‘OK. Yeah. ‘Bye.’
The door closes and I’m on my own again. I hope I haven’t upset him. I wonder if I should have a naan with that Indian takeaway.
Four
After I’ve had a shower and got dressed, I take a cautious peek into the reception area and there’s no sign of Rebecca. This is good, as I’m really not in the mood to be on the receiving end of her lifestyle choices at the moment. I take James’ advice and head to the spa area, get changed into my swimsuit and pop into the sauna.
While I’m having my face burned off (though not as badly as in the steam room!), I listen to the chat of two women who look like they’ve already been in here for an hour or so. They seem to be friends and they’re discussing what they’ll be getting when their respective divorces come through. The little blonde one with the slight squint will be getting the house but not the car, which she didn’t realise was a company car (dumb bitch!). The very overweight one with spiky hair and badly-applied lipstick will be cleaning her husband out entirely. House, car, money, everything. Neither of them mentioned children, I notice.
Is this what it was all about in the first place, I wonder? Right from the very beginning? Wasn’t there a time when they went out with guys because they found them sexy or had a laugh with them? Was it always connected to how much money someone had? When they were looking for a husband, was being rich preferable to being nice or sexy?
I begin to wonder who I’ll end up like; these two or Rebecca. It’s not much of a choice, I decide. I wonder if any of them have ever worked. I wonder if they both looked like they do now when they were twenty. It’s getting too depressing to ponder, so I get out and have a shower.
After a Rebecca-free lunch, I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting around and doing not much at all. If you were at home, you’d find plenty of things to do, even if you were on your own, but here there’s absolutely nothing to do but sit around reading, have a swim, have a treatment, have a sauna, have a meal, have another swim, drink some mud-coffee and have another steam bath.
It occurs to me that three days in a place like this is just about right. What does Rebecca find to think about while she’s here? Maybe she doesn’t think about anything!
While I’m sitting in one of the rest rooms, looking out of the window at a couple of peacocks strutting around, I decide to go back to my room, read the other paperback I luckily brought with me, have a little sleep and then wake up in time for dinner.
I’m already starving, I realise, and I can see now why some of the guests here smuggle in chocolate and biscuits. In fact, during my yoga session this morning, I started thinking about heading for the nearest McDonalds drive-thru, ordering two Big Macs, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, two large fries, a Big Breakfast, two sugar donuts, a chocolate milkshake (and a strawberry one for good measure), a Happy Meal so I had a toy to play with and a fruit bag so I didn’t feel quite so guilty afterwards.
The smell of McDonalds is pretty distinctive, so obviously I’d have to eat the whole lot on the drive back. It’s amazing what a healthy couple of days can do to your head!
As I’m on my way back to my room, I bump into - you guessed it – Rebecca. She apologises for not meeting me for lunch, but they had a last-minute cancellation for an Indian Head Massage and she just had to take it.
She’s been here so many times that I assume the staff actually give her a ring in her room if something like that comes up, knowing she’ll probably take it. She may as well just give them all her credit cards and say ‘Just take as much as you want!’
Reluctantly, I let her drag me back to the spa so we can have a chat and a cup of myrtle and hibiscus herbal tea. I don’t know why I allow things like this to happen. I must be truly weak!
After I’ve had a run-down of all the things she’s done today and all the things she’s having done tomorrow (seaweed wrap, another Silky Locks, gel overlay on fingernails and some other stuff I’ve forgotten), she gets on to the subject of my massage with James, which, I suspect, is what she really wants to talk about.
‘What are his hands like? I just want to know what it’s like when they’re on your body!’
This is so weird, that I don’t know what to say for a few seconds.
‘Well, he’s using these bamboo sticks. He doesn’t use his hands much. It’s like being massaged with a warm, oil-covered rolling pin most of the time.’
‘That sounds really kinky! I must admit that I haven’t tried one of those yet. I’ve spoken to some of the other girls (!) here and they said that everyone’s interested in him. Maggie – do you know Maggie? – Maggie said that he seemed a bit distant when he did her. I don’t mean ‘did her’, if you get my drift, just that he didn’t talk much. She said it hurt quite a bit, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with a bit of pain from a masterful alpha male!’
She nudges me in the side with her elbow as if to demonstrate what pain is. It works.
‘I have to tell you though – this place isn’t really where you should come if you want ‘extras’.’ She giggles at her use of this word. I look at her as if she’s mad, though I’m wondering if it’s me that’s mad for listening to her. She then goes on to describe the goings on at a well-known health farm in Lincolnshire, where she had a full-body massage where the muscular masseur took her to ‘you-know-where’ three times.
Where is ‘you-know-where’, I wonder? Skegness? Grimsby?
‘And this time it wasn’t just me and my imagination, if you know what I mean. I can tell you the name of the masseur there, if you like. For future reference. It might be something you’ll want to look into what with Colin being so far from home all the time.’
For a second, I wonder who Colin is.
‘It’s Clive, not Colin.’
‘Oh well, whatever.’ She leans over and places a friendly hand on my thigh. ‘I like you, Holly. And I can see you’re going to be just like me in a few years. I suppose I think I can help. Point you in the right direction with things.’
She wriggles down in her seat and sips at her herbal tea. I can tell she’s going to get serious. This is like a nightmare. This place should warn you about people like Rebecca on their website! Perhaps a little gif of her in the corner with a big X across it.
‘There’s a certain sort of lifestyle that girls like us want and there’s certain sort of man that can give it to us. I’m married to one of them and you’re engaged to one, I can tell.’
I’m now hoping that some sort of catastrophe will suddenly occur, like a passenger jet crashing onto the lawn or a plague of hornets entering the spa area. I wouldn’t say no to all-out thermonuclear war at the moment!
‘These are men who want a good-looking wife that they can show off to their colleagues. Someone who’ll be there when they’re needed. Someone who’ll give the impression of stability when it’s needed. Someone to keep a nice home for them. But the downside, the price we pay is that those men are not going to be around all the time. My hubby…’
Aaaarrrgghhh!!!
‘…travels all around the world, even though he’s based in Saudi. He’s extremely important and his company value him very highly. He’s on a fantastic salary and when he retires he’ll get a fantastic settlement.’
I’m wondering: ‘What sort of job is this? Are they looking for new recruits? Me! Me!’
‘Now I’m sure, like my hubby, your Clive takes his pleasures when he can find them. When you’re not there, of course. He has to. He’s a man and that’s what men are like. It’s like trying to ask a dog to stop weeing on lampposts. But, as long as we’re careful, we girls can do the same thing as well.’
We girls can wee on lampposts? It’s a feminist’s dream come true!
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 thr
ee 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).
Christmas Without Holly Page 5
