The Spa Day (8 page)

‘Really? Mine’s a graphic designer, too! There’s a
coincidence. Mine works for this really small company. Only a dozen people.
They do mainly calendars and adverts for local newspapers. That sort of thing.
What does yours do?’

My mind is racing. What the hell do graphic designers do
nowadays? I can’t use calendars or adverts. With a start, I realise that I’m
basing this fictitious bf on Simon! I try to remember what he talked about.

‘He helps to design websites for various companies. He sort
of works for himself in a way. He works with another guy, a friend he knew from
college. They do it together.’

‘It’s always a bit precarious, that sort of thing. At least
he’s not on his own.’

‘What – because of his college mate, you mean?’

‘No – he’s got you.’

She lays another blissfully warm towel over my body and I
lie there, feeling awful about lying to her. It’s insane, but just the idea of
this nice, quiet Christmas with my graphic website designer boyfriend seems
rather appealing. We don’t have much money, but at least we’re happy. Stop it,
Holly!

After a while, I’m completely covered in seaweed and damp towels.
It’s incredibly warm but doesn’t feel too uncomfortable, though I am sweating a
little. She says she’s going to leave me to cook for half an hour and leaves
the room. The idea is that the seaweed helps to detoxify you through the
sweating and all the nutritional goodies in the seaweed help to condition the
skin. Whatever’s going on, it feels great.

I try to fight an overwhelming desire to fall asleep. While
I’m fighting it, I start to smile. How much simpler everything would be if I
really had a boyfriend like that instead of the hurtful, long-distance,
uncomfortable relationship that I have with Clive. Clive with his money, his
bit-of-a-reputation Caroline, his last minute cancellations and his awful
family.

Someone who gave a shit about me, in short.

When I was creatively lying to Katie, I think I was actually
fantasising about the sort of relationship that I’d really like to have. The
sort of relationship that I always thought I’d have. Somewhere along the way, I
must have taken a wrong turning. It’s just that there’s so much bloody
pressure! Pressure to do this, pressure to do that. Pressure to settle down,
pressure to get married, pressure to have children as soon as bloody possible.
And where does that pressure come from? Everybody else. Every other stupid
bloody person! They’ve done it so you’ve got to do it. Fear of being alone.
Fear of not conforming. Fear.

Sometimes you just feel like saying to the great, invisible
Everybody Else ‘Stuff your bloody stupid ideas about what I’ve got to do! You’re
stupid! All your ideas about everything are stupid!’

But the worst thing is, I’m stupid, too.

I can feel someone’s hand gently touching my shoulder. It’s
Katie. Shit. I must have fallen asleep after all. I just hope I wasn’t talking!

***

After my gel overlay, I have lunch then get my hair cut and
tarted
up, which takes a lot longer than I thought it
would. The guy that cut my hair asked me what I was doing for Christmas and I
gave him the same line that I gave to Katie, just for consistencies’ sake, you
understand, and also because I was too tired to think of anything else. Also,
they might be pals and talk about me during their coffee break, even though
that’s extremely unlikely. I start to wonder if the staff get to have real
coffee when they have their coffee breaks. If so, where is it hidden? I could
murder a proper coffee, the stronger the better. Three sugars!

I sit in the spa waiting area, an unread magazine on my lap,
looking at my newly painted and gelled fingernails. Actually, I’m rather
pleased with them. They did them in a lovely red called Raging Ruby. My hair,
also, is looking good and I keep looking in various reflections to check it out
every now and then. It’s obviously been cut, but still looks nice and long. I’m
certainly feeling a lot better than I did when I got up this morning – nothing
like a spot of pamper-therapy!

I’ve got five minutes before my final bamboo massage session
and optimistically wondering if I can get through an entire day without bumping
into Rebecca. I’m not sure how long she’s going to be here, as we didn’t
discuss it. Maybe she’s already gone home!

I can’t imagine what that would be like going home for her.
Opening the front door to a silent, empty, spacious mansion, with not a soul in
it (unless she has servants or something). Dumping her bags on the hall floor.
Wandering into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and then straight on
the computer to book herself another health farm visit, check her emails from
her dating sites and order a liaison with a well-muscled gigolo in some posh
hotel somewhere. Then a hot chocolate and off to bed with a suitcase full of
sex toys and health farm brochures.

In other words, me in ten years! Hah!

Then I hear her voice.

‘Where did you get to last night? I didn’t see you at dinner!
I wondered if you were OK!’

‘I felt a bit sick, to be honest.’ After listening to you
and then getting that text from Clive.

‘Oh dear! What was the matter?’

‘I think I spend too long in the sauna. I felt a bit dizzy
when I came out. I went back to my room, had something to drink and then I must
have fallen asleep. Missed dinner completely. Maybe all these small helpings
are stopping me feeling hungry like I normally would.’

I’ll soon be lying for England at this rate!

‘Well I’m glad I’ve seen you. This is your last day, isn’t
it? Here.’

She rummages around in in an expensive-looking green leather
bag. ‘In case I don’t catch you at dinner tonight, or you’re not feeling well
again, I’ll give you my card, then we can keep in touch. I’ll tell you what,
why don’t you write down your email address on another one of these, then we’ll
be sure to stay in touch.’

She hands me two of her cards and a pen. I scribble
something a bit like my email address on the back, but not quite, missing out a
five. Her card is rather posh. It’s matt grey with the writing in pale yellow.
Her name, mobile number and email address are the only things on it.

I’m not really sure why you’d want a business card if you’re
not the director of a company or something like that. Maybe she hands them out
to men she’s met. Not for the first time, I feel a bit sorry for her and feel a
bit of a rat that I haven’t given her my proper address, but I can always say
it was an honest mistake, if I bump into her again in a few years when I’m just
like her.

Never mind. I can’t say I relish the idea of keeping in
touch with her, really. Particularly now.

‘I’ve got an aromatherapy massage in ten minutes. You can
pick your own oils! After that, I’ve got – what do they call it? – one of those
sessions when they put hot stones on your back. Or is it your feet?’

I place her card in my robe pocket (let’s hope I don’t
forget to take it home, eh?) and watch as a group of four young women come in,
all chattering excitedly, and take their seats across from us. I’d guess
they’ve come here for one of the one day visits and are trying to cram in as
much as possible.

James strolls out from the treatments area and they all look
at him and giggle. One of them whispers something to her neighbour and she
laughs. He gives me a smile.

‘Ready?’

I say goodbye to Rebecca, who winks at me, and follow James
into the massage room. As soon as I’m inside, I notice that the Japanese-style
music has been replaced with a mildly funky calypso-style background wash, but
without steel drums.

Once I’m ready, he uses the tips of his fingers to examine
the knots in my shoulders.

‘This is feeling a lot better now. How is it for you? Does
it still hurt when you turn your head from left to right?’

‘Well, apart from the excruciating pain from the bamboo
punishment you’ve been dishing out, I can tell that it’s made a huge
difference. You must have magic hands!’

‘Or magic bamboos! That’s good. The muscles around that
whole area seem a lot less tense now. Things like this are often due to
posture, you know. If it gets bad again, you could do a lot worse than joining
a Pilates class.’

‘I’ve heard of Pilates. I may well check it out!’

‘So you won’t be bothering, then.’

‘No.’

‘I can’t blame you. I have to suggest it, though.’

‘It was a nice thought. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He takes a warm bamboo from his heat pad and starts to work
on the middle area of my back. This is so nice here, and the massage is so
relaxing. I’ll be sorry to go. On the other hand, I’ll always associate this
place with Clive’s awful text and Rebecca’s idea that I’m a younger version of
her, which is a bit disturbing.

I’ve managed to put all the terrible stuff out of my mind
today, as all of my time has been occupied with something or other, but I’m
also aware of an anxiety knot in my stomach whenever any thought concerning
Clive appears in my head. And Christmas with his parents! Is he trying to
punish me for something?

‘I heard on the radio this morning that they’re expecting
snow in a few days. Maybe it’ll be a white Christmas!’

I smile. ‘That’ll be nice, though I’ve heard that before and
it usually doesn’t happen!’

‘It has got a lot colder over the last few days, though.’

‘You’ve been taking chat lessons from hairdressers, haven’t
you.’

‘They promised me no one would notice.’

‘You’ll have to get your money back.’

He pushes the bamboo into the muscles of my upper back. Try
as I might, I can’t stop a series of unpleasant, chaotic thoughts coursing
through my brain. My fictitious graphic designer boyfriend and our quiet
yuletide celebrations, Clive’s dad smirking and staring at my boobs, Rebecca’s
empty house, my reading and re-reading of Clive’s text, Clive and Caroline
making love across an office desk, Rebecca’s depressing predictions: There’ll
be plenty of men who’ll be only too pleased to…well, you know what I’m going to
say so I won’t say it.

Before I can do anything about it, before I even realise I’m
actually doing it, I feel hot tears streaming down my cheeks, huge sobs racking
my body. Oh god! Oh shit!

James stops immediately. He must think this is something
that he’s done.

‘Are you OK? What did I do? Was it one of those knots? I’ll
stop, I’ll stop. Sorry. Shit.’

I sit up, holding the towel against the front of my body.
The last thing I want is to make a complete fool of myself and give a strange
man a flash of my boobs at the same time! I can’t stop crying. I run a hand
through my hair and try to wipe the tears off my face, as if I’m trying to
pretend what’s happening isn’t happening.

James has gone pale. He’s looking slightly worried and
doesn’t know what to do. I think he realises by now that this is nothing to do
with the massage.

‘I’m (gulp!) sorry. It’s not you. It’s nothing to do with
you. Oh hell.’

‘Shall I go out for a while? Leave you on your own? Perhaps
we can continue later on. I’ll see if I’ve got any spaces before you leave. I
can…’

‘No. No. it’s OK. Really. I just…’

Another series of big sobs. I am such an idiot. It feels
like a years’ worth of tears are pouring out. Maybe three years’ worth. James
walks over to his little table and rips half a dozen tissues out of a box and
hands them to me.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

He smiles. ‘It’s OK. I don’t mind. Careful with those;
they’re magic tissues, made by poor urchins.’

It takes me five minutes to recover. I find myself hoping
that no one can hear me in the waiting room. What would they be thinking if
they could? Maybe they’d be thinking that they’d give the bamboo massage a miss
this time around!

I blow my nose for the fourth time in a minute and stare at
the ground. James leans against the wall with his arms folded, staring at me.
It’s hard to read his expression, but it looks serious. I don’t think he’s
annoyed or angry, though.

‘How are you now?’ He grins. ‘Is it out of your system, yet?
Whatever it is? You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to throw you out. You’ve
still got forty minutes or so.’

‘Oh well that’s good. I like to get my money’s worth!’

‘Do you want to talk about it? Not for too long, obviously.
I have other clients to see this afternoon and I have to tell you I get bored
really easily.’

Talk about it? I’m not really sure what ‘it’ actually is.
‘It’ is a whole load of things, overlapping one on top of the other. Once I
start talking, however, the whole lot spills out. All the things I’ve been
thinking about over the last couple of days. Clive’s text. My rapidly
approaching Christmas from hell. When I’ve finished, I look up at James for a
reaction. There isn’t one, at least not one that I can immediately see. On top
of everything else is the fear that I’ve just made the most awful fool of
myself.

‘I’m sorry to tell you all that. I know it’s just your job,
working here, doing what you do.’ What am I talking about? ‘You shouldn’t have
to listen to stuff like that. I can’t apologise enough. I’ve been stupid. It’s
just…’

And then I spill the whole lot. Just like that. I tell him
about Clive’s text, my encroaching Christmas with his family that I’d rather
dine on slugs than go to, the extraordinary fact that with every single hour
I’ve been here, the very idea of Clive, let along being engaged to him, has got
worse and worse. It’s as if I’ve woken up from a bad dream. I tell him about
Rebecca and how I don’t want to end up like her, even though she plainly sees
it as inevitable that I will.

He slowly exhales, as if he’d been holding his breath
throughout the whole thing.

‘Bloody hell!’

‘My thoughts exactly! Thank you for putting it into words.’