by Hannah Doyle
Ben is brilliant.
‘What’s Mila’s excuse for not babysitting you tonight, then?’
Ben is such a dick.
‘It’s called being a good friend,’ I huff. ‘She and Mike love having me with them at the cinema, Mila told me so. Sometimes I even pay for the popcorn. And do you know what I definitely don’t do? Pretend they’re my parents. Because that would be weird.’ Ben scrunches up his face before tipping his head back and emptying the nuts directly into his gob. Animal. ‘Anyway, she’s moving in with him next week so they’re packing up her flat all weekend.’
‘Shouldn’t we be helping with that?’
‘I did offer, but she said she’d be going full Military Mila on the situation and she wanted to save us from having to witness all the shouting and ordering around.’
‘I can’t believe they are moving in, those two are in deep. It’ll be weddings and babies next. What’s up with your face?’ Ben asks, tipping his head to one side.
I realise I’ve bunched my features up. ‘Dunno. I guess thinking about how Mila and Mike are the perfect fit makes me reflect on my own shambolic life a bit.’
Ben chuckles. ‘Jas, Mila’s life isn’t all perfect you know? She just went to Barnsley on a work trip while you’re just back from Cannes Film Festival and the Italian Lakes. I know that your boss is a dick, but honestly, how many of us are best mates with our boss? And so what if you haven’t met the right man yet? It’ll happen.’
‘I wish I had your confidence.’
‘You really want what Mila’s got?’ Ben asks.
‘Not in the work sense. Can you imagine me attempting to be a barrister? I’d be useless at grilling people. But I would like to find a love like Mila’s. Mike’s so smitten with her. You can see it in his eyes. They’ve been together for years now. . .’
‘Day in, day out with the same person?’
‘Does it really sound that bad to you though? The other day in the park I got the impression that you might be starting to think about what the future has in store, relationship-wise. I for one think you’d make an awesome boyfriend.’
WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY YOU CRAZY FOOL?!
Ben’s eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before we both start clearing our throats and checking the time.
Arghhhhh.
‘You’d make an awesome boyfriend for some girl you haven’t met yet, is what I obviously meant to say. Ha ha! Who knows, she might be here tonight?’ There’s a beautiful woman pushing through the cinema doors and I nod in her direction even though it makes me feel inexplicably blue.
‘Maybe,’ he shrugs.
Within minutes of touching our feet down on Swiss soil, we’re being ushered into a 4x4 by a hotel chauffeur. Violet’s wearing the prerequisite giant sunglasses and I’m feeling sorry for the porter who is buckling under the weight of her 26 tonnes of luggage. We’re away for a grand total of three nights, so what she has in there is anybody’s guess. She has taken charge of her own hand luggage, a Chloé micro which just fits her passport and a lipstick. I lob my kit into the boot, marvelling at the fact that this wagon has the spa hotel’s logo etched in silver across the boot. Fancy!
‘Violet, what’s this place like? I was trying to find it online so I could research shoot locations but nothing came up.’
Violet settles back into the plush leather seat and opens the bottle of water stashed in a pocket behind the driver’s seat. ‘It’s not up yet. The hotel has planned a launch to coincide with our coverage – there will be top bloggers and journalists there this week.’
‘So what do you know about it?’
‘It’s the latest wellness spa and it’s going to be a huge deal. I think they use water from a thermal spring on site for their treatments. It sounds pretty slick.’
I’ve no doubt. And the word spa is making me buzz with excitement. I’m thinking. . . towelling robes, fluffy slippers, a morning swim to start the day. What a treat!
Sun-dappled mountains glide by, some still capped by the last of the winter snow. Lush, alpine trees cling to the peaks and every once in a while we drive past a waterfall, crystal clear liquid crashing down from the rugged alps. If I were a puppy, I’d be hanging my head out of the car, tongue out. Instead I’ll make doing with pressing my nose against the window, toddler-style. Soon enough, large electric gates are shutting behind us and we’re pulling up outside a modern building made mostly of glass, reflecting the dominant mountains from every angle.
‘I wonder what drink we’ll be offered on arrival,’ muses Violet. ‘I feel like a simple gin and tonic would be just perfect, don’t you?’
‘Ooh, I wouldn’t say no!’
Some of us step daintily out of the car like an advert for etiquette while some of us hitch up our jeans and hope there’s not too much butt crack on show. I’ll leave you to guess which is which. Ahead of us, the glass door glides silently open and two women approach wearing, wait, are they matrons’ outfits? White smocks. White rubber shoes. White hats secured into place with pins. I can’t say I’m vibing the staff uniform.
‘Welcome to Bad Wassen,’ says one with a tight smile.
‘What’s so bad about the wassen?’ I quip. Violet nudges me in the ribs and we share a look, trying not to giggle. A shared joke with my boss! This trip has started brilliantly.
‘Wassen is the spring here,’ explains the second lady with no hint of reciprocated humour. ‘It is the source of water and of life. Bad is Swiss for spa. Please do direct questions to any member of staff while you are here, we are all happy to help. Now, before we get you settled in we need to do a quick security check.’
Violet and I stop smiling.
‘We simply go through your belongings and prune out anything that attaches you to the outside world. No phones. No laptops. No tablets. No connection.’
Violet’s gone pale despite her recent visit to Bruce the spray tanner.
‘No connection? I’m afraid that can’t happen. Ladies, I’m an influencer. You can’t influence without a phone. AND WHAT ABOUT MY FAMOUS BOYFRIEND?’ Her voice has gone shrill and she’s already turning on her heels, but those electric gates have closed and the matrons are resting firm hands on Violet’s shoulders.
‘You’ll be fine,’ they soothe. ‘A few days at Bad Wassen and you’ll feel new born.’
Violet’s actually dragging her feet on the gravel as they pull her along. I don’t feel too enthused about a three-night digital detox myself, to be honest, but we’re here now. That g&t had better taste good.
‘THERE’S NO BOOZE?’ Violet shouts. ‘No wifi and no booze? What is this place?!’ She’s being marched through the jaw-dropping reception area, past a bar which stocks only water and towards her bedroom. I’m trailing along behind, trying to keep enough of a distance so that other guests don’t think I’m with Crazy. If it weren’t for the modern architecture, marble everything and heavenly herbal smell in the air, Violet being dragged away by matrons could look a bit like the start of a horror movie.
Violet and I are sharing a room because ‘even I couldn’t persuade them to let me have another room for my staff’, she said. Staff indeed. Still, you know somewhere is proper exclusive when Violet can’t get her own way. On the bright side, the fact that this room is both palatial and stunning seems to be appeasing her. There’s a balcony stretching the width of the suite with views out over the alps and a dipping pool outside. Inside are the plumpest twin beds I ever did see, a separate lounge area and a bathroom with hers and hers sinks.
‘This place is incredible,’ I gasp, walking from one corner to the next with my hand outspread, lightly touching every surface. It’s all polished concrete with dazzling white walls and flashes of colour thanks to contemporary art.
‘It is quite nice,’ sniffs Violet. I can tell that she’s impressed, despite the fact that she gets to enjoy this kind of luxury on the regular. It’s a colossal step up for me and even having to share with Vomit isn’t stopping me from feeling dizzy with exc
itement.
I’m about to dive headfirst into the minibar, hopes of Swiss chocolate filling my mind, when there’s a short, sharp knock at the door and one of the ladies in white appears with a wad of paper in one hand, a tray with glasses of water in the other.
‘Here are your itineraries for the weekend. Please report down to reception in seven minutes for your medicals.’
‘Medicals?’ I mouth to Violet as we blink down at the printed sheets.
4pm MEDICAL conducted by Dr Rochat
5pm INTRODUCTION TO YOGA
6pm REST and CONTEMPLATION
6:50 DINNER
8pm LIGHTS OUT
‘Lights out? Surely they can’t mean bed time? AT EIGHT PM! What is this, boarding school in the Victorian times?’ puffs Violet.
It does sound a bit strict. ‘Oh look, here’s some more info about the hotel,’ I say, rifling through my paper. I skim through it, reading out loud the essential information. ‘Digital detox. . . raw, plant-based diet. . . vigorous fitness regime. . . zen mantra.’ I grimace. Violet looks anything but zen.
‘It’s still a spa,’ I try to sound upbeat. ‘There’s bound to be some time to unwind, maybe get a pedicure, that sort of thing?’
‘I hope so, otherwise I’ll be straight on the phone to my agent.’
Now doesn’t seem like the right time to remind Violet that her phone is currently imprisoned in the hotel’s storage room under lock and key.
When I clambered into bed I had high hopes of being gently woken up by the sound of birds chirping in the trees outside. I had not counted on being rudely awoken by the aggressive rumblings of my own stomach, having consumed nothing but water and an assortment of leaves for supper last night. We were allowed three blueberries each for pudding, but apparently that was to ease us into the regime as sugar, even the natural kind, will be strictly off limits for the rest of our stay. I dread to think what they’re planning for breakfast. Water, maybe?
Violet is still snoring when I check today’s schedule. Something called MORNING BREATHING is happening at 6:30 which gives me 45 minutes to myself, so I grab my camera and race into the grounds, hoping to catch the rising sun through the trees.
It feels strange not to have my phone to hand at any moment of the day. It’s like a comfort blanket that doesn’t actually offer much comfort and my mind feels less cluttered without it. Most of the time I’m posting photos for Violet, but right now she’s losing her shit over the lack of wifi. She’s gone FERAL, btw. She actually tried to leap over the receptionist to get at the solitary phone in this spa earlier and is now in a small white room where she’s been asked to do some thinking, with nothing but a herbal tea for company. Smirk.
As for me, the only problem with not having my phone is that I’ve got a lot of time to think without distraction. Usually, if I start getting bogged down in memories about what happened with Dad, a simple scroll through Facebook would get me back off track. There’s always a new cat baby to coo over / a relative making questionable political statements to cringe about / a Fucking Susan to despair at. Now, while I wait for Violet’s ‘gentle anger management class’ to finish, there’s nowhere left to hide and nothing left to do but think.
So, yeah, it’s mostly Dad. He’d been The Best throughout my entire childhood. He embraced my dreams, he made me feel like I could achieve my goals, he looked after me when I was sick and Mum was stuck at work. Sometimes he’d even fashion spaghetti hoops on toast into famous artworks and have me guess what they were, like Spaghetti Van Gogh’s Toast Sunflowers.
Then he stopped being the best in spectacular fashion. I’d just finished my A levels and a long, hot summer lay ahead, filled with the promise of eighteenth birthday parties and endless days with my best friends Mila, Ben and also Holly. There were four of us back then and Holly completed our group. The familiar stab of pain jabs at my heart and I shake my head, frustrated with myself for letting my mind go down this sorry path.
‘Okay, Jasmine. Are you ready for you first spa treatment?’ A member of staff interrupts my thoughts with yet another glass of water. I’m going to be peeing purified thermal waters for weeks.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, unbelievably grateful for the distraction. Finally, something akin to what I’d hoped for this weekend!
It’s a problem, but I can’t help loving wildly sexist rap music. And right now everything feels a little Hot in Herre. Violet’s just back from ‘being told to fucking mellow out by some twat in a smock’, she said, painting a delightful picture, and now we’re both in our bikinis in a searing hot sauna. Violet’s got a gorgeous glow to her smooth skin. I am tugging at the bikini strap digging into my side flab, droplets of sweat landing on my pale thighs. We all have different qualities, right? Violet looks like a model, has a successful career and a relationship that seems to be going swimmingly. I just had quite a good poke around my belly button, which is now totally fluff-free.
I stretch my feet out onto the wooden step below, instantly pulling them back onto the towel I’m sat on because it’s hotter than the sun.
‘Time for a quick dip before your massage,’ says one of the spa workers. Then he waves towards a plunge pool and tells us to jump in. Violet looks nervous so I go first and—
‘MOTHER MARY AND JOSEPH’ The ice-cold water tightens around my lungs. It’s so cold that I’ve lost the use of my limbs which, apparently, is exactly what the spa staff expect to happen. A rubber hoop on a long metal pole is extended out for me to grab on to and I’m scooped back to dry land like a fish in a goldfish bowl.
‘So. Cold,’ I stammer through chattering jaw.
‘I’m not doing that!’ Violet protests, waving her index finger from side to side. The guy with the rubber hoop nudges her in anyway.
‘OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!’ she cries. ‘I’m going to sue!’ And then, once she’s been fished out, ‘That was actually quite refreshing.’
If I wondered what the pile of soggy twigs were doing in the corner of our massage room, I now know. We’re being beaten with them. I’m at a spa in Switzerland with nothing but a mental boss and my own thoughts to keep my company, and now I’m being whacked across the back with half a Christmas tree.
Oh, and did I mention I’m completely naked?
‘Remind me why this is good for us,’ I say, back tense.
‘Purification. Boosts circulation. Stops the body ageing early. It originates from Russia,’ says my attacker between thwacks.
‘Should have bloody stayed there,’ I whisper. Violet giggles.
‘Try to empty your mind. Don’t speak. Get zen.’
‘Righto.’
‘I’d feel a bit more zen if you weren’t hitting me with sticks,’ Violet grumbles, getting such a glare from her own masseuse. Clearly not keen to go back to anger management class, she shuts her mouth and makes do with rolling her eyes at me. I pull faces in response. It’s funny, but Violet and I have had a couple of moments where we’ve bonded recently. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still completely bat shit, but it’s nice to feel like we’re ever so slightly more on the same wavelength.
There’s one thing I don’t love about the minimalist interiors of this spa. White walls? Sure! White marble bathroom? Yes please! White dinner plate with approx two pieces of cucumber on it? No, blooming, thank you. I am sooooooooo hungry. We’re in the middle of a five-course tasting menu, which I had very high hopes for, but it turns out that’s literally all you get. A taste of the food. I’ve started to feel like I’m in a cartoon world where everything I look at turns into a tasty dish.
‘Everything alright?’ asks a giant ham.
Ah, okay, it’s not a giant ham. It’s Violet, sat across from me at dinner. And she’s NOT EVEN EATEN the cucumber display on her plate.
‘I’m going to go crazy if I don’t eat some proper food soon,’ I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the calm atmosphere as others diners tuck into their own meals with seeming relish.
‘There’s lots of food on offer,’ Violet looks confuse
d. ‘The snack truck always has a limitless stock of fresh veg. I’ve been pigging out on carrots all trip!’
The words pigging out and carrots don’t seem like natural bedfellows to me.
‘And you can get a spinach smoothie from the bar whenever you like.’
‘But Vi, I don’t want to “pig out” on smoothies, or two pieces of rocket, or a small bowl of quinoa. I need some bloody carbs!’ I sort-of shout, gripping our table in a frenzy.
‘Can I help madam with anything?’ asks a slice of grilled halloumi. Wait, no, it’s a waiter dressed all in white.
‘I need some carbs!’ I plead.
‘Okay,’ he smiles, attempting to diffuse my meltdown. ‘Don’t panic. Chef has some pearl barley in stock for this very situation, he can make a barley risotto for you?’
So, I wolfed the ‘risotto’ down like a woman possessed and, guys, I can tell you that it did not hit the spot. When I said carbs, I was hoping for something a little bit more. . . absolutely massive burger. And now I’m lying awake fantasising about burning down the vegetable snack truck using nothing but the fuel of my rage. I’m just not the kind of person who finds a handful of radish will stave off those mid-morning munchies, especially after hiking up the alps and swimming a zillion lengths (in an admittedly beautiful fresh-water pool) all before ‘breakfast’ (chia porridge. . . I can’t even.) Violet is snoring in the bed next to mine. All I can think about is getting to the airport and doing a smash and grab around the food stores there, but we don’t fly home until tomorrow which means I’ll have to endure an entire night of rumbling tum.
Tum. What a funny word! I say it over and over in my mind until it loses all meaning. Tum. What’s it even playing at?