Garnish with a slice of lime
Louise
Sunday. Fernhill Grange Spa. 8.55 am.
Gloomily, I study my appointment schedule. It’s another tedious day at the spa. I am on duty pretty much every Sunday because Emma, my incredibly selfish co-worker, refuses point blank to work weekends, using her kids as an excuse. Smug cow, why would spending time with her brats have priority over my Sunday lie-ins? This is a blatant case of non-family responsibilities discrimination. Childless (or should I say child-free?) women are always shafted. Management, as usual, doesn’t give a monkey’s. The core values promoted at the spa are Excellence, Integrity and Team Spirit. Team Spirit, my ass.
Manicure. Wax. Pedicure. Manicure. Facial. Massage. Manicure. Blah blah blah.
My lunch break is not till two. How am I going to survive till then?
I have fleeting thoughts about pursuing a new job, one that would measure up to my life expectations. I, Louisa Davies, am not meant to trim cuticles and file callouses. My real calling is to become a TV presenter. Or at least a YouTube celebrity. I would be very good at either. I have masses of advice to give on fake tans, diet and lots of witty views on celebrities’ wardrobe faux pas. Perhaps I should write a column for Hello!.
Lord, it’s already 9.10 am and my first client is waiting in the relaxation lounge. Sulkily, I go to greet her and offer her a coffee so I can have one myself while getting on with the manicure.
Nick was dreamy last Friday. Halfway through my sisters’ get-together, I went to meet up with him after he finished his Health and Healing workshop at the Belmont Hughes. It was hard work getting him to leave. The crowd seemed to have endless questions during the last Q&A. I noticed a few of the ladies eyeing him up. No wonder – he’s frightfully good-looking, clever, and owns a chauffeur-driven Continental Bentley.
I worked hard at fooling everyone into believing I was his other half. Protectively putting my hand on his shoulder whenever possible, laughing affectionately at his every other word, and flicking my hair as if paparazzi were around snapping away at us. I eventually managed to drag him away from the students who were still loitering in the hall, a triumphant smile on my face, waving graciously at everybody.
We had a cup of matcha in his beautiful hotel suite. He talked about how to achieve better personal awareness, to reach complete body–mind balance. I thought most of it was utter gibberish but feigned great interest by looking intently into his eyes and making a big deal of ignoring my phone whenever it rang. I did my utmost to come up with intelligent questions. Although he laughed when I asked if one could use chemotherapy for chakra healing, by zapping them as though they were tumours.
Unfortunately, Nick is flying to Abu Dhabi for a few weeks for business, so we won’t be able to meet till next month. I was crushed and did not hesitate to show him my distress.
My pièce de résistance was the proud display of my shoulder tattoo. I took great care to choose a dress that needed unzipping at the back, so I could innocently ask for his help, then lasciviously let the sleeve drop over my shoulder, uncovering my tattoo – and a bit of cleavage at the same time.
Sadly, he did not seem as impressed as I was hoping he would be. He just asked why I asked the tattooist to add little hearts around the pentagram. Duh! I was trying to make it more interesting!
Nick didn’t ask me to spend the night either, nor gave me any more than a friendly hug as we parted ways. I nevertheless rated the evening as a resounding success, because he promised to keep in touch. I will follow him on Twitter and Facebook, and he said I could reach out if I needed more support to release my emotional toxins. I am already planning on FaceTiming him late tonight, so I can have an excuse to wear my pretty pink satin chemise. Maybe I should also buy some feathery mule type slippers. Black, to go with anything. Ann Summers surely stocks them.
My daydreams about Nick are rudely disturbed by my silly client trying to make conversation. I attempt to discourage any further attempt by giving yes or no answers, but the lady doesn’t take the hint. She has a story to tell me about the fence falling apart between her neighbour’s garden and her own. Come on, nobody gives a rat’s arse. I finally shut her up by explaining that as a true and committed professional I will not let small talk potentially damage the flawlessness of my manicure. At which point, the slag reminds me she asked for Shellac, not gel, and red, not pink.
I sigh as I prepare for my next appointment. Back, sack and crack. Ack. I guess he will be porcine, hairy, and shamelessly flirt with me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t disappoint.
‘My name is Louisa and I will be looking after you today. Please remove all your clothing and leave it on the chair here. Please lie face down on the bed and use the towel to cover yourself. I will give you a few minutes to get ready.’
‘Give me anything you want, love,’ he replies cheerfully, starting to undress before I even exit the room.
I leave him for a good ten minutes to go out and smoke a sneaky fag.
Ruthless, I turn up the lights to their brightest when I return to the treatment room. I don’t want him to get any romantic notions about the next fifteen minutes I am going to spend in his company working on his disgusting body.
‘Glad to see you’re back, love. Thought I’d scared you away.’ He gives a raucous laugh. ‘My name is Apollo. It means “manly” in Greek.’
‘Greek, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed, but for the amount of hair.’ I reply bluntly.
‘Is it hot in here? Or is that just you?’
Lousy chat-up attempt number one. I will treat myself to another cigarette if he can make it to the end of the wax without another cringeworthy pick-up line.
I leave the wax to warm a few degrees more than I should. I then spread a thin layer of it on his skin. I deftly remove the cloth strips and enjoy seeing Apollo wince every time I yank off clumps of hair as I work down his back.
‘Ouch!’
‘Too painful? It can’t be too bad. Didn’t you say your name means manly?’
‘Ha! What’s a clever girl like you doing without my number?’
Another few minutes and I can have a fag.
‘Please pull your cheeks apart for me so I can apply the wax.’
‘You cheeky little thing, heh? You should work for me, in my hotels. I always need bright birds.’
Discreetly, I check out his watch. Gold Rolex. Tacky, but there might be potential there.
‘What hotels do you own? Could you please turn over? I need to do your sacrum area?’
Apollo flips over and displays a full erection with no shame. I need to change jobs.
‘The Zante hotels. I’m opening my latest one in Abu Dhabi this week. I bought the old Marriott.’
My ears prick up. This cannot be a coincidence. Nick is in Abu Dhabi. The universe is talking to me through this fat, repulsive stranger. Abu Dhabi, wherever it is, is where I need to go.
I purr in my most affable tone, ‘I’ve always dreamt of going to Abu Dhabi. It looks divine – the food, the shops, the museums, the beach.’ I trail off, unsure of myself. Is Abu Dhabi anywhere near the sea? I assume it’s some city in the Middle East or Africa, probably Egypt but I don’t want to look stupid.
‘Abu Dhabi is badass. You like to party? I have a club there too, the Zante Star. I can take you there.’
My mind is reeling. I absent-mindedly apply some aloe vera lotion on his red skin. I have to go there.
‘Yes, I’d love to, Apollo.’
His offer to massage him in return for a nice tip gets declined and I leave him to get dressed.
I ignore my next client as I go to seal the deal. I indulge in a lengthy flirty chat with Apollo and let him rant about how wonderful his hotels are and how clever he is. My heart does a little flip when he hands over his American Express Centurion card to pay. The last time I saw one of those was when I was going out with Sergei, the wealthy married Ukrainian. I only managed to get a couple of fur coats and a Jaeger-Lecoultre out of him before he dumped me
for a new mistress, a model young enough to be his daughter.
‘Call my PA. She’ll arrange your flight. You can stay in my hotel. I’ll give you a nice room.’
I am over the moon. This is miraculous. I can fly to Abu Dhabi for free – and win Nick’s heart!
I dart home after my shift and pack my best outfits for the trip. The wardrobe is essential. Nick mentioned going for jogs at sunrise, so I scheme about bumping into him on his morning run. I need to go emergency shopping for running shoes and workout wear! I could also convince him to go swimming together to show off my body in flattering, skimpy gear. Choice of swimwear is therefore crucial too. I pack a mesh trikini which shows more than it covers, a red cut-out one piece which could get a dead man’s pulse racing, and a white number which goes wonderfully see-through when wet.
What? It’s already night-time in Abu Dhabi. Time to call Nick! I FaceTime him, sporting an alluring negligée.
‘Hi Nick, I’m just calling to say goodnight.’
Nick is gorgeous as usual in a white shirt and loosened tie, hair messed up.
‘Good to see you, Louisa. Today was a long day, with the negotiations for the buyout. How are you? Are you going to bed already? Isn’t it only seven in the UK?’ he asks, observing my attire.
Annoyed at my own faux pas, I laugh brightly. ‘I just like to dress down in the evenings, you know.’ I let a lacy strap seductively fall off my shoulder and put it back slowly. ‘Oh, Nick, what a funny coincidence. I’ve decided to take a break and come to Abu Dhabi for a holiday! We have to meet up. You could show me around! And I’d love to do a few more meditations with you.’
‘Absolutely! In the meantime, I’ll give you a few tips to improve your morning sessions. We can make them more meaningful without being longer. We are all conscious of how precious time is.’
Nick appreciates students who are serious about his teaching, so I take some notes.
After he finishes, I glance at my notebook. I only jotted down a few words, which make no sense whatsoever: blessings, emotional barrier, focus is underlined twice. Damn. I’ll have to do some research to fill in the blanks.
Nick is tired. He wants to shower and finalize some paperwork before bed. We bid each other goodnight.
My future is taking shape in front of my eyes. The love of my life is waiting for me in Abu Dhabi. I will fly there tomorrow, and we will write our story together. One day, I will tell Hello! magazine how our romance started in Abu Dhabi.
I’m used to dating penniless rock-star wannabes or lecherous old married men. Nick is different. He is one in a million. Young, single, and loaded. An incredible catch. I must snap him up before someone else does. I need to figure out how to seduce him. I have a hunch that he’s not into bubbleheads. Fine. I can adapt my strategies.
I will become his ideal woman and make him fall for me.
Louise
Friday night. Abu Dhabi. Four Seasons Rooftop bar. 5 pm.
The flight from Heathrow was terrible. Apollo’s PA, the cheapskate, booked me in cattle class. I was stuck for seven hours and fifty-five minutes next to an incompetent woman who had no clue how to calm down her boisterous toddler. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to punch more.
It was all worth it, though.
The views are breathtaking. The turquoise sea, the skyscrapers, the gorgeous light, the heat, the palm trees. Everything is so exotic. This beats Barbados, where Jess and Scott had their honeymoon. Obviously, it’s miles better than Moscow which was the only place where my ex Sergei used to take me, or crappy Bognor Regis where guitarist/singer/model Zakk treated me to a few weekends away only because his best mate owned a skanky B&B on the seafront.
I dumped Zakk in the new year. He’d been on Prozac since his record label ditched him in the middle of the development stage of his album, and his libido and humour dropped to below zero. Shortly afterwards, Sergei dumped me for an 18-year-old white Ethiopian model, so thin she’s screaming to be force-fed burgers.
I therefore recently found myself single and on the prowl. This time ready to find the perfect guy. I don’t want a clever clogs like Jess’s husband Scott. I don’t want an unreliable jerk like Carla’s Ben. I don’t want a cheaterholic like Emily’s Leo.
I am ready to – gasp – settle down with The One. He has to be handsome, successful, generous with his time – and, more importantly, his money. We will get married in a castle in France and spend a month-long honeymoon in the Maldives. I will have beautiful non-whinging children and Norland nannies to care for them so I don’t end up with sick in my hair and bags under my eyes. I will start a career as a prominent fashion guru with the help of my YouTube videos. I could even create a charity to help starving children in Africa and become famous by raising millions of pounds. Imagine hosting charity gala dinners with politicians and movie stars! Or I could invent a gadget, go on Dragons’ Den and make my own mark in the world by becoming a respected billionaire businesswoman like a female version of Bill Gates.
The world is my oyster.
Looking around, I reckon I’ve died and gone to heaven. Beautiful people and beautiful surroundings. Even the staff is beautiful – now that’s attention to detail. Imagine a world where all the staff are attractive. You’d glide in to the hairdresser and all the hairstylists would be sizzling hot with swishy, shiny L’Oréal manes. You’d flag down a taxi and the driver would look like Ansel Elgort in Baby Driver. All athletes would be required to be gorgeous hence motivating women to watch football or even cricket. Wouldn’t that keep the economy ticking over! Teachers would be good-looking, assuring a rate of attendance unheard of before. Civil servants would all be knockouts, thus ensuring you never lose your rag even after queuing for hours. Ugly people would be relegated to back-office jobs or call centres. Or the NHS. If your doctor resembled Mr Burns from the Simpsons, you’d only visit if you were at death’s door. How that would uncripple the NHS! By the same token, the government could make it a legal requirement for fast food chains to only hire obese and hideous people, then watch customers run out the doors – and diabetes and cardiovascular diseases figures plummet in the UK.
I feel ecstatic, yet oddly calm and collected. This is exactly where I am meant to be in my life right now. This is what I deserve. Not rubbing down strangers in a stupid spa in England. Sipping an overpriced cocktail clad in an extravagant dress in a faraway land. I could easily be a famous singer, or a trillionaire sheikh’s wife. I’m still not sure which country I’m in – possibly Turkey or Israel. No biggie, though. I make a note to google Abu Dhabi’s location later. There is a more pressing matter as hand. Nick orders me a virgin mojito at the bar and jokes with the bartender. I watch a brunette in a Roland Mouret dress engage him in conversation. I scrutinize her every move, ready to pounce and claw her eyes out. Eyes narrowed, I hiss under my breath, ‘Back off, bitch, he’s mine.’
Nick is mine. I’m going to claim him like I’m going to claim my place in the world. He is the king and I will be his queen.
I’ve played all my cards right so far. I opted for a whole new demure aesthetic. Nude heels, tailored A-line dress, knee length rather than bum skimming, scoop neck rather than plunging cleavage. Think Jenny Packham. My hair is now a shade darker and has a fresh glossy Chelsea blow-dry. Tonight, my make-up is subtle and classic. I’ve ditched the sharp pencil lines for well groomed, softly filled in eyebrows. I also discarded the thick fake eyelashes for a simple doe-eyed look and axed my usual bright red lip gloss for a matt neutral.
Nick told me I looked different. Being a guy, he couldn’t tell me how or why, so he put it down to my improved inner peace. He said it was great to see one of his students glowing from the inside out.
Maybe Nick does have a special bond with me. He commented that he perceives huge potential under my ‘seemingly frivolous exterior’, and my ‘spiritual inexperience’ is a challenge he’s eager to tackle. He added that he’s proud of the baby steps I have taken so far, and he plans to devote a whole chapter in his next
book to my journey.
Too electrified to sit still, I get up from my stool. I ring Emily to ask her to call in sick at the spa for me. No way I’m going to cut my trip short. I must win Nick’s heart and I’m not going home before I’m assured of his affections for me.
Apollo is calling again. Bloody great.
I have been avoiding his phone calls since I arrived in Abu Dhabi. He will be claiming his dues. I’m supposed to meet him at the Zante Star club later tonight. The thought of entertaining him, even just for a couple hours, seems quite gruesome. I reckon I can string him along for another day or two by excusing myself with a stomach bug before he cancels my hotel room. Which means I must move in to Nick’s suite at the St Fergus before I get kicked out of Apollo’s hotel. I wonder if I could tell Nick there’s a leaky water pipe in my hotel, and it’s been closed? Though I don’t need any excuses for crashing at his, do I? I could just entice him; he’s only human after all. If there is one thing I know besides make-up, it’s how to lead men by the nose – or, more to the point, by the penis. Half of men’s brains are located inside their member, and if you can control the other head, you can command them in a bodysnatcher way.
Nick returns with my mocktail. He’s dressed down in a simple black V-neck T-shirt which shows off his golden, defined biceps. God, he’s fit. My animal instincts surge. I would quite happily rip the clothes off his back and possess him. No. This is not the way to go. Self-control. Restraint. Discipline. Strategy. Nick needs to be seduced.
I haven’t felt such physical attraction for a man for a long time. Sex with Sergei was a chore. Sergei has a big old belly and intercourse always felt like a weird threesome with him and the beer gut, which would get in the way. I would usually sneak my phone under a pillow for entertainment, flop on my front, and fake long, practised moans until he was done. Sergei loved his Beluga vodka, along with caviar and cigars, but after a good drink, he would take ages to climax, driving me insane with boredom. He once took a Viagra and lasted a whole twenty minutes, at the end of which I would have given anything to play Russian roulette with him – with all the chambers of his Makarov loaded.
#Toots Page 13