Christmas Without Holly

by Nicola Yeager

  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?

  ‘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 gett
ing 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.’ W
hat 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.’

  ‘Have you ever considered Pilates for personal problems of this nature?’

  We both laugh, and for a few seconds I feel better, like a weight has been lifted. He looks at me carefully, as if he’s deciding what he can say that won’t turn on the waterworks again

  ‘Well! There’s nothing I’ve ever been through that’s similar to that, so I can’t really give you any advice based on experience. But I’ve been out with girls who’ve fucked me over, who’ve cheated on me, who’ve treated me in ways that I would never have treated them. I guess everyone has at one time or another. I’ve split up with girlfriends and then regretted it afterwards and I’ve made mistakes with girls – going out with the wrong ones, going out with some of them long after the magic had gone for god knows what reason.’

  Blimey – how many has he been out with? Mind you, he is very good-looking and he’s not exactly a teenager.

  ‘The thing is, Holly, I know I shouldn’t say this to you and you can report me and I’ll get the sack or whatever, but I feel, well, compelled. Just listening to what you’ve been saying. It’s really none of my business, but…’

  I smile at him. ‘Oh, go on! I’m leaving here tomorrow morning. I probably won’t ever come back here again and I certainly won’t report you to anybody. Unless what you say is really, really bad and irreparably damages my self-esteem. My people will make sure you never work again.’