Lost for Words

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Stop it. It’s no different to what you did for me when I was a kid. Why did you do all that if not to get payback now?” Sasha grinned.

  “I did that because I’m your mother and I love you.”

  “Well, I’m your daughter and I love you. What’s the difference?”

  “A mother’s job is to always look after her children. Always. A daughter’s is to grow up and live her own life.”

  “Why do you have to make it sound like I’m a middle-aged loser still living with you because I haven’t got anything else, haven’t done anything else? I have lived on my own. I have lived with a woman other than you. I’ve done that. I have a good job, a lot of great friends. I came back here to help you. To spend time with you. I’m happy here with you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fleur waved her hand, disturbing Nip, who meowed angrily and jumped out of Fleur’s embrace. Arching her back, she offered Sasha a hiss for good measure, then curled herself up onto the crisp packet, making good and sure she crushed anything left inside.

  “Yes, I know all that, and, believe me, I’m very grateful you did come back. I love having you here with me. But you aren’t happy. You’re content. You’re settled. But you’re not happy. You’re working in a job that, well… Frankly, you could do better.”

  “What’s wrong with being a massage therapist?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. But you don’t want to be a massage therapist. You want to be a scriptwriter, or whatever they call it. You want to write films and plays and all that stuff.”

  “It’s not as easy as that. You have to find the right people. You have to know the right people.”

  “Which is why I paid that entry fee when Bobbi asked me about it. I asked the crystals, and they were very clear in their directions, honey. Very clear.”

  Sasha fought not to roll her eyes again. Her mother’s devotion to crystals and seeking guidance from her higher self was just…great. Really. Really great. Just as long as she kept it out of Sasha’s life.

  “They clearly told me that this was a turning point in your life. A pivotal moment, where all your hopes and dreams could come to fruition or all my fears and worries would. All I had to do was lead you to the path, and your higher self will do the rest. You’re alone, and unhappy, and you shouldn’t be.” She linked her fingers with Sasha’s. “You don’t need to be.”

  “Mum, even if that was the case—which I’m not saying it is—but even so, it’s not that easy.”

  “You let the crystals take care of all that, honey.” She patted Sasha’s hand and leant her head back against the sofa. “Let the crystals take care of everything.”

  “Crystals don’t hold the meaning to life, Mother. And they certainly don’t hold the answer to every question I have.” She didn’t mean for it to come out as snippy as it did, but…well…it did.

  Fleur turned to look at her, for once, her expression completely serious, her eyes clear of the usual pot or pain haze, and her hands steady as she lifted them to cradle Sasha’s cheeks. “No, I don’t suppose they do.” She stroked her thumb over her jaw, then let it fall and took hold of Sasha’s hand. “Do you remember when you were little and I used to read to you every night before you went to sleep?”

  Frowning, Sasha said, “Of course. But what—”

  “Do you remember what your favourite story was?”

  Sasha smiled at the memory of those idyllic childhood moments curled into her mother’s side, where words met dreams and fuelled her imagination for a lifetime. “Peter Pan.”

  Fleur patted her hand. “Do you remember why?”

  “You mean beyond it being a fabulous story that has layers and layers of meaning that still resonate for me today as an adult?”

  Fleur snorted. “Yes, beyond that.”

  “Okay,” Sasha said, drawing the word out. “There were two lines in it that were amazing to me when I was a little girl. So many of the stories were about girls who were princesses being saved by the handsome prince, or they were just sidekicks. But in Peter Pan, it always felt more like Wendy was the one who could save Peter. And it was almost like Peter knew it. There were lines that reflected that and stuck with me, like the bit where Peter says, ‘Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys’ and ‘it’s wonderful what clever girls can do’.”

  “Yes.” Fleur looked her directly in the eye. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Mum,” Sasha said. Admittedly, it came out with more of a whine than she’d intended. “This isn’t a book or a film. It’s real life.”

  “Do you want to know what my favourite line is?”

  “What?”

  “‘Keep adventuring and stay not a grown-up.’”

  “Sounds about right,” Sasha said with a chuckle.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not right, though.” Fleur closed her eyes, a smile pulling at her lips as sleep claimed her.

  Sasha sighed and covered her with the thick woollen blanket, knowing she’d sleep for several hours. She squinted at her mother’s face, wondering at her colouring. The hue seemed a little off, a little yellow. Must be a trick of the light. She pressed a kiss to the top of her head and whispered the words Fleur had whispered to her almost every night of her childhood: “So come with me where dreams are born and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings in Never Never Land.”

  Nip took advantage of the lull in conversation and curled up against Fleur’s stomach, purring as she watched Sasha head for the door. Her eyes clearly told Sasha she’d won the battle for Fleur’s affections. Again.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sasha murmured and pulled the door closed behind her. She went to her bedroom and pulled her copy of Peter Pan from the shelf on her way to bed. The pages were loose in the spine, the corners dog-eared, and the pages shiny from where her fingers had run across them so many times. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders, slumping back against the headboard and opening to the first page.

  “All children, except one, grow up,” she read aloud, sighed, and snuggled deeper into her pillows.

  Chapter 4

  “Oh, yeah. Right there.” The soft voice was muffled by the padded surface of the table as Sasha glided her hands over oiled skin before digging in again with the heel of her palm. “Oh God, that feels so good.”

  “You’ve got knots all over the place, Mrs West.”

  “I know. Thank God you’ve got magic hands.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that compliment at work. “Thank you. Let’s hope they’re up to this task.” She felt the tell-tale ping of a corded muscle under her fingers and worked it like a guitar string until it was loose and supple and Mrs West was practically snoring on the table. Usually Sasha used the quiet time with her clients to daydream up new ideas for scripts, to develop her characters or a line of dialogue that was bothering her. Today she was focused on Bobbi’s confession and her mother’s sincere words. Was she really using her mother as an excuse to stop herself from living life? Was her life really as empty an existence as she and Bobbi seemed to think it was?

  So it had been a number of years since she’d split up with Pam. But damn it, she’d been busy the past five years. Her mother’s fight against cancer, the rehab, the adjustments, the crystals, the weed…it all took time to work through and find solutions. All of that was true. All of it had been important. Her mother was seventy-five years old and in remission from cancer…Sasha didn’t want to contemplate the future too much, but she wanted to have plenty of memories of her mum when the day came and she wasn’t around to make any new ones with her. Was that so wrong?

  Or was that simply being too pessimistic? She sighed heavily and Mrs West snored as Sasha made one final sweeping pass over her back and tugged the towel up to cover her shoulders. She bent down to the woman’s ear and whispered, “Take your ti
me, Mrs West, and get dressed when you’re ready. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  The woman smacked her lips. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky with sleep and lassitude.

  Sasha smiled and slipped from the room, crossing to the staff room to wash her hands and forearms before Mrs West would even be off the table. The quiet hallway and plush surroundings of the salon oozed opulence, and Sasha reflected for the thousandth time how the odour of money practically hung in the air. The Serenity Spa Salon offered individual treatments as well as spa breaks—be those for the day or longer. Customers paid a lot of money to feel like they were far away from the cares and worries of the often high-powered professions they temporarily escaped under Sasha’s skilful hands. When she’d first started working there, the surroundings—the incredible indulgence—had made her uncomfortable. As had the attitudes of some of the clients; money didn’t seem to buy a person manners or a personality as far as Sasha could tell. But fortunately there were enough lovely clients to make up for the few ingrates who crossed Sasha’s path. The service industry was the service industry after all, and into every life a few arseholes must fall.

  The door opened, and Sasha smiled at the tiny woman almost hidden inside the thick terry cloth towel issued to all guests for their treatments. She held out her arm. “If you’ll follow me to the chill-out room, I’ll get you something to drink while you relax and recuperate, Mrs West.”

  She beamed up at her dreamily. “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.”

  When Sasha had her situated on a day bed—bundled up in a cosy blanket with water in hand—she stepped back into the hallway. Brushing her hand across the wall’s slate façade, Sasha enjoyed the rough texture for a moment before she caught sight of Bobbi backing out of a treatment room, hands held up in supplication, eyes wide. A sputtering, angry woman was coming after her.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll see if there’s another therapist available for your treatment, Ms Polyakov. I’m very sorry,” Bobbi said softly.

  “Get out. I want proper therapist. My boyfriend is paying good money to you people,” she said with a sneer, her voice heavily accented with what sounded like Russian inflections, as she looked Bobbi up and down. “You will not do.”

  Bobbi cast her gaze down, and Sasha knew she was biting her tongue. What the hell was this woman’s problem? Bobbi was one of the most experienced technicians working at the salon. She was well trained, professional, and polite.

  Sasha stepped towards them. “May I ask what the problem is?”

  The small, skinny blond looked Sasha up and down, and her frown shifted into a smile. “Finally. You will do.” She clicked her fingers and went back into the room, turning her back on Sasha and Bobbi.

  Sasha looked at Bobbi, the what the fuck? question in the air between them.

  “Ms Polyakov is the girlfriend of the new star Man City striker and will be coming here for her treatments from now on. Big money, high profile,” Bobbi whispered.

  In other words, what the bitch wants, the bitch gets.

  “And?”

  “Seems the Russian princess has a problem with the way I look.”

  “Huh?”

  “She doesn’t care for my tan.”

  “Seriously?”

  Bobbi nodded. “Among other things she pointed out, but yeah. That one stuck out for some reason.”

  “Racist bitch,” Sasha whispered. “I’ll get Maria. She can get rid of her.”

  Bobbi shook her head. “She won’t.”

  Sasha pointed to the sign over the door that warned customers they were expected to treat staff members respectfully and would be asked to leave in the event of abuse, bullying, or the like. “We have a policy. Maria has to stick by it. She has to stick by you.”

  “She already told me this woman has booked in for her hen-party spa weekend with twenty-five other women, as well as her wedding day treatments, and has talked half the other WAGS to switch to coming here. It’s too much business for her to throw her out for this.”

  “WAGS?”

  Bobbi stared at her incredulously. “Seriously, Sasha?”

  “What? How am I supposed to know what that means?”

  Shaking her head, Bobbi said, “WAGS as in wives and girlfriends.” She waited expectantly. Sasha was none the wiser and Bobbi glared at her. “The wives and girlfriends of the footballers.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. I see what you mean.” She didn’t but who the hell cared.

  “Will you take her for me?” Bobbi asked, putting her hand on Sasha’s arm.

  “You want me to go in there and do her treatment?”

  Bobbi nodded.

  “I can’t, hon. I’ve got a mani-pedi booked in.”

  “I’ll take that for you. I’ll talk to the girls on reception and switch what we need to. I’ll take care of it all.”

  “Bobbi, let me talk to Maria—”

  “Will you be long?” the woman shouted from inside the room. “I don’t have all day.”

  “Please,” Bobbi pleaded. “I know you want to stand up for me, and, believe me, I appreciate it. But Maria can’t afford to turn her away. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. She’s one person who could put this place out of business in a month; then we’re all fucked rather than me just being really, really fucked off.”

  “How are you even this calm? Why aren’t you raging and demanding that her racist arse be dumped on the street?”

  Bobbi grinned evilly. “Because she’s here for her first ever Brazilian.”

  “The boyfriend’s request?”

  Bobbi nodded, and Sasha felt her own evil grin tug at her lips.

  “Hey, you, I ask you question?” The woman was shouting already as she opened the door and stepped into the hallway again.

  Sasha raised one eyebrow in question and Bobbi nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms Polyakov. I just have to make a few arrangements to accommodate your request of a change of technician. Please just give me a couple of minutes, and I’ll be right with you.”

  The woman looked Sasha up and down and grasped her chin in her hand, turning her face from side to side like Sasha was a prize poodle she was judging. “You could have been model if you weren’t so short.” She turned Sasha’s face to the side again, then picked up a lock of Sasha’s long dark hair. “Perhaps hair modelling. Or the eyes. And that husky voice. Like, what was her name? The singer…you know.” She broke into a very, very, very bad rendition of “I Need a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler.

  Bobbi supplied the name, and Polyakov scowled before turning her attention back to Sasha. “Yes, like Bonnie Tyler. You could do voice-over work.” She waved her hand. “It is better than this place, that is for sure. I know people. I will make calls. You will be grateful.”

  I don’t fucking think so!

  “Thank you, but I can’t accept something like that.” She waved her hand back at the room. “While you wait, if you could get undressed and lie down on the bed, there is a blanket to cover yourself. I will be as quick as I can.” She offered what she hoped was a smile rather than a snarl.

  “Fine. But every minute will reduce the tip I shall be leaving, so be quick about it.”

  Okay, so she’s clearly pissed that I didn’t fall over myself at the chance to become Britain’s next aging model. Boohoo. Sasha murmured her acknowledgement at the woman and closed the door behind her. “Last chance, hon,” she whispered to Bobbi, who was still standing there, watching the whole interaction blankly. “You sure you don’t want me to bring in Maria?”

  “Nah. I just wish I could be a fly on the wall. She’s so gonna cry.”

  Sasha didn’t usually enjoy these treatments. She didn’t enjoy inflicting pain—even on a voluntary basis—to people. It was the main reason she was rarely assigned to do wax treatments, any wax treatments. So her skills were a little rusty in this department, but Polyakov
had demanded her. She was a racist and was treating everyone like shit. She was a bitch.

  Sasha checked the clock on the wall.

  “Time for a coffee after this?” Sasha asked quietly, tipping her head towards the staff room.

  Bobbi frowned. “No idea. I’ll let you know what the changes to the schedule are after we finish the next clients.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Look, Sash, I know I said it yesterday, but I just wanted to say it again. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to…well…I didn’t think it would really upset you so much to enter you into that stupid competition. I thought you’d be stoked to make the finalist list. I really did. I thought it was awesome, I mean, they had literally thousands of entries, and yours is like in the top five.”

  “I am happy about that. You’re right; it is an achievement to be proud of. I’m not upset about that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Because it’s my life to make decisions about. Not yours, and not my mother’s.”

  “But it was just a competition. They take what you’ve done and make it into a film. It’s cool. You’ll get to go to the pictures with me and see your film. I mean, how fucking awesome will that be. I’ll buy you the DVD for Christmas, then we can watch it anytime we want. Honestly, Sash, it’ll be great.”

  Sasha hung her head. Bobbi was never going to get it. She just didn’t see the problem. “Never mind.”

  Bobbi beamed. “I should run now, I’ve gotta get to your mani-pedi, and you’ve got a stripping to attend to.” And then she was gone. At least she looked cheered up, Sasha decided.

  She stepped back into her treatment room. Polyakov was playing on her phone, naked from the waist down, with the hairiest snatch Sasha had seen in a long time staring back at her. Someone took the half-a-centimetre-or-more rule of waxing and ran with it. This is not going to make this less painful.

  Sasha checked that her tools were laid out and close to hand and that the wax pot was up to temperature and then pulled on a pair of latex gloves.