Nine Perfect Strangers

by Liane Moriarty

  ‘Awesome,’ said Frances through her teeth.

  ‘Now you’ll want to see the gym,’ said Yao.

  ‘Oh, not especially,’ said Frances, but he was already leading her back across the reception area to the opposite side of the house.

  ‘This was originally the drawing room,’ said Yao. ‘It’s been refurbished as a state-of-the-art gym.’

  ‘Well, that is a tragedy,’ Frances proclaimed when Yao opened a glass door to reveal a light-filled room crowded with what appeared to be elaborate torture devices.

  Yao’s smile faltered. ‘We kept all the original plasterwork.’ He pointed at the ceiling.

  Frances gave a disdainful sniff. Marvellous. You can lie back and admire the ceiling rose while you’re being drawn and quartered.

  Yao looked at her face and hurriedly closed the gym door. ‘Let me show you the yoga and meditation studio.’ He continued past the gym to a door at the far corner of the house. ‘Watch your head.’

  She ducked unnecessarily beneath the doorjamb and followed Yao down a flight of narrow stone stairs.

  ‘I smell wine,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ said Yao. ‘It’s the ghost of old wine.’

  He pushed back a heavy oak door with some effort and ushered her into a surprisingly large cave-like room with an arched wood-beamed ceiling, brick walls lined with a few chairs, and a series of soft blue rectangular mats laid out at intervals on the hardwood floor.

  ‘This is where you will come for yoga classes and all your guided sitting meditations,’ said Yao. ‘You’ll be spending a lot of time down here.’

  It was quiet and cool, and the ghostly smell of wine was overlaid by the scent of incense. The studio did have a lovely, peaceful feel to it, and Frances thought she would enjoy being here, even though she wasn’t that keen on yoga or meditation. She had done a transcendental meditation course years ago, hoping for enlightenment, and every time, without fail, she’d nod off within two minutes of focusing on her breathing, waking up at the end to discover that everyone else had experienced flashes of light, memories of past lives and rapture or whatever, while she’d snoozed and drooled. Basically, she’d paid to have a forty-minute nap at the local high school once a week. No doubt she would be spending a lot of time napping down here, dreaming of wine.

  ‘At one point, when the property operated a vineyard, this cellar could hold up to twenty thousand bottles of wine.’ Yao gestured at the walls, although there were no longer any facilities for keeping wine. ‘But when the house was originally built, it was used for storage, or as somewhere to secure misbehaving convict workers, or even to hide from bushrangers.’

  ‘If these walls could talk,’ said Frances.

  Her eye was caught by a large flat-screen television hanging from one of the beams at the end of the room. ‘What’s that screen for?’ It seemed especially incongruous after Yao’s talk of the house’s early colonial history. ‘I thought this was a screen-free environment.’

  ‘Tranquillum House is absolutely a screen-free environment,’ agreed Yao. He glanced at the television screen with a slight frown. ‘But we recently installed a security and intercom system so we can all communicate with each other from different parts of the resort when necessary. It’s quite a large property and the safety of our guests is paramount.’

  He changed the subject abruptly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be interested in this, Frances.’ He ushered her over to a corner of the room and pointed to a brick almost concealed by the joinery of one of the arched beams. Frances put on her reading glasses and read out loud the small, beautifully inscribed words: Adam and Roy Webster, stonemasons, 1840.

  ‘The stonemason brothers,’ said Yao. ‘The assumption is that they did this secretly.’

  ‘Good for them,’ said Frances. ‘They were proud of their work. As they should have been.’

  They silently contemplated the inscription for a few moments before Yao clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s head back up.’

  He led her up the stairs into the house and to another glass door featuring just one beautiful word: SPA.

  ‘Last but not least, the spa where you will come for your massages and any other wellness treatments scheduled for you.’ Yao opened the door and Frances sniffed like Pavlov’s dog at the scent of essential oils.

  ‘This was another drawing room that was remodelled,’ said Yao carefully.

  ‘Ah well, I’m sure you did a good job retaining the original features.’ Frances patted his arm as she peered inside the dimly lit room. She could hear the trickling sound of a water feature and one of those ridiculous but divine ‘relaxation’ soundtracks – the kind with crashing waves, harp music and the occasional frog – piped through the walls.

  ‘All spa treatments are complimentary, part of the package – you won’t receive a scary bill at the end of your stay!’ said Yao as he closed the door.

  ‘I did read that on the website, but I wasn’t sure if it could be true!’ said Frances disingenuously, because if it wasn’t true she would be making a complaint to the Department of Fair Trading quick-smart. She made her eyes wide and grateful, as Yao seemed to take personal pride in the wonders of Tranquillum House.

  ‘Well, it is true, Frances,’ said Yao lovingly, like a parent telling her that tomorrow really was Christmas Day. ‘Now we’ll just pop in here and get your blood tests and so on out of the way.’

  ‘I’m sorry – what?’ said Frances, as she was shepherded into a room that looked like a doctor’s office. She felt discombobulated. Weren’t they just talking about spa treatments?

  ‘Just sit right here,’ said Yao. ‘We’ll do your blood pressure first.’

  Frances found herself seated as Yao wrapped a cuff around her arm and pumped it enthusiastically.

  ‘It might be higher than usual,’ he said. ‘People feel a little stressed and nervous when they arrive. They’re tired after their journey. It’s natural. But let me tell you, I’ve never had a guest finish their retreat without a significant drop in their blood pressure!’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Frances.

  She watched Yao write down her blood pressure. She didn’t ask if it was high or low. It was often low. She had been checked out for hypotension before because of her tendency to faint. If she got dehydrated or tired, or saw blood, her vision tunnelled and the world tipped.

  Yao snapped on a pair of plastic green gloves. Frances looked away and focused on a point on the wall. He buckled a tourniquet around her arm and tapped her forearm.

  ‘Great veins,’ he said. Nurses often said that about Frances’s veins. She always felt momentarily proud and then kind of depressed, because what a waste of a positive attribute.

  ‘I didn’t actually realise there would be a blood test,’ said Frances.

  ‘Daily blood tests,’ said Yao cheerfully. ‘Very important because it means we can tweak your treatment plans accordingly.’

  ‘Mmm, I might actually opt out of the –’

  ‘Tiny ouch,’ said Yao.

  Frances looked back to her arm, and then quickly away again as she caught sight of a test tube filling with her blood. She hadn’t even registered the prick of the needle. She felt all at once as powerless as a child, and was reminded of the few times in her life she’d had to go into hospital for minor surgeries, and how much she disliked the lack of control over her body. Nurses and doctors had the right to prod at her as they pleased, with no love or desire or affection, just expertise. It always took a few days to fully reinhabit her body again.

  Did this young man currently helping himself to her blood even have medical expertise? Had she really done her due diligence on this place?

  ‘Are you trained as a . . .?’ She was trying to say, ‘Do you know what the hell you’re doing?’

  ‘I used to be a paramedic in a previous life,’ replied Yao.

  She
met his eyes. Was he possibly a little mad? Did he mean he was a reincarnated paramedic? You never knew with these alternative types. ‘You don’t mean, literally, a previous life?’

  Yao laughed out loud. A very normal-sounding laugh. ‘It was about ten years ago now.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m passionate about the work we do here.’ His eyes blazed. Maybe just slightly mad.

  ‘Right, that’s that,’ said Yao, removing the needle and handing her a cottonwool ball. ‘Press firmly.’ He labelled her test tube and smiled at her. ‘Excellent. Now, we’ll just check your weight.’

  ‘Oh, is that really necessary? I’m not here for weight loss; I’m here for, you know . . . personal transformation.’

  ‘Just for our files,’ said Yao. He removed the cottonwool ball, pressed a circular bandaid onto the tiny red pinprick and indicated a set of scales. ‘On you hop.’

  Frances averted her eyes from the number. She had no idea of her weight and no interest in learning it. She knew she could be thinner, and of course when she was younger she was indeed much thinner, but she was generally happy with her body as long as it wasn’t giving her pain, and bored by all the different ways women droned on about the subject of weight, as if it were one of the great mysteries of life. The recent weight-losers, evangelical about whatever method had worked for them, the thin women who called themselves fat, the average women who called themselves obese, the ones desperate for her to join in their lavish self-loathing. ‘Oh, Frances, isn’t it just so depressing when you see young, thin girls like that!’ ‘Not especially,’ Frances would say, adding extra butter to her bread roll.

  Yao wrote something on a form in a cream-coloured file marked in black sharpie block letters with her name, frances welty.

  This was starting to feel too much like a visit to the doctor. Frances felt exposed and vulnerable and regretful. She wanted to go home. She wanted a muffin.

  ‘I’d really like to get to my room now,’ she said. ‘It was a long drive.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m going to book you into the spa for an urgent massage for that back pain,’ said Yao. ‘Shall I give you half an hour to settle into your room, enjoy your welcome smoothie and read your welcome pack?’

  ‘That sounds like heaven,’ said Frances.

  They walked back past the dining room, where her darling drug dealers, Jessica and Ben, stood with their own white-uniformed wellness consultant, a dark-haired young woman who, according to her name badge, was called Delilah. Delilah was delivering the same spiel as Yao about the warning bells.

  Jessica’s plastic face was filled with worry, so much so that she was almost, but not quite, pulling off a frown. ‘But what if you don’t hear the bell?’

  ‘Then off with your head!’ said Frances.

  Everyone turned to look at her. Ben, whose cap was now the wrong way around again, raised a single eyebrow.

  ‘Joke,’ said Frances weakly.

  Frances saw the two wellness consultants exchange looks she couldn’t quite read. She wondered if they were sleeping together. They’d have such aerobic, flexible sex with all that wellness pumping through their young bodies. It would be just so awesome.

  Yao led her back towards the Titanic stairs. As Frances hurried to keep pace, they passed a man and two women coming down the staircase together, all three in olive-green robes featuring the Tranquillum House emblem.

  The man lagged behind to put on glasses so he could closely examine the wall on the landing. He was so tall the dressing-gown was more like a miniskirt, revealing knobbly knees and very white, very hairy legs. They were the sort of male legs that made you feel uncomfortable, as if you were looking at a private part of the body.

  ‘Well, my point is that you just don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore!’ he said, as he peered at the wall. ‘That’s what I just love about houses like this: the attention to detail. I mean, think of those tiles I was showing you earlier. What’s extraordinary is that somebody took the time to individually – hello again, Yao! Another guest, is it? How are you?’

  He took off his glasses, beamed at Frances and thrust out his hand. ‘Napoleon!’ he cried.

  It took her a terrifying second to realise he was introducing himself, not just yelling out a random historical figure’s name.

  ‘Frances,’ she said in the nick of time.

  ‘Nice to meet you! Here for the ten-day retreat, I assume?’

  He was on the stair above her, so his height was even more pronounced. It was like tipping her head back to look at a monument.

  ‘I am.’ Frances made a tremendous effort not to comment on his height, as she knew from her six-foot friend Jen that tall people were well aware they were tall. ‘I most certainly am.’

  Napoleon indicated the two women further down the stairs. ‘Us too! These are my beautiful girls, my wife, Heather, and daughter, Zoe.’

  The two women were also notably tall. They were a basketball team. They gave her the restrained, polite smiles of a celebrity’s family members who are used to having to wait while he is accosted by fans, except that in this case it was Napoleon doing the accosting. The wife, Heather, bounced on the balls of her feet. She was wiry, with extremely wrinkled, tanned skin, as if she’d been scrunched up and then spread smooth. Heather skin like leather, thought Frances. That was a really mean mnemonic but Heather would never know. Heather had grey hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and bloodshot eyes. She seemed very intense, which was fine. Frances had some intense friends; she knew how to cope with intensity. (Never try to match it.)

  The daughter, Zoe, had her dad’s height and the casual grace of an athletic, outdoorsy girl. Showy Zoe? But she wasn’t showy at all. Not-showy Zoe. Zoe certainly didn’t look like she was in need of a health resort. How much more rejuvenated could you get?

  Frances thought about the young couple, Ben and Jessica, who also seemed in sparkling good health. Were health resorts only attended by the already healthy? Was she going to be the least healthy-looking person here? She’d never been bottom of the class, except for that one time in Transcendental Meditation for Beginners.

  ‘We thought we’d explore the hot springs, maybe have a quick soak,’ said Napoleon to Yao and Frances, as if they’d asked. ‘Then we’ll do a few laps of the pool.’

  Clearly, they were one of those active families who threw their bags down on the floor and left their hotel room the moment they checked in.

  ‘I’m planning a quick nap before an urgent massage,’ said Frances.

  ‘Excellent idea!’ cried Napoleon. ‘A nap and a massage! Sounds perfect! Isn’t this place amazing? And I hear the hot springs are incredible.’ He was an extremely enthusiastic man.

  ‘Make sure you rehydrate after the hot springs,’ Yao said to him. ‘There are water bottles at reception.’

  ‘Will do, Yao! And then we’ll be back in time for the noble silence!’

  ‘Noble silence?’ said Frances.

  ‘It will all become clear, Frances,’ said Yao.

  ‘It’s in your information pack, Frances!’ said Napoleon. ‘Bit of a surprise; I wasn’t expecting the “silence” aspect. I’ve heard of silent retreats, of course, but must admit they didn’t appeal – I’m a talker myself, as my girls here will tell you. But we’ll roll with the punches, go with the flow!’

  As he talked on in the comforting way of the chronically loquacious, Frances watched his wife and daughter further down the stairs. The daughter, who wore black flip-flops, put one heel on the step above her and leaned forward as if she were discreetly stretching her hamstring. The mother watched her daughter, and Frances saw the ghost of a smile, followed almost immediately by an expression of pure despair that dragged all her features down, as if she were clawing at her cheeks. Then in the next instant it was gone and she smiled benignly up at Frances, and Frances felt as though she ha
d seen something she shouldn’t have.

  Napoleon said, ‘It wasn’t you who arrived in that Lamborghini was it, Frances? I saw it from our room. That’s one hell of a car.’

  ‘Not me – I’m the Peugeot,’ said Frances.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the Peugeot! Although I hear those jackals charge like wounded bulls when it comes to servicing, right?’

  He mixed his metaphors most delightfully. Frances was keen to talk more with him. He was someone who would answer any question with candour and vigour. She loved those sorts of people.

  ‘Dad,’ said his daughter. Not-showy Zoe. ‘Let the lady pass. She’s only just got here. She probably wants to get to her room.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I’ll see you at dinner! Although we won’t be chatting then, will we?’ He tapped the side of his nose and grinned, but there was a trapped, panicky look in his eyes. ‘Lovely to meet you!’ He clapped Yao on the shoulder. ‘See you later, Yao, mate!’

  Frances followed Yao up the stairs. At the top, he turned right and led her down a carpeted hallway lined with historical photos that she planned to study later.

  ‘This wing of the house was added in 1895,’ said Yao. ‘You’ll find all the rooms have original fireplaces with marble mantelpieces of Georgian design. Not that you’ll be lighting any fires in this heat.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see families doing this retreat,’ commented Frances. ‘I must admit I thought there’d be more . . . people like me.’

  Fatter people than me, Yao. Much fatter.

  ‘We get people from all walks of life here at Tranquillum House,’ said Yao as he unlocked her room with a large, old-fashioned metal key.

  ‘Probably not all walks of life,’ mused Frances, because come on now, the place wasn’t cheap, but she stopped talking as Yao held open the door for her.

  ‘Here we are.’

  It was an airy, plush-carpeted room filled with period furniture, including an enormous four-poster bed. Open French doors led to a balcony with a view that stretched to the horizon: a rolling patchwork quilt of vineyards and farmhouses and green-and-gold countryside. Flocks of birds wheeled across the sky. Her bag sat like an old familiar friend in a corner of the room. There was a fruit basket on the coffee table, along with a glass of green, sludge-like juice with a strawberry on the side. Everything except the juice looked extremely appealing.