by Claire Peate
But there were no security guards, just the receptionist who took us through the package that we’d booked months ago. She kept tapping the brochures with her well-manicured fingers. I was going to get me some of that. I didn’t know, up until that point, that fingers could look so good. They made Marcia’s manicured fingers look like a chimpanzee had attacked her with a bottle of Rimmel Quick Dry.
A whole new world was opening up to me. Maybe this really would be the beginning of the end of my DLC. I would learn how to do more of this interesting stuff. Learn how to enjoy doing some of this stuff at least. I would go to health spas. I would ride horses. I would hang around country lanes a bit more and meet more dishy farmers…
According to the receptionist with the amazing nails we were entitled to three treatments from a huge list in our files, and we needed to book those in before we left the lounge. We were free to use all the facilities including two swimming pools, one indoors and one outdoors, Jacuzzi, salt-water pool, gymnasium, steam-room, sauna, a place called The Lavender Relaxation Room and the café, lounge and dining-room.
“We encourage you to relax here at the spa,” she was saying in her ultra-calm voice, “and a lot of our guests like to spend the day in their robes, so please feel free to keep them on wherever you are. You can pick them up from just over there, along with complimentary slippers that you can take away with you after your day with us.”
Complimentary slippers? Freebies! My heart sang with joy.
“When you’ve submitted your preferred therapies to me I will book them in for you and give you times for your treatments. Then I’ll show you where the individual suites are located in the hotel. If you make your way to your suite five minutes before your start time, the beautician will be waiting for you.”
She asked us if we had any questions and I bit back the urge to ask if we could keep the towelling robes. Surely she would have said if we could. And if I did ask that then surely a security person would make an appearance.
As it was no one had any questions so she left us to it and we had the difficult task of trying to puzzle out what the various therapies were.
Looking at the superglossy brochure of treatments I was reminded of those pretentious restaurants that try to demonstrate just how posh they are by describing foods using the most obscure words the chef can come up with. Like using “jus” instead of just plain gravy. Or “a medley of mixed berries” instead of calling it fruit salad. It always got under my skin because it led to the inevitable disappointment. The descriptions made you believe that you had just ordered the most amazing assortment of this and ensemble of that with jus of this and cocotte of that, but what you really got was chicken in white wine sauce and mash, with an ice cream sundae for pudding. So I concentrated hard on my brochure, trying to interpret the purple passages and understand what the treatments really were.
Cathy’s phone beeped loudly and made us all jump. We were all edgy after last night, even in the protective lavishness of a luxury health spa. Who knows where big cats might lurk? Cathy frantically texted her fiancé back while an old man with a towelling robe that was slipping horribly open at the front frowned sternly in our direction, letting us know just how cross he was at the disturbance to the peace. I couldn’t help staring at the gaping towel at his crotch, mesmerised. I was drawn to it out of sheer horror. Surely he would pull the robe together? Surely he must be feeling a draught downstairs? But no, even my horrified expression, which he must have seen, hadn’t convinced him he needed to check himself. He just carried on reading the FT. And gaping.
I turned back to the glossy brochure. I’d never been to a health spa before, so while it was great that I was trying something new and being adventurous, it also meant that I had no idea what everything was. Except a manicure.
“Hey guys, have you seen the Rasul Mud Treatment?” Henna was laughing. “I am so going to have this! It says ‘three types of mud are applied to body and face. These muds draw toxins from the skin and steam aids the detoxification process and relaxes the body. The ritual ends with a cleansing tropical shower.’”
“Henna, that sounds awful!” I said. “All it will be is a mud bath followed by a hose down. I could have done that for free back at the Hen House.”
“Yes but think of the toxins,” she said. “That’s last night sorted out. I’ll be glowing! Bring on the farmers!” she sang.
“Vets,” corrected Louisa without looking up from her brochure. “The farmers are all mine.”
“Yeah but I thought…”
“Mine!”
“Whatever.”
“What about the Shirodhara?” Cathy interrupted. “Apparently it’s deeply relaxing because they pour oils onto the forehead which run through the hair for ultimate relaxation.” Laura snorted loudly with laughter and then slapped her hand over her mouth as she heard the angry snap and rustle of a newspaper by the loosely-robed FT reader behind us.
We were clearly not fitting in to the spa atmosphere. Our guffaws raised the heads of several other spa victims who frowned and then went back to their papers and smoothies. Eventually we knuckled down to business, ticking the boxes of our chosen treatments. I went for a Prescription Facial (including bust) which involved a firming serum which sounded good, then a Toning Streamliner which involved a scary-sounding deep massage which promised the earth – especially good after last night. And then a good old-fashioned manicure, because my hands were horrid and I wanted angel hands like the receptionist. Hands, in fact, that I could display right in front of Marcia’s nose as I counted off the list of things I had done this weekend.
Most of the girls chose beautifying treatments that promised they would look and feel like goddesses by the end of the day, presumably in preparation for bumping into a bevy of handsome Welsh farmers in the evening. After all we were due to pay a visit to the local pub that evening for dinner and drinks, and a few of the girls, myself included, were of the opinion that it would be unacceptably rude to walk past Gwyn’s farmhouse and not invite him to join us. Even though absolutely no one was going to do anything with him. Never mind that, though, I just hoped he’d see past their temporary facial beauty and notice my stunning manicured hands and fall helplessly in love with me.
Cathy’s phone beeped again and she hurriedly checked her text message. The old bloke with the ever more gaping robe snapped his newspaper again in anger. As one we all turned round and smiled sweetly at him.
The phone went off again.
“For the love of God!” Robe-man leapt up, glaring at us.
“Argh!” Henna, Laura and I shielded our eyes from the view. Flinging his paper violently down, he stormed off.
Henna burst out laughing while Laura made retching noises. “That was so disgusting!” She put her head in her hands. “Shouldn’t he be wearing pants?”
“Wee Willie Winkie,” giggled Henna, holding up her little finger.
Cathy, meanwhile, had dived into her bag again. “It’s not my phone,” she said meekly.
“Oh! It’s mine.” Louisa took her phone out and scrolled down the text. “The boys have just started go-carting. Oh my God! Paul has been taken off to the local hospital,” she read. “Bloody hell! Apparently he’s got a suspected broken leg.”
Louisa called up James while we politely listened in. From the conversation we could hear that the boys had already gone paintballing first thing that morning and go-carting was just starting. They must be exhausted.
“So,” Laura asked when Louisa finished the call, “what’s happening on the stag do?”
“Apparently Paul’s not rejoining them. He’s going home after the hospital.”
“Can he drive?” Laura asked.
“His girlfriend’s picking him up. Anyway, the others are going back to the go-carting circuit now and they’re off to a local pub this evening for another quiet night.”
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” I said before I’d really thought it through.
“What’s a bit odd?”
Louisa asked.
“Well, they do all this stuff in the daytime and then just hang around for quiet nights. Seems a bit odd, that’s all.”
“They’re probably tired,” Cathy volunteered.
“Really?”
“What are you saying, Rachel?”
“Do you believe him?”
“Of course I believe him! I’m getting married to him. And anyway, what else are they going to get up to in rural Wales? They’re only in the next valley and I can’t imagine there are any strip joints round there. It’s like over here, isn’t it? All farms and stuff…”
“Erm, no?”
“What’s it like, then?” Louisa suddenly looked concerned.
“Well, you’ve got Merthyr. And Pontypool.”
“Are they bad?”
“Well, they’re not rural.”
“Yes, but are they bad?”
I looked around for someone else to help me out but everyone was staring hard at their brochures.
“Well…”
“I don’t care!” Louisa announced, cutting off what I was going to say. “Whatever they do it’s not a problem with me. They can do what they like.”
I was glad I hadn’t got a significant other at that point. They seemed like a whole lot of hassle to be worrying about. If I were Louisa I would have been worried about my fiancé. However well behaved and responsible James was, his mates were absolutely mental and would no doubt become even more so over the stag weekend. Everyone knew that stag dos were a licence to have one last taste of freedom. Everyone except Louisa, apparently.
13
Therapies booked and robes and complimentary slippers com-mandeered we headed off to the changing-rooms to start our day. Only Louisa was a spa-expert and knew what the routine was in these places, so the rest of us happily followed her lead. I was glad I wasn’t the only one to feel a bit out of place; I was probably more comfortable here than Laura was. She didn’t actually want any beauty treatments but had gamely booked three just to show willing.
Within half an hour we were swimming in the glorious August sunshine in the open-air pool. It was raised up so we could enjoy the views of the rolling hills of Monmouthshire, dotted with its whitewashed farmhouses, sweeping fields and pockets of woodland. It was so beautiful, so peaceful and relaxing with just the lapping of water and the cawing of birds overhead. As I splish-splashed my way lazily down the pool I promised myself that I would be back in the countryside as soon as possible after this weekend. I couldn’t believe we were only an hour from Cardiff – it seemed like a world away from the busy capital. I could commute from here. Buy a little house in a village somewhere, get membership to the Llangorse Manor and buy a Jaguar to travel down to work in. Well, while I was dreaming, why not make it an Aston Martin and why not move in with Gwynfor the farmer? I could raise hearty farmer-children who played barefoot in the fields and we could live in the Hen House because, really, that was the kind of girl I was at heart. Bohemian. Eclectic. Ethnic but also traditional. I would jack in my project management job and sell my soulless, strip-lit Ikea-clad apartment and come to live here and be a mother and … and a weaver. Yes. That was what I was destined to do.
And I would invite Marcia over and have her stay in the pantry-bedroom and keep her awake at night by standing under her window and snapping twigs.
Ha!
By lunchtime we had swum and sunbathed, been for a sauna, a steam and spent a few minutes in the Lavender Relaxation Room without actually getting what it was supposed to do, except permanently impregnate the smell of lavender on to your skin.
Dressed in our fur-coat-like towelling robes on top of our swimsuits, we went for lunch in the bar beside the pool. It was on a sheltered sun terrace overlooking the golf course and the lake nearby, with palm trees in silver pots.
There were only a few other diners out on the terrace and most of them were talking quietly or reading a newspaper while they ate their lunches. Thankfully Mr Genitals and his ever-rustling Financial Times were not on the terrace, enjoying the fresh air. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the polite rumble of conversation from the other guests.
So far all the staff we had seen at the hotel had been immaculately presented and thoroughly professional. The waitresses in the bar seemed to let the side down somewhat. Not that I minded at all – they made me feel all the more classy.
“Do you want any wine, then?” a brassy blonde with ginger roots stared at us, pencil poised in a notepad.
“Ahh, no, not for me,” Louisa said. “Just a water.”
“And me,” I said
“Yeah, me too,” Cathy and Laura added in unison.
“Actually, I might have a small glass. Very small,” Henna relented. “Hair of the dog…”
“We don’t ‘ave that one.” The waitress flicked through the wine list. “Is there another one you want?”
I laughed. Laura kicked me under the table.
“Oh dear. No hair of the dog?” Henna played along. “Well, in that case it’s going to have to be the … er … Shiraz Grenache.”
“Small, yeah?”
“Erm, well, why not make it a large.”
“Large. Shiraz. Grenache. That it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
She slouched off, ripping the paper off her pad and slapping it down on the bar.
“Blimey, she could do with a beauty treatment or two,” Louisa whispered when she’d gone.
“Yeah. A pedicure to the face,” I added, finishing off my salmon. “Look at her mate, though. She’s just as rough.”
The peroxide blonde had gravitated to an over-made-up redhead who was busy turning water bottles so that the labels faced the same way. As no one was particularly talkative while we were eating, we could all make out their conversation.
“You missed a bottle there.”
“Are you sorting ‘em or am I?”
“All right then, you do it. No need to have a strop about it.”
“’As he called you back yet?”
“What? The bloke from the club last night? Yeah. He texted me this mornin’. He says, ‘Why not bring your mates along too’ so I thought you’d like to come. And Bianca’s coming an’ all.”
“Brilliant,” the redhead said, “it’ll be a right laugh. Didn’t you say he was good looking?”
“Yeah. A couple of them are. But the one that invited me, it’s his stag do.”
We all froze. Knives stopped cutting, mouths stopped chewing. We were all poised, listening in. Louisa looked as though she’d just been shot.
“So where is it?” the redhead was asking, picking at her nail polish while she sorted out the condiments.
“They’re in that bed and breakfast up the Merthyr road…”
“I know it. The green one. Where that man hung himself last year.”
“That’s it. They said we should meet them at the Star and Garter at nine. You don’t get many blokes round here like that. I reckon it’s gonna be a top night. I’m not inviting Tasha, though, she’s a right slag.”
“Yeah, fuckin’ Tasha…”
Louisa mechanically put her knife and fork down. We all looked at her. She looked thunderous.
The barman brought over the glasses of water and Henna’s wine. The tension was tangible as we all kept a respectful silence until we were on our own again.
“It might not be James,” I began the minute the barman had gone, but Henna shushed me as the two local girls had started talking again.
“It’s James something-or-other,” she was saying, “an’ the other one’s called Howie or somethin’. You can ‘ave ‘im!” And the two of them laughed coarsely.
“Bastard,” Louisa said through tight lips. “That lying, cheating bastard! Quiet night in, my arse! I knew he was up to something.”
“You should definitely shag that farmer then,” piped up Henna, going back to her omelette.
“Too bloody right,” Louisa snapped, knocking back Henna’s wine. “And I’ll sha
g the vet as well.”
Cathy, looking shocked and not a little disapproving, set about busying herself with her chips. Laura looked as if she was measuring up the two waitresses in preparation for taking them on. What was she going to do – nut them like she did Henna?
I felt a call of duty to cheer up my pal. I couldn’t imagine how she must feel, with James poised to have his wicked way with a couple of valley girls. “You know, it doesn’t mean he’ll get up to anything, Lou.” I put my hand on her trembling hand and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t think you should worry about it. Really I don’t. Besides, look at them. James wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole!”
“But what about his mates? They’ll push him to … to…” She looked distraught.
“No they won’t,” I cut her short. “His mates are up for that sort of thing, maybe, but James certainly isn’t. I bet what will happen is the other guys will be chatting up the talent while James occupies himself with the snooker. Or maybe darts…”
“I’m still going to have my share of fun,” Louisa said, through gritted teeth, “but thank you, Rach. It’s nice of you to be so positive.”
“Come on, lets go.” Henna downed what was left of her wine in one gulp. “I don’t think we want to hear any more from the waitresses.”
We went back to our loungers by the poolside for some sunbathing and in-depth discussions on the nature of stag and hen parties and how Louisa now had free licence to go after any attractive man she might meet during the course of the weekend. I couldn’t help feeling a pang for Gwynfor the ill-fated farmer. He wouldn’t know what had hit him when we came knocking on his door tonight on the way to the pub. Still, Gwynfor was a strong man and could probably take care of himself, if push came to shove came to thrusting him into a bedroom.
