There. I feel better now. It’s almost as if I actually said that to her! It’s funny how you always think of witty, vicious rejoinders after the event, isn’t it. Even if you’ve got no intention of saying them in real life. Well, at least she has a light breakfast, so the whole thing wasn’t too much of a trial!
My yoga session cruelly informed my whole body that there were parts of it that had never felt pain before and it would be only too delighted to show me which parts those were. As I lay on the floor on a blue mat, quietly recovering, my mind starts wandering.
Even though I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, I’ve noticed that having nothing to do and nothing in particular to think about, releases all sorts of things from your brain that are better left undisturbed.
One of those things, an event I’ve pushed so far down into the depths of my subconscious that I often think it never happened, is to do with – you guessed it – Clive. And it’s not good.
We’d been seeing each other for two and a bit years at this point (he was back here for two months) and were already engaged, and I had noticed that he was acting a bit, well, strange. A little bit distanced, like he had a lot on his mind. Naturally, I assumed it was to do with work and didn’t press it, but it turned out I didn’t have to.
It seemed that he’d had a one night stand (or one hour stand – take your pick) with a girl called Caroline and was feeling very guilty about it. He’d wanted to tell me weeks before, shortly after it had happened, but couldn’t bring himself to. He said that he loved me and only me and that it was a stupid mistake and just happened without him realising it had happened (I often have sex with strange men without realising it had happened – very common occurrence).
Now I know what you’re thinking – I should have left him immediately and never seen him again. Sod the engagement and sod everything else. Poured acid over his sports car, cut all his clothes up, set fire to his mother, castrated his father and vanished out of his life forever.
But I couldn’t.
I kept telling myself it was because I loved him and he loved me and it was what men did and it wasn’t really his fault and here I was at the gateway to a new and better life with a stable, nice man who was obviously crazy about me and I could even leave work and never have to worry about not being able to pay an overdue gas bill again and it was only a small glitch in an otherwise perfect relationship. These things happen. But not to me, preferably.
This Caroline (I can see her already, can’t you? Slim, long dark hair, short black dress, dark red lipstick, pointy tits) was a PA to some other man who Clive worked with and apparently she had a bit of a reputation and he’d tried to stay well clear of her and it was only because he had a big job on and she’d been seconded to help him out and they were working late one night, blah blah blah blah blah.
He was so convincing at the time, describing it as if he was the victim of a force of nature, rather as if he’d been caught in the rain and had a new suit soaked right through. It wasn’t his fault. Sometimes you just meet women like Caroline and when they want something (a penis, in this case), nothing can stand in their way. He blubbed like a little boy and realised he’d been an absolute shit and, stupid as I was, I swallowed it, hook, line and sinker.
Every day that went by, I buried it a little deeper. Sometimes it resurfaced like a knife in my guts, but eventually I even began to see poor Clive as an innocent victim in the whole thing, as if he’d been run over by a car or something, though I sometimes wished it had been a steamroller!
But there it was, lying in the basement of my subconscious, waiting for a suitable yoga session to bring it up to the surface again.
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and suddenly realised that the yoga woman was standing over me, smiling.
‘A lot of people can get quite emotional after a yoga session.’ she whispered, sympathetically. At least you didn’t fall asleep!’
I looked up, smiled at her and wiped my eyes. Silly cow, I thought.
***
After a second, furious swim, I dried myself off and got into suitable clothing for my next bamboo session. I was looking forward to it, I realised. The residual pain from the last session had gone and I was feeling a lot more flexible. My shoulder and back knots weren’t feeling so bad, either. Maybe the yoga helped; or was it the yogurt?
After James had left the room for me to get suitable unattired, I lay down on the massage table and waited for him to come back in. I’d buried Clive’s infidelity in a deep hole again and was feeling light and relaxed.
‘So how are you enjoying it here so far?’ he said, rubbing more of that lovely-smelling oil into the backs of my legs and the soles of my feet. I’m feeling more relaxed with him now. It’s as if it’s our second date or something, though I know that’s a stupid way to look at it.
‘It’s great! Lots of interesting things to do. I’m feeling a lot better already. Refreshed, I suppose. Did some yoga. Didn’t fall asleep.’
‘All the aches and pains gone from yesterday? A lot of people don’t come for a second massage like this because the first one made them a bit uncomfortable or hurt too much. You’d be amazed at the number of cancellations we get for the second appointment.’
He starts rolling a warmed-up bamboo into the soles of my feet. It feels delicious and the smell of the oil is intoxicating. He switches to the backs of my legs. This still hurts a bit, but I bite my lip so he can get on with it. He pushes firmly into my flesh and I can feel the stiffness I acquired during my swim start to disappear. I want to get away from answering questions about me, so I decide to ask him a bit about himself.
‘How did you learn to do this? Did you go to a bamboo college or something?’
From my own experience, I know that he’d have to know a lot about the physiology of the body and what to do and what not to do. He might have been a physio or something, though I hoped not. In a hospital, physios have a terrible reputation, which I’m sure isn’t at all deserved.
‘Spot on! The college was actually literally made of bamboo. It’s a Malaysian tradition. Gets cold in the winter, though and it’s a bit of a fire risk.’
‘I totally believe that.’
‘Well, I went to college, but not to learn to do this.’ He rolls one of the bamboos up and down the outside of my left thigh. It doesn’t feel as bad as yesterday. I can feel the heat and pressure from the bamboo penetrating my muscles. I’m still dreading the time he starts on the knots in my shoulders and neck, though.
‘I studied geography in university originally.’
‘Geography! So you know where everywhere is!’
He laughs. ‘Yes, everyone’s surprised at that! It’s one of those subjects that – well, to cut a long story short, when I left uni, I couldn’t really get a job anywhere, despite having a degree. I did a lot of different things; cleaning, working in restaurants, you name it. But my – my girlfriend at the time was a masseur. She did the whole lot, Swedish, Shaitsu, everything. She used to practice on me and I sort of picked it up.’
He moves the towel across and starts on my lower back.
‘I decided that it’d be a cool thing to learn, so I went on several courses. Had to pay for them myself, but it was worth it. Started out with Swedish massage and learned the rest one thing at a time. I’ve been doing this type of massage for a little over eight months. It’s fairly new to this country. People seem to like it.’
I’m unable to supress an ‘mmmm’ sound escaping from my lips as he rolls the bamboo along my lower back. It’s not a sexual pleasure (particularly!), but I can’t help wonder what it must be like for a man to be getting moans of satisfaction out of countless women, day in, day out. What a funny job!
‘Sounds like you’ll be surpassing your girlfriend’s skills at this rate!’
He doesn’t reply. Have I said something wrong? Perhaps they split up and I’m being tactless, as per usual. My girlfriend at the time. Oh bugger. He continues pressing into my back and I dec
ide not to say anything else for the moment. He stops for a moment to replace the bamboo stick he’s using with a thinner one and to rub some more oil into my back.
‘Unfortunately, we’re not together any more. That’s the wrong phrase to use. She passed away. It was just over a year ago. She had a bone marrow disorder. It was spotted too late and there was nothing they could do.’
I turn around to face him and almost reveal a boob in the process.
‘Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
‘It’s OK. Really. Don’t worry. I’m quite, er, I’m quite philosophical about it and it was a while ago now. It’s just that no one usually asks about how I learned this. I didn’t know what to say. You mustn’t feel like you’ve upset me or anything. It’s fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Please don’t worry about it. We are taught to bear mental pain at the Bamboo Zen Monastery!’
He continues with the massage and my mind is racing to think of something I can say that will change the subject without it seeming like I’m changing the subject out of awkwardness or embarrassment. It’s difficult. Oh god, how awful. He must think about her every time he comes to work! There’s a terrible few minutes of silence, during which I think of chocolate croissants.
‘What was her name?’
Shit! Shit! How could I be so bloody stupid! He smiles, and then laughs. He doesn’t mind that I’m a moron.
‘It was Rhoda. She was from Cambridge originally. She was twenty-five when – you know. We were sharing a flat just outside Guildford.’
‘God. Do you still live there? I mean, it must be…’
He laughs. I guess I’m lucky that he isn’t putting some extra pressure on my poor knotted muscles. He must think I’m a total idiot. A stupid, pampered, tactless bitch.
‘It was only rented. But I was lucky. I don’t think I’d have been able to stay there on my own. A few weeks after it happened, an aunt of mine died. Well, I say an aunt, actually it was a grand-aunt. I don’t mean I was lucky because she died. Well, I was, I suppose. It’s just that she left me this place down by the beach near Newhaven. It’s just a small place, really. A cottage, I guess you’d call it. Used to be an artist’s studio. She used it for holidays now and then.’
Good. Good. I can tell by his tone of voice that he’s chilled about the whole thing. Or maybe he’s a good actor. He digging into the knots on my shoulders now, so I’ll have to keep him in a good mood.
‘It’s a pretty bleak area, very windy in the winter, but I’ve managed to tart it up a bit. Re-painted all the rooms, stuck a bit of furniture in there. I don’t need much, really and the drive to here is quite fast unless there’s motorway pile-up or something. Friday nights are the worst. Going home, I mean. Takes about an hour and a half some days.’
‘It sounds lovely. It must be nice to have somewhere like that to get away to.’
‘Yeah. It’s got a big studio room where the artist who lived there used to paint. Big windows in the ceiling, but I had to get blinds put on them.’
‘Too bright?’ I don’t know what I’m talking about.
‘It’s not that. It’s just that I’m a bit of a photographer in my spare time and I develop my own pictures, so I turned it into a sort of photography studio and use that area as a darkroom.’ He grins. ‘I decorated most of the rooms with my own work. Saves money. Prints are really expensive now.’
‘Wow. That sounds great. What sort of photographs do you take?’
‘Anything, really. Seascapes, stuff you see washed up on beaches; it sounds a bit arty, but I’m just trying to be realistic and unpretentious. I’ve been at it for a few years, but I’m still learning. I haven’t sold anything much, but I did sell one to a local paper when there was some flooding. It’s a start, anyway, though I don’t plan to cover provincial news stories particularly. I’ve been meaning to learn to surf, but the water’s always too cold!’
I have a picture in my mind of him staring out to sea, thinking of Rhoda, watching the waves lapping the shore, taking long, solitary walks along the beach accompanied by a dog he’d got from a rescue home. This is ridiculous, I know. I make a mental note not to ask him about the dog. He’d probably try and have me sectioned.
Five minutes later, I can tell he’s finished with my back. He gives me a small pat on the shoulder.
‘OK. You can turn over now. I’ll just pop out. Back in a few minutes.’
He leaves the room and I hear the discrete ‘click’ of the door. I wonder where he goes? Does he stand outside having a fag? I sit up and roll my head around for a few seconds. It’s amazing the difference this sort of massage makes. I lift the towel off my back, turn over and flick it across my front. I have to say that my self-pitying blubbing over Clive earlier on seems a bit silly after hearing what happened to James and his girlfriend. Still, he seems happy enough with his cool beach life and photography. I wish I was that self-contained. Am I self-contained at all? Am I one of those women who has to have a husband or bf to feel that she’s worth anything?
When he comes back in, I give him a quick smile and he smiles back. I think my smile was a sort of apology for bringing the subject of his girlfriend up and making him talk about it, and his smile is a sort of ‘It’s OK. We’re cool.’ new-age vibe thing he’s sending back in return. That could be a load of bullshit, of course.
But all is well. He starts on my hands and arms and I soon sink back into that warm ocean of pleasure that a really good massage can bring. I start thinking about fields with really high grass and the wind making ripples through them. No, I’m not high.
He doesn’t say anything while he’s running the bamboo up and down my forearms and my brain is desperately searching for some innocuous small talk, but I can’t find anything. It’s like some days when you go to the hairdressers and you just aren’t switched on to having that sort of lightweight banter that they always use to pass the time. After a few minutes, my brain comes up with a priceless, original gem.
‘Are you doing anything nice for Christmas?’
That seems OK. After all, he asked me about my Christmas plans yesterday and it’s only six days away.
‘Well – I’m rather looking forward to doing nothing at all this year. My parents have decided to go to the Caribbean to avoid all the usual Christmas stuff. They’ve been saving up for two years.’ He laughs. ‘They found a hotel in St Lucia that doesn’t take children!’
‘They’ve got the right idea! So what are you going to do?’
‘Nothing. Just chill out. I’m not interested in the whole thing, you know? I may have inherited it from them. Lack of belief, that is. The religious part is interesting historically with its roots in pagan stuff, Saturnalia and whatnot, but I can’t get worked up about any of it. Everyone stuffing their faces with huge amounts of food they can get all the year round in the supermarket makes me feel a bit sick now, you know?’
‘I agree with you. I couldn’t go without Pringles, though.’
‘Well, that goes without saying; particularly the sour cream and chives type.’
He rolls a smaller bamboo up and down my deltoids. The warmth is making them turn to jelly.
‘Did you and, er…’
Damn! I can’t help it! What’s wrong with me? I keep bringing his girlfriend into the conversation! But he takes it in his stride.
‘Well, she felt the same, basically. We didn’t used to do very much. A couple of decorations, exchange presents, watch a few DVDs. The TV can’t compete with DVDs now, can it? Rhoda didn’t like the false jollity, I don’t think. Buying more of what you usually bought just because the shops want you to. She hated the TV ads for Boots and Superdrug particularly. John Lewis and Argos ads made her homicidal.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep bringing it up. I’m not being nosy or anything.’
‘I know.’
He rubs oil into both of my thighs and massages each of them with his fingers before setting the bamboos on them. It f
eels like he’s separating the muscles from the bone underneath. I think of ordering chicken off the bone in an Indian restaurant. I stifle a scream.
‘I think the only regret I have about her is that we didn’t spend more time together. We were both busy with our own things a lot of the time. Me with my massage courses…’
‘Yeah.’ I’m now thinking about ordering an Indian takeaway.
‘It’s what happens. You can’t go back and change it.’
He shrugs. I start thinking about Clive and me. What if something happened to me or him? Could we have spent more time together? Well, obviously. He spends most of his time thousands of miles away. As James works on my feet (getting a tiny bit ticklish now!) I think of Caroline again and get uneasy.
If James could find it within himself to be unfaithful to me when we were both in the same country, what could be happening when he’s living on the other side of the globe? A chill passes through me. What happens when he and his mates go out on the town? What are the girls like who work in his company over there? What are any of the expat females over there like? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I must shut it out. Thinking like that is destructive and silly.
But I can’t stop it. It’s like I’m a cut-price version of Kate Middleton, waiting for Prince William to sew his wild oats, while she lived like a nun, existing in suspended animation until the day came when he was ready to commit. Waity Katie, they used to call her. That would make me Waity Holly, which doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Doesn’t rhyme, for one thing.
‘Are you OK?’ James has finished and he’s clearing things up.
‘Yeah. Yes. Just thinking about something.’
‘Last session tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll finish off those small knots in your shoulders and you’ll be able to play the violin again. Just lie down and recover for a few minutes, then get changed. Don’t do any swimming for a few hours. Actually, I’d suggest you have a sauna, if you feel in the mood. See you soon. Remember to drink plenty of water.’
The Spa Day Page 4