Christmas Without Holly

by Nicola Yeager

  Christmas Without Holly

  Nicola Yeager

  © Nicola Yeager 2012

  Nicola Yeager has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Extract from White Christmas, by Emma Lee Potter

  One

  Is there one word you hate? I mean really, really hate? Like, if someone made you write out a list of your least favourite words in the world, the word that would be at the top of that list? Numero uno? The Hitler of the world of words? Well, for me it’s ‘hubby’. Whenever I hear another woman refer to her bloody ‘hubby’, it makes me want to pull each individual hair out of her head with tweezers. And that’d be just for starters.

  I don’t quite know what it is about ‘hubby’ that annoys me so much. Maybe it’s because it suggests an over-sentimental, matey relationship with some honest, DIY-expert-father-of-your-kids type who loves his football and his car. Like your husband is your best mate or something. Your partner in crime. Your bloody hubby.

  There’s an ill-defined smugness to it, as well. ‘I am married!’ is what it’s saying. ‘I’ve got a hubby! Have you got a hubby? Where’s my hubby? Hubby’s in a bad mood!’ It’s like a baby word, used by adult baby cattle-women, whose sole ambition in life since they were three was to get married and get themselves a ‘hubby’.

  Well, I’ll tell you one thing. When I’m married, I’ll never, ever call my husband ‘hubby’. If you ever catch me using that awful word, you have my permission to use my head for testing the strength of cricket bats.

  I’m not married, though, but I am engaged. More of that later. At the moment I’m sitting down in the waiting area of a health spa, waiting for my name to be called. I was feeling so knackered a few weeks ago that I decided to book myself a few days in a rather swanky health farm in Surrey. It’s called Willows, though I’ve already checked and I couldn’t see any actual willows growing anywhere, though I don’t suppose it was that important to whoever gave it its relaxing, new-agey name.

  I’m not only here for a de-stressing pamper-fest, though. It’ll be Christmas in a week and I’ll be spending it with my fiancé’s family, so decided to get myself tarted up a bit. New haircut, fingernails done and maybe even lose a few pounds (I wish!). I’ve also booked quite a few posh treatments, even though I didn’t quite understand what some of them were. But what the hell. I’m only going to be here for three days, so I may as well make the most of it.

  This morning, I got shown around everywhere (The Induction, they called it) and listened to a posh young chap telling us about all the treatments that were available in the tone of voice you’d expect from a used car salesman.

  He kept telling us about all the celebs that had stayed here, assuming we were all the sort of people who’d be impressed by that, like he obviously was. After he’s finished, I think ‘What a slimy guy!’ He reminded me of a lizard and I half expected a long tongue to come darting out of his mouth should an unlucky fly stray nearby.

  After The Induction was completed (and I immediately forgot most of it), I had a long, lovely swim, followed by a steam bath. I made the mistake of taking my book into the steam bath, and watched glumly as it fell apart when the glue melted in the heat. Duh. I’ve only been here a short while and my brain is switching off already!

  After all that strenuous activity and exhausting sitting down, I was starving, and had a tiny piece of fish with a large amount of salad for lunch, washed down with the finest gourmet spring water. I felt really healthy and pleased with myself. For some reason, I started thinking of baked bean pizzas almost immediately.

  So here I am, slumped in a big green chair in a fluffy, white Willows robe, staring blankly at some of the other women and wondering, in some cases, if anything can be done for them. There’re a couple of porky women sitting across from me who have obviously come here together. Both keep smiling at me and I wonder if I’m meant to say something like ‘Hi! I guess you’ve come here to lose a few pounds!’, but I think that would probably be too rude.

  There’s a woman of about fifty sitting a bit further away with the most lovely, smooth skin. Her hair is white, but it’s been styled so beautifully that dying it would be a sin. It really suits her and I hope I look that good in twenty-five years. She’s reading a copy of Harper’s Bazaar and smiling to herself. Maybe she’s thinking about her hubby. Or even a secret lover!

  I clasp my hands behind my neck and allow myself a big, luxuriant stretch, when I’m suddenly aware of someone plonking themselves in the big green chair next to mine. She’s in her late thirties or early forties, stick-thin and smelling of expensive perfume. Instinctively, I look at her left hand and am nauseated to see a white gold wedding band and a massive, and I mean massive diamond and sapphire engagement ring. Honestly, some people do like showing off, don’t they!

  Her hair is dyed ash blonde (I can always tell when someone’s hair is dyed – it’s a gift I have) and she has the most immaculate fingernails I’ve ever seen on another human being (assuming that’s what she is). Definitely a high maintenance babe. I just hope she doesn’t talk to me.

  ‘Hi! I’m Rebecca!’

  She shakes my hand. I slide my way up to a normal sitting position and feel my bra clasp come undone as it rubs against the back of the chair. I’m not going to do anything about this yet as I think it would look a bit weird.

  ‘Hello. I’m Holly.’

  ‘I bet you get lots of jokes, don’t you. At this time of year.’

  For a moment, I don’t know what she’s talking about, then I realise and smile. If you’ve had a name for quite a while, like since you’ve been born, you sort of get used to it and don’t always see why it’s a source of amusement to others.

  ‘Well, no, actually.’

  ‘Were you born on Christmas day? My sister was born on Christmas day. She’s called Noelle. I thought that Holly might have been a similar sort of thing. Do you get invited to a lot of Christmas parties? Is this your first time?’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s my eighth time this year. I know it’s an indulgence, but who cares when hubby’s footing the bill, eh?’

  I look towards the spa reception area, willing someone to call out my name. It doesn’t happen. I shall make a complaint. Maybe a fire alarm will go off. That would do. She stares at my engagement ring as if it’s made out of a lump of chewing gum. ‘Fiancé paying, is he? When’s the big day?’

  God, this woman’s nosy!

  ‘No. I’m paying for myself.’

  ‘You’re paying for - you work?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a nurse.’

  ‘Not for long, though, eh? No point in getting married if you have to work afterwards.’

  I knew it! She’s a hard-line feminist!

  ‘Well, we haven’t actually decided on a date yet. He – Clive – works in Hong Kong…’

  ‘Oh, I love HK! We went there on our hols two years ago. A bit smelly, though. What did you think of the Ladies’ Market?’

  The Ladies’ Market? What the hell is that? Sounds like it’s connected to the white slave trade.

  ‘I haven’t actually ever been there. Clive comes back every three or four months, usually. The plane fare is a little expensive.’

  Even though his company pays for it, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me.

  ‘Oh, I see…’ A brief look of pity flashes across her face. A face which I suddenly want to slap quite hard! I decide to change the subject.

  ‘What are you having done today? An
ything nice?’

  ‘Non-surgical face firming! Absolutely marvellous. You must try it. Even if you can only afford one treatment it makes a difference straight away. What about you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve booked three bamboo massages. The first one is in a couple of minutes.’ I glance once again at reception. Why can’t they call my fucking name out so I can get away from this woman! Even if you can only afford one treatment, indeed! Cow.

  ‘Oh my god!’ she rolls her eyes like she’s having an orgasm. ‘That’s James. He’s new. Well, new-ish. I’ve certainly got my eyes on him, I can tell you that for nothing!’ She crosses her legs and runs a hand through her hair. Is that what happens here? Is this a place where the wives of rich guys can get rogered by the staff? I doubt it very much. I think Rebecca is rather full of crap, I’m afraid.

  She licks her lips and leans over to whisper in my ear. ‘I had a full body Swedish massage here last year. This real hunk did it, but he’s left, I think. Can’t remember his name now. Anyway, I was really, really relaxed, feeling very drowsy and…’ she glances at the receptionist to make sure she’s not listening and whispers ‘…he made me come. I had to bite my lip so I didn’t cry out.’

  For a moment, I’m speechless. Is she kidding? ‘What, er, what d’you mean? Was it – was it intentional? On his part, I mean?’

  ‘Oh no! I don’t think he knew what he was doing. Well, he knew what he was doing, but I don’t think he knew the effect it was having on me. I mean, I don’t move around or cry out or anything! They would never do anything like that on purpose. Not in this place, anyway. Far too respectable. So far.’

  ‘Oh, right. For a moment, I thought…’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, though. It’s happened a couple of times. The better looking they are, the more likely it is to happen.’ She laughs. It sounds like a distressed seal. ‘I think it’s a lot to do with my imagination, if you get my drift. Hubby’d go mad if I told him. He’d think it was perverse. He’s very conservative like that. Real affairs he doesn’t mind, as long as there’s not too many of them!’ She laughs and snorts. I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. ‘Have you had a bamboo massage before?’

  ‘No. I just thought it looked relaxing from what it said in the brochure. I get a lot of muscle pain in my back, neck and shoulders. Thought it might help.’

  A very young-looking girl strolls over.

  ‘Mrs Venfield?’

  Rebecca raises her hand like she’s in school and gets up. Thank god for that. I don’t think I could cope with any more of her confidences. She smiles at me, revealing perfect and probably expensive teeth.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Holly. Probably see you later. Have a nice massage!’ She winks at me. ‘Not too nice, though!’

  As she wiggles off for her non-surgical face firming, I have to stifle a laugh. Whether what she told me was true or not didn’t really matter. It was the fact that she had to share it with me was what was funny, in a desperately sad sort of way.

  Just as I pick up last month’s Vogue and start reading about Gwyneth Paltrow’s fruit regime, I hear my name being called, but it’s not one of the female receptionists.

  ‘Miss Holly Nightingale? Three-fifteen appointment?’

  He’s about thirty, very good-looking and quite tall, wearing a white masseur’s outfit with short sleeves, revealing his well-toned arm muscles. Am I drooling? Sorry.

  I raise my hand stupidly like Rebecca did and follow him into one of the massage rooms. He turns around to introduce himself.

  ‘Hi. I’m James. I’m going to be giving you the bamboo massage. Have you ever had one before?’

  He has a soft voice with just a trace of a Scots accent. I can quite understand why Rebecca was so keen! What did he just ask me?

  ‘Um – no. I just saw it in the brochure and thought I’d give it a go.’

  ‘OK. Well, it’s a bit firmer than an ordinary massage, but I guarantee you’ll feel great after it. Let’s go in and have a chat about it first.’

  We enter a small room with a massage table at its centre and there’s a small changing cubicle to the left. It’s pretty warm and the walls are a beautiful dark green marble. There’s a faint smell of something I can’t identify. Some sort of essential oil, I suppose. Maybe lavender. James sits on a chair and indicates that I should take the one opposite.

  ‘First of all, are there any particular areas that you’d like me to concentrate on? Any aches and pains that need looking at? This type of massage covers the whole body, but I can focus on certain areas a little more, if you like.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a bit of knotting on my back and shoulders at the moment. I keep having to roll my head around to relieve it. Probably caused by work.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a nurse. A sister. Usual prodding and lifting of patients, though. Picking things up, putting things down. You know. Pretending to be interested in the patients’ welfare. That gets quite stressful.’

  This gets a laugh. He has nice teeth.

  ‘And I see you’ve booked three of these massages. Well, we’ll see what we can do. You can get changed in there. Everything off apart from your knickers. Then if you can lie face down on the table, drape one of the towels over your back. I’ll just pop out while you change. See you in a few minutes.’

  He walks out of the room and closes the door. What a gentleman! I walk into the cubicle and take my robe off and hang it up. Of course, I chose today to wear a bra and knickers that didn’t match (bra is green, knickers beige, if you’re interested), but I don’t think that sort of thing matters very much under these circumstances, though if someone commented on it, I’d be mortified. I leave my bra and flip-flops on a chair, grab a large towel and saunter into the massage area.

  I lie face down on the table and flip the towel over my back. There’s a thing at the end to lower your face into so you can get a good view of the floor while you’re being pummelled. Perhaps they could get a flat screen TV down there so you had something to watch. I don’t think I’ll suggest that, though. He might think I’m silly.

  After a few minutes of listening to barely audible Japanese-style music, the door opens and James returns.

  ‘Are you OK? I’ve just got to do a few things, and then we’ll see about those knotted muscles of yours.’

  He walks over to a table and I can see him fussing over something, but it’s not clear what it is. Looks like a small, green, electric blanket. He turns and sees I’m staring.

  ‘It’s a heat pad. It warms the bamboos up for the massage. You’ll see.’

  He unravels the pad and allows the (rather large) bamboo sticks to rest upon it. There’s also a couple of things that look like large drumsticks with big bobbles on the end. He pours a small amount of massage oil into his hands and rubs it around, presumably to warm it up. I can’t imagine what Clive would think of all of this. Anything that’s even remotely new-agey, novel or unusual tends to make his blood boil. He would see bamboo massage as a huge waste of money. Money that could be better spent on – well I don’t know what, but not this.

  In fact, I haven’t even told him I was coming here; it just didn’t seem worth the hassle. It’s not that he’s mean, exactly – he earns a packet out there in the Far East – it’s just that he can always find some reason for not spending money on things that don’t interest him personally. Like spending three days lying in Jacuzzis and being crushed underneath bamboo poles. Stuff like that.

  Being virtually naked in a room with a strange man wouldn’t go down too well, either.

  It’s annoying in a way, because I’m doing it for him; partly, at least. Well, having a nice haircut, anyway. He likes me having nice-looking hair. Does having my nails done count? I don’t know.

  Anyway, he…oooohh. James has started rubbing the oil into my shoulders and it’s absolute bliss. His fingers are really firm, but it doesn’t hurt at all, not like some massages I’ve had in the past. Once, I had a Swedish massage with this sadistic old bag
who was digging her elbows into my back so hard I felt the tears coming into my eyes.

  ‘I’m just going to move the towel down so I can rub the oil into your back, then I’ll start with the bamboo sticks.’

  ‘OK.’ That’s just about all I can manage. I often wonder if they can hear you when you’re talking to the floor. I don’t know what oil he’s using, but it smells fabulous. Could be lime. He walks over to his table and takes one of the big bamboo sticks.

  ‘I’m going to start with the small of your bag, then slowly work up to your shoulders and neck. You must tell me if it gets uncomfortable or painful. This is like a Swedish massage, really, but the sticks make it less painful. It’s a much deeper massage, as well. Don’t be surprised if you fall asleep; lots of people do. I’ll poke you if you start to snore!’

  As soon as he starts to roll the bamboo stick up and down my back, I can feel the tension starting to melt away. The fact that the sticks are warm makes it a really, really pleasurable sensation. After two minutes, I start to think that I’d like this to be done to me every day, though I don’t think I earn enough to make that a genuine possibility.

  ‘How’s that feeling? Not too painful?’

  I think I’m saying ‘It’s great’, but I think it comes out as ‘Mmm.’ He moves further up my back and rocks the stick to and fro as if he’s using a rolling pin. Gradually, he increases the pressure and it seems as if my vertebrae and back muscles are starting to separate. When he gets up to my shoulders blades, he stops for a moment.

  ‘Hm. As you said, you have quite a bit of knotting up here. I’ll need to put the pressure on a little bit. Not too much. That OK?’

  ‘Sure. Just do whatever it takes. I’ll scream loudly if it gets too much.’

  ‘Just shouting out get your hands off me! would be fine. The louder the better.’

  He pushes harder and I close my eyes really tightly to absorb the pain and to stop myself crying out. I can feel the bamboo roll over the knots and it really fucking hurts. I’m glad he can’t see my face. It can’t be a very pretty picture; eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, biting my lower lip and silently mouthing ‘fuck’.