The Spa Day (7 page)

Joking aside, I’m starting to feel a little sick. I can’t
imagine why. Maybe it’s the old myrtle and hibiscus. Maybe, just maybe, it’s
from listening to Rebecca.

‘It’s not just masseurs, though. There are a lot of websites
for women like us. I belong to three of them and believe me, they’re the best
investment you could ever make. It’s early days yet for you, but it’s worth
keeping all of this in mind, don’t you think?’

She then goes on to describe a couple of her ‘encounters’
with men she’s met off these sites. ‘Absolutely no strings attached. You don’t
even have to use your real name. I never do. It’s fantastic. After a while, you
can build up a network, a ‘little black book’, if you like, of discreet
contacts, so whenever you want some romantic attention, you can pick the
gentleman who’ll suit your mood. Many of these men are married themselves, so
it can never get complicated. It’s alright for hubby. He can meet women as part
of his work, but it’s more difficult for us girls, stuck at home all the time.’

Or stuck in an expensive health farm in Surrey.

I smile at her as if I know all about this and just take it
as a fact of life. She leans over and puts her mouth right next to my ear. ‘And
if you want something extra special, if you feel the need to really pamper
yourself and treat yourself to the crème-de-la-crème, you can always pay for
it. There are some fantastic agencies you can go to for help.’

Ugh! I suddenly notice a twinkling, fake Christmas tree over
by the far side of the pool. Was that there yesterday?

‘I know you must think I’m awful, but I have a very high sex
drive and I’m not going to let my fingers do the walking just because hubby’s
in Frankfurt or Tokyo for six months of the year. Anyway, we should exchange
email addresses and keep in touch. I mean, it must be hell on earth for you
already, sweetheart!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, when was the last time you saw Clive?’

I try to think. It’s late December now. He was back in late
August and early September. We went away for the weekend to Paris. I got food
poisoning, ripped my new dress and bought a souvenir Toulouse-Lautrec coffee
mug.

‘It must have been just under four months ago.’

‘And how old are you now? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Don’t
mean to be rude!’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Well. Close enough. Believe me, sweetheart, a good-looking
girl like you on her own, it’s not healthy. You don’t think things are going to
change when he marries you, do you? You’ll be crawling up the walls like I was,
before I saw the light.’

I laugh. ‘Well, I’ll certainly keep your advice in mind!’
I’m trying to keep it light, but it’s bloody difficult. I try to imagine
Rebecca trying to crawl up a wall and it’s funny.

‘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.’

Thank you for that, Rebecca.

I look into my cup of herbal tea and feign surprise that
it’s empty.

‘Well! Enough of this herbal stuff! I’m going back to my
room to have a genuine fake coffee and a sleep before dinner. All this exercise
is tiring me out!’

Does that sound convincing? I stand up before she can react
and follow me back to my room like a lost dog. I can feel the nausea rising.

‘
Okeydoke
, sweetheart. What time
are you going to the restaurant this evening. Seven-thirty alright for you? We can
have another little chat over the vegetarian sausages! It’s Orange Almond Torte
for dessert today, by the way. Delish!’

I smile at her as if I’m confirming this and head back to my
room as fast as my feet can carry me. Bloody hell!

I lie on the bed in my robe and look at the ceiling. Me and
the ceiling are becoming quite good friends, I realise. Perhaps we could keep
in touch after I’ve left here. I’ll give it my email address.

My eyelids start to feel heavy and, no matter how hard I try
to keep them open, they finally shut and I’m just on the point of drifting away
when I’m jerked awake by the message noise coming from my mobile.

For a few moments, I can’t remember where it is, then I
realise I’d dropped it on the floor. It seems to have bounced under the bed, so
I lean over and pick it up. It’s a text from Clive. It seems only recently that
I’d have been fairly excited when I saw his name on the display, but now…

I click on the message and can hardly believe my eyes.

Big
sorries
. Can’t make
xmas
. Feel terrible. Have to stay. More
wrk
with new
acq
than thought. Mum and Dad still
plsd
to have u
thoug
. Will ring
when
hve
time.
xxxx
’

Numbly, I read this three times, trying to get something out
of it that isn’t there. Trying to make it mean something else. Trying to read
in between the lines. I read it a fourth time and it still gives out the same
message. There’re no ambivalent phrases, no questionable meanings. He’s not
coming back for Christmas.

There are four kisses. He usually puts three. He’ll ring when
he has time. Why not ring now? Too expensive? Signal weak? What time is it
there? I can’t work it out. Not just now. Isn’t this something you’d tell
someone in a real phone call, or is it just me. Is this really a
textable
piece of news? Is
textable
a real word? Is ‘big
sorries
’ a phrase that anyone
over three would use?

I sit up and make myself a cup of sludge coffee. I mustn’t
react emotionally to this news. I must see it for what it is. Look at it
calmly. It’s just one of those things. Jobs like Clive’s can be unpredictable.
It isn’t necessarily his fault. He may have no choice. His future – our future
– may depend on this work he has to do. I’m sure that if there was any way
around this he would have taken it.

I read the text again. It’s the same as it was a minute ago.
Nothing has changed. The words haven’t magically rearranged themselves into
something nice.

He texted his parents with this news before he texted me.

Otherwise, how would he be able to say that they’d still be
pleased to have me? He had to ask their permission to take me in on Christmas
day, like I was some fucking orphan in a Dickens story or something. I raise
the coffee cup to my lips and I notice that my hand is shaking, unless it’s the
coffee cup that’s shaking on its own, which rarely happens in my experience.

I take a deep breath and look out of the window. A man and a
woman are walking past. They’re holding hands and laughing. I realise that I’ve
been squeezing my mobile really tightly. I throw it to the floor as hard as I
can. It breaks into three pieces. I cry and cry.

Five

As soon as I wake up the following morning, I go into the
bathroom, turn the light on and look in the mirror to see if my eyes are puffy
from last night’s uncontrollable, long-term sobbing. I look tired, but my eyes
look normal. Good. If I bump into Rebecca, I don’t want her to notice anything
and ask me questions.

I still can’t quite believe Clive’s text from last night,
but despite fantasising that it might all have been a terrible dream, I know it
wasn’t. I look at my poor mobile on the floor. It wasn’t the mobile’s fault. I
pick the pieces up and see if I can put it back together. Amazingly, it’s still
working, though the plastic bit that goes over the battery won’t go back on and
has a big chunk out of the side. I’ll have to get some
Sellotape
.

Like a robot, I take a shower and try not to think about all
the Christmas parties that Clive will be going to over the next week or so. I
try not to think about the atmosphere at Clive’s parents’ place. If they looked
at me with bafflement and pity before, what are they going to be like when I’m
there without Clive? I don’t think I could stand the smirks, so I decide that
there’s no way on earth that I’m going to go. Sod ‘
em
.
I’d rather spend Christmas with Rebecca, getting multiple orgasms from Turkish
masseurs and spending hubby’s money!

I get into some clothing and drift like a ghost down to the
restaurant for some breakfast. At least I’ve still got a whole day here, where
I don’t have to face the real world. As long as I can avoid Rebecca and lose
myself in my remaining treatments, I think I can almost begin to enjoy myself.
Part of my brain is working on what I’m going to do for Christmas. The first
thing it suggests is my sister, but she’s got kids and it’s a bit short notice.
Also, I don’t want to talk to her, as she’s boring and provincial. I’ll forget
about that for the moment. Play it by ear.

As I tuck in to a delicious fruit salad and down two glasses
of mango juice (I can hear my teeth begging for mercy), I try and get my head
straight and take a look at my little card which tells me what I’ve got on
today. From the look of it, I decided to spoil myself; I’ve got a detoxifying
seaweed wrap after breakfast, then I’m having a gel overlay on my fingernails
(makes the colour last longer, among other things).

In the afternoon, I’ve got a cut and blow dry (and for the
price they’re asking it better be a bloody good one, with the gayest hair
stylist on the planet!), then my final bamboo massage.

All this mixed in with visits to the pool, sauna and steam
room. As I look at the card with all of this on, it’s plain as day that most of
these things were booked so I’d look nice for Christmas at Clive’s parents. I
get a sudden lurch in my stomach as I remember his text, which I’ve managed to
put out of my mind for nearly a minute and a half.

I still can’t quite believe it. Partly, I can’t quite
believe that Clive is such a suck-up to his company and that what he does for a
living has an absolute priority over everything else. It could be the other way
around, of course. It could be that I’m just not that important to him in the
scheme of things and it doesn’t really matter whether he spends Christmas with
me or not. Or I’m not being realistic about the way things really are in the
world. I’m naïve and silly, that must be it!

I haven’t replied to his text yet and I’m not sure I want
to. What do you say to a message like that? Something like:

Such a shame! Will
lk
frward
to
xmas
at yr mums,
though! BTW –
fck
off

The detoxifying seaweed wrap lady is lovely. I wasn’t sure
what to expect, as I’d never had one of these things before, so when she starts
brushing my whole body, I wondered what she was doing! She explained that she
was applying small amounts of salt onto my skin and then brushing it in to help
with exfoliation before applying the seaweed gunk (she didn’t call it that).

Surprisingly, this all-over brushing is making me feel
rather frisky. I must recommend it to Rebecca!

She’s about thirty-five, I would guess, her name is Katie
and she has a soft Yorkshire accent. After she’s exfoliated me and my entire
skin surface is tingling, she starts to rub the seaweed clay into my body.
Suddenly, the room begins to smell of the seaside and is rather nice in a
nostalgic way. Reminds me of going on holiday when I was in school.

My mum and dad used to take us to
Ilfracombe
almost every year and my sister and I used to spend hours on the beach every
day doing not very much, really. Just mucking around in rock pools and the
like. My only specific memory is when I hit my sister on the head with a toy
spade and made her head bleed. I got a smack for that, I can tell you!

Before she starts the treatment, she gives me a fruit drink,
which has some seaweed in it as well.

‘You’re going to be sweating a fair bit. This will stop you
getting dehydrated.’

I gulp it down in one, but regret this immediately, as it
actually tastes quite nice.

‘OK. Now just lie down and relax. Have you had one of these
before?’

‘No. My first time. Do I have to lick it all off when you’ve
finished?’

She laughs. It’s a high,
tinkly
laugh. ‘Of course! Didn’t you read the brochure?’

She massages the seaweed glop into my skin. It’s lovely and
warm. I can almost feel all of the nutrients seeping into each individual pore.

‘How long are you staying here for?’

‘This is my last day.’

‘Oh, right! Have you enjoyed yourself?’

‘It’s been lovely. Met a few interesting people, too!’

‘I’ll bet. Have you got anything on for Christmas this
year?’

Oh god! Does everyone have to ask about bloody Christmas all
the time! I can’t be rude to her, so I’ll just have to make something up.

‘Just me and my boyfriend. We’re just having a quiet
Christmas at home. Just the two of us. We’re not one for parties or anything like
that. Just watch a few films. I’m going to try cooking duck this year instead
of turkey. I’ve always found turkey a bit dry, as a meat.’

Well, there’s the evidence. I must be truly out of my mind!
I’ll be telling her I’m a helicopter pilot next, with eleven adopted kids!

‘Same as me, then. My boyfriend doesn’t like all the fuss. I
haven’t done any of the food shopping yet, though. I’ll probably do it this
weekend like everyone else. Last minute. Actually, now you mention it, I might
try duck for a change. I’ve only ever had it from a Chinese takeaway. Might be
time to try something new.’

She covers the area she’s just massaged with a hot towel,
then moves on to the next area.

‘These towels keep the seaweed clay moist. They’ve got some
herbs in them, too. What does your boyfriend do?’

Oh god!

‘He’s,
er
, he’s a graphic
designer. Freelance.’ Well, sod it. I’m probably never going to see her again.
Why did I say that?