupid enough to think any of those feelings or so-called “revelations” were
real
. They were just drugs. She'd done magic mushrooms before. It was like mistaking lust for love, or thinking that the sentimental feelings you got when you heard a certain song were genuine. Get real. Those feelings were
manufactured
.

When Yao had gone on and on about what he'd supposedly
learned
from his psychedelic therapy she kind of wanted to slap him. It was just another example of how that sweet stupid boy was addicted to Masha. He was a lost cause. Nothing was ever going to change there
.

Delilah didn't go to the kitchen to make green tea. She went straight to her room and collected her ID. Everything else about this particular life—the white uniforms, the sandalwood scent, her yoga mat—she left behind.

Ever since she'd joined the workforce, she'd known this about herself: she was, at heart, a PA. The smoother of the way. Like a butler or a lady-in-waiting. Someone seen and not heard. She wasn't the captain of this ship and she sure as hell wasn't going down with it.

Within five minutes she was behind the wheel of Ben's Lamborghini, driving toward the nearby regional airport where she would take the next available flight, wherever it was going.

The car drove like a dream.