The Spa Day (5 page)

She gets up. ‘Listen.’ she says. ‘What have you got on this
morning? Shall we meet for lunch?’

I’m thinking ‘Not if I can help it’, but I can’t say that to
her. That would be rude, wouldn’t it? I decide to be polite instead. I look at
her mouth to see if a tapeworm pops its head out. It doesn’t.

‘Well, I’m not sure. I’m going to have a swim, and then I’ve
got yoga, then a break, then another bamboo massage. I haven’t really thought
about what time I’ll be having lunch, to be honest.’

‘What time are you having the big bamboo?’

‘Ten forty-five.’

‘So that’s an hour, so you’ll be finished at a quarter to
twelve or so. That’s good. I’ll meet you in the reception area at twelve and
you can tell me all about it.’ She smiles knowingly at me, which I find I don’t
like. I also don’t like my meal times being organised for me. I’m meant to be
relaxing, for god’s sake! Can’t they chuck her out? Isn’t this some sort of
harassment? Forced friendship harassment? If she was a man, I’d make a formal
complaint.

‘We can have lunch at twelve-fifteen. Must dash. See you
later.’

She wipes her mouth and sashays out, leaving me feeling
stupid for not being more firm. ‘No!’ I should have said. ‘I’m having lunch
when I want lunch and I don’t want to talk to you about my massage with James
because it’s obvious that that sort of thing doesn’t go on here and even if it
did, you’d be the last person I’d talk to about it!’

There. I feel better now. It’s almost as if I actually said
that to her! It’s funny how you always think of witty, vicious rejoinders after
the event, isn’t it. Even if you’ve got no intention of saying them in real
life. Well, at least she has a light breakfast, so the whole thing wasn’t too
much of a trial!

My yoga session cruelly informed my whole body that there
were parts of it that had never felt pain before and it would be only too
delighted to show me which parts those were. As I lay on the floor on a blue
mat, quietly recovering, my mind starts wandering.

Even though I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, I’ve
noticed that having nothing to do and nothing in particular to think about,
releases all sorts of things from your brain that are better left undisturbed.

One of those things, an event I’ve pushed so far down into
the depths of my subconscious that I often think it never happened, is to do
with – you guessed it – Clive. And it’s not good.

We’d been seeing each other for two and a bit years at this
point (he was back here for two months) and were already engaged, and I had
noticed that he was acting a bit, well, strange. A little bit distanced, like
he had a lot on his mind. Naturally, I assumed it was to do with work and
didn’t press it, but it turned out I didn’t have to.

It seemed that he’d had a one night stand (or one hour stand
– take your pick) with a girl called Caroline and was feeling very guilty about
it. He’d wanted to tell me weeks before, shortly after it had happened, but
couldn’t bring himself to. He said that he loved me and only me and that it was
a stupid mistake and just happened without him realising it had happened (I
often have sex with strange men without realising it had happened – very common
occurrence).

Now I know what you’re thinking – I should have left him
immediately and never seen him again. Sod the engagement and sod everything
else. Poured acid over his sports car, cut all his clothes up, set fire to his
mother, castrated his father and vanished out of his life forever.

But I couldn’t.

I kept telling myself it was because I loved him and he
loved me and it was what men did and it wasn’t really his fault and here I was
at the gateway to a new and better life with a stable, nice man who was
obviously crazy about me and I could even leave work and never have to worry
about not being able to pay an overdue gas bill again and it was only a small
glitch in an otherwise perfect relationship. These things happen. But not to
me, preferably.

This Caroline (I can see her already, can’t you? Slim, long
dark hair, short black dress, dark red lipstick, pointy tits) was a PA to some
other man who Clive worked with and apparently she had a bit of a reputation
and he’d tried to stay well clear of her and it was only because he had a big
job on and she’d been seconded to help him out and they were working late one
night, blah
blah
blah
blah
blah
.

He was so convincing at the time, describing it as if he was
the victim of a force of nature, rather as if he’d been caught in the rain and
had a new suit soaked right through. It wasn’t his fault. Sometimes you just
meet women like Caroline and when they want something (a penis, in this case),
nothing can stand in their way. He
blubbed
like a
little boy and realised he’d been an absolute shit and, stupid as I was, I
swallowed it, hook, line and sinker.

Every day that went by, I buried it a little deeper.
Sometimes it resurfaced like a knife in my guts, but eventually I even began to
see poor Clive as an innocent victim in the whole thing, as if he’d been run
over by a car or something, though I sometimes wished it had been a
steamroller!

But there it was, lying in the basement of my subconscious,
waiting for a suitable yoga session to bring it up to the surface again.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and suddenly
realised that the yoga woman was standing over me, smiling.

‘A lot of people can get quite emotional after a yoga
session.’ she whispered, sympathetically. At least you didn’t fall asleep!’

I looked up, smiled at her and wiped my eyes. Silly cow, I
thought.

***

After a second, furious swim, I dried myself off and got
into suitable clothing for my next bamboo session. I was looking forward to it,
I realised. The residual pain from the last session had gone and I was feeling
a lot more flexible. My shoulder and back knots weren’t feeling so bad, either.
Maybe the yoga helped; or was it the yogurt?

After James had left the room for me to get suitable
unattired
, I lay down on the massage table and waited for
him to come back in. I’d buried Clive’s infidelity in a deep hole again and was
feeling light and relaxed.

‘So how are you enjoying it here so far?’ he said, rubbing
more of that lovely-smelling oil into the backs of my legs and the soles of my
feet. I’m feeling more relaxed with him now. It’s as if it’s our second date or
something, though I know that’s a stupid way to look at it.

‘It’s great! Lots of interesting things to do. I’m feeling a
lot better already. Refreshed, I suppose. Did some yoga. Didn’t fall asleep.’

‘All the aches and pains gone from yesterday?
 
A lot of people don’t come for a second
massage like this because the first one made them a bit uncomfortable or hurt
too much. You’d be amazed at the number of cancellations we get for the second
appointment.’

He starts rolling a warmed-up bamboo into the soles of my
feet. It feels delicious and the smell of the oil is intoxicating. He switches
to the backs of my legs. This still hurts a bit, but I bite my lip so he can
get on with it. He pushes firmly into my flesh and I can feel the stiffness I
acquired during my swim start to disappear. I want to get away from answering
questions about me, so I decide to ask him a bit about himself.

‘How did you learn to do this? Did you go to a bamboo
college or something?’

From my own experience, I know that he’d have to know a lot
about the physiology of the body and what to do and what not to do. He might
have been a
physio
or something, though I hoped not.
In a hospital,
physios
have a terrible reputation,
which I’m sure isn’t at all deserved.

‘Spot on! The college was actually literally made of bamboo.
It’s a Malaysian tradition. Gets cold in the winter, though and it’s a bit of a
fire risk.’

‘I totally believe that.’

‘Well, I went to college, but not to learn to do this.’ He
rolls one of the bamboos up and down the outside of my left thigh. It doesn’t
feel as bad as yesterday. I can feel the heat and pressure from the bamboo
penetrating my muscles. I’m still dreading the time he starts on the knots in
my shoulders and neck, though.

‘I studied geography in university originally.’

‘Geography! So you know where everywhere is!’

He laughs. ‘Yes, everyone’s surprised at that! It’s one of
those subjects that – well, to cut a long story short, when I left
uni
, I couldn’t really get a job anywhere, despite having a
degree. I did a lot of different things; cleaning, working in restaurants, you
name it. But my – my girlfriend at the time was a masseur. She did the whole
lot, Swedish,
Shaitsu
, everything. She used to
practice on me and I sort of picked it up.’

He moves the towel across and starts on my lower back.

‘I decided that it’d be a cool thing to learn, so I went on
several courses. Had to pay for them myself, but it was worth it. Started out
with Swedish massage and learned the rest one thing at a time. I’ve been doing
this type of massage for a little over eight months. It’s fairly new to this
country. People seem to like it.’

I’m unable to supress an ‘
mmmm
’
sound escaping from my lips as he rolls the bamboo along my lower back. It’s
not a sexual pleasure (particularly!), but I can’t help wonder what it must be
like for a man to be getting moans of satisfaction out of countless women, day
in, day out. What a funny job!

‘Sounds like you’ll be surpassing your girlfriend’s skills
at this rate!’

He doesn’t reply. Have I said something wrong? Perhaps they
split up and I’m being tactless, as per usual. My girlfriend at the time. Oh
bugger. He continues pressing into my back and I decide not to say anything
else for the moment. He stops for a moment to replace the bamboo stick he’s
using with a thinner one and to rub some more oil into my back.

‘Unfortunately, we’re not together any more. That’s the
wrong phrase to use. She passed away. It was just over a year ago. She had a
bone marrow disorder. It was spotted too late and there was nothing they could
do.’

I turn around to face him and almost reveal a boob in the
process.

‘Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’

‘It’s OK. Really. Don’t worry. I’m quite,
er
, I’m quite philosophical about it and it was a while ago
now. It’s just that no one usually asks about how I learned this. I didn’t know
what to say. You mustn’t feel like you’ve upset me or anything. It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. Please don’t worry about it. We are taught to
bear mental pain at the Bamboo Zen Monastery!’

He continues with the massage and my mind is racing to think
of something I can say that will change the subject without it seeming like I’m
changing the subject out of awkwardness or embarrassment. It’s difficult. Oh
god, how awful. He must think about her every time he comes to work! There’s a
terrible few minutes of silence, during which I think of chocolate croissants.

‘What was her name?’

Shit! Shit! How could I be so bloody stupid! He smiles, and
then laughs. He doesn’t mind that I’m a moron.

‘It was Rhoda. She was from Cambridge originally. She was
twenty-five when – you know. We were sharing a flat just outside Guildford.’

‘God. Do you still live there? I mean, it must be…’

He laughs. I guess I’m lucky that he isn’t putting some
extra pressure on my poor knotted muscles. He must think I’m a total idiot. A
stupid, pampered, tactless bitch.

‘It was only rented. But I was lucky. I don’t think I’d have
been able to stay there on my own. A few weeks after it happened, an aunt of
mine died. Well, I say an aunt, actually it was a grand-aunt. I don’t mean I
was lucky because she died. Well, I was, I suppose. It’s just that she left me
this place down by the beach near Newhaven. It’s just a small place, really. A
cottage, I guess you’d call it. Used to be an artist’s studio. She used it for
holidays now and then.’

Good. Good. I can tell by his tone of voice that he’s
chilled about the whole thing. Or maybe he’s a good actor. He digging into the
knots on my shoulders now, so I’ll have to keep him in a good mood.

‘It’s a pretty bleak area, very windy in the winter, but
I’ve managed to tart it up a bit. Re-painted all the rooms, stuck a bit of
furniture in there. I don’t need much, really and the drive to here is quite
fast unless there’s motorway pile-up or something. Friday nights are the worst.
Going home, I mean. Takes about an hour and a half some days.’

‘It sounds lovely. It must be nice to have somewhere like
that to get away to.’

‘Yeah. It’s got a big studio room where the artist who lived
there used to paint. Big windows in the ceiling, but I had to get blinds put on
them.’

‘Too bright?’ I don’t know what I’m talking about.

‘It’s not that. It’s just that I’m a bit of a photographer
in my spare time and I develop my own pictures, so I turned it into a sort of
photography studio and use that area as a darkroom.’ He grins. ‘I decorated
most of the rooms with my own work. Saves money. Prints are really expensive
now.’

‘Wow. That sounds great. What sort of photographs do you
take?’

‘Anything, really. Seascapes, stuff you see washed up on
beaches; it sounds a bit arty, but I’m just trying to be realistic and
unpretentious. I’ve been at it for a few years, but I’m still learning. I
haven’t sold anything much, but I did sell one to a local paper when there was
some flooding. It’s a start, anyway, though I don’t plan to cover provincial
news stories particularly. I’ve been meaning to learn to surf, but the water’s
always too cold!’

I have a picture in my mind of him staring out to sea, thinking
of Rhoda, watching the waves lapping the shore, taking long, solitary walks
along the beach accompanied by a dog he’d got from a rescue home. This is
ridiculous, I know. I make a mental note not to ask him about the dog. He’d
probably try and have me sectioned.