by Ben Foster
A couple was checking in. The girl at the counter wore a pale green waistcoat and a white blouse buttoned at the collar. A porter, an older man with a seen-it-all expression stood by with suitcases on a trolley. He caught my eye and gave me a nod as if he had seen beyond my new suit and knew I was not a guest. I followed Bethany into her office. She dropped into a swivel chair behind a desk with eight mobile phones laid out in formation on the glass surface. I sat opposite and peered up at the aerial photograph of Southley on the wall behind her.
‘Such a lovely person,’ Bethany said. ‘Now, how do you know Vivienne?’
‘I used to work in a gym and became friends with one of the members. I give him a massage at his house every week. We met there,’ I said, probably explaining too much. ‘Vivienne’s a friend of Lady Catherine, his mother.’
She made a mental note. ‘We spoke yesterday. She often calls me. She said your Swedish massage was the best she had ever experienced.’
‘That was nice of her.’
She stiffened. ‘She happens to be a very nice person.’
We discussed my career. It wasn’t overwhelming. I had the Intensive Level 3 Diploma in Body Massage from St Mary’s, and had completed introduction courses in reflexology and sports massage. Bethany only employed staff with the Level 4 certificates, but would make an exception and give me a four week trial through August, a busy month when staff were also taking holidays. It would mean that I wouldn’t be having a holiday that year, but there was nothing new in that.
Bethany’s eyes ran over my shirt and jacket as she told me that her staff were expected to be well-dressed and well-groomed at all times. The image I conveyed, she said, was the image guests took away with them from Southley. There would not always be clients for massage. In my downtime, I would be expected to help out in other areas of the spa. There was always wet towels to pick up from the changing rooms and dry ones to deliver to the pool.
‘You’re not above that sort of thing?’
‘No, of course not.’
She continued in a softer tone. ‘Now, I have to ask you this, don’t be offended,’ she said. ‘What is your sexual orientation?’
‘I’m married. I have three young children.’
‘Ah,’ she said with an intake of breath. ‘How very lucky.’
I wasn’t sure who it was that was lucky, me to have three children, or Bethany who needed a straight guy in the spa. Then it occurred to me that she may have been relieved because she had been unable to work out what my relationship was with Vivienne and didn’t want to believe the worst: that we had a relationship. It was that English hang up, a class thing. Bethany felt flattered to have Vivienne’s number in her smartphone. She wanted to count her among her friends and would drop Vivienne’s name into conversations as a sign of her own status. She pictured Vivienne with lords and ladies at society balls, not on the M3 chauffeuring a masseur to a job interview. She pursed her lips.
‘One last thing. Can I see your hands?’
I spread them on the desk and she examined them like they were two slices of liver in the butcher’s.
‘Thank you, very nice. You have nice fingers, long and slender.’ She looked back at me. ‘So, four weeks, starting Monday. Then we’ll assess the situation. Would that be suitable?’
‘That’ll be great.’
She suggested a salary almost twice what I had been earning at The Lodge and promised that it would be increased if the trial period worked out, which she was sure it would. She stood, brushed out the creases from her dress and seized one of her army of mobile phones.
‘Your accent,’ she said. ‘It’s not London, is it?’
‘Lowestoft,’ I replied. ‘East Anglia.’
‘Very interesting,’ she added. ‘Let’s go for the tour, shall we?’
We left the office and made our way through reception and down the corridor to the spa. People with wet hair wandered by in white towelling robes and flip flops that made a slapping sound on the stone floor. We entered the massage centre where a girl in white like a nurse sat at a reception desk. The surface was ringed with price lists and stacks of glossy pamphlets. She stood.
‘Tiffany, this is Ben, he’ll be joining us next week,’ Bethany said.
We shook hands. She was pretty with short dark hair and dark eyes.
‘Are any of the treatment rooms empty?’
‘There’s nobody in number 2 at the moment,’ Tiffany said and consulted a list to make sure.
There were three treatment areas accessed through separate doors. Each had their own changing room with a waiting area equipped with a water cooler, coffee machine and magazines fanned out on a wooden table. As we entered the massage room itself, I felt as if I had stepped into a place I had seen before, but only in my dreams. If I had ever had the opportunity to design a massage room, this was how it would have been.
When patients are undressed for massage, they quickly become cold, while the therapist warms up moving around the table. The ideal temperature is 25 degrees centigrade. That was what the air-conditioning was set at. The pale green light that emerged from a recess below the ceiling kept the room in semi-darkness, producing a sense of peace and equanimity. Moving water has a soothing effect, as does sea air, one of the reasons why people go to the seaside. That same sensation had been created with the briny fragrance of aromatherapy candles and the sound of water running continuously over a rock pool where flat stones were kept warm for stone massage. There was a music centre, every oil under the sun and a neat pile of clean towels. The massage table was long and wide with a removable face cradle and an adjustable backrest. From a control panel, you could modify the height and warm the cream-coloured upholstery.
‘You like it?’
‘It’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘This is the best table I’ve ever seen. I love this room.’
She closed the door, threw the bolt in place, then unlocked the door again. She did it twice.
‘What plays in the massage room stays in the massage room,’ she said. ‘That’s the Golden Rule. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Of course. It’s confidential. It’s like being a doctor.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, but, yes, in a way.’ She took a step closer. We looked at each other across the table. ‘Not all, but a lot of our clients have very busy lives. They arrive in need of some TLC. Some Tender Loving Care. We provide the services that allows them to return to their busy lives feeling rejuvenated. You do know kundalini massage, I assume?’
‘Very much so. It’s the spiritual aspect of massage . . . ’
‘I would say the spiritual supported by the physical.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Clients may choose to have their chakras realigned, that sort of thing. I’m not the expert. What I do know, and what you must be aware of, is that our clients have certain expectations. Our job at Southley is to meet those expectations. You know what they say, the customer is always right?’
I nodded. ‘Yes . . . ’
She made a zipping motion across her lips. ‘Just remember the Golden Rule.’
‘I will.’
‘Do that, Ben, and you will be very happy here.’ She paused for a few moments to make sure I had understood exactly what she meant, which I didn’t, then opened the door. ‘Shall we?’
We continued along the corridor. The sunlight was strong through the windows that faced the gardens on our left. To our right were the various treatment centres. We passed the hairdresser, the nail salon.
‘Do have a manicure whenever necessary,’ she said.
We reached the pool. Vivienne was in the Jacuzzi. She remained expressionless.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Bethany said. ‘I’ll see you on Monday at ten. We’ll go through the paperwork then.’
A plump woman clung on to the rail and kicked her feet on the surface of the water. Other than her, the pool was empty. I approached the Jacuzzi on the far side where Vivienne sat in a froth of bubbles.
‘Bethany’s very thorough.’
‘I bet she is.’
As she stepped out of the bubbles, the water ran off her skin like oil from a shiny surface. She wore a white one piece costume, hair held back with an elastic band. She was slender rather than thin and, as she had said, stronger than she looked. She slipped into a white robe that she tied at her waist. Behind the Jacuzzi, the bag containing my new bathing shorts hung from a white plastic chair. She grabbed it and led me to the men’s changing room.
‘Back in a tick,’ she said.
The changing room was decked out in white tiles, every fourth or fifth one with a pale green flower motif. Below the long mirror, the shelf was stocked with soaps, sprays, body creams, hair gel, combs and brushes still in their packets. You could have robbed the lot but, as a client of Southley, why would you? I hung my clothes in a locker, stepped into the blue shorts and went back to the mirror. I usually wore black Speedo’s, small and tight. The Ralph Lauren swimwear was less showy. I stretched my arms into a robe, slipped the locker key in the pocket, and Vivienne sang out as she entered.
‘Is there anybody in there?’
‘Only me.’
‘Is there anyone at home?’
In her hand, she carried a paper package about the size of two postage stamps. She unfolded the package on the flat surface between the sinks. Inside, pressed flat, was some white powder, about the amount you would get from one crushed aspirin. From her pocket, she produced a red and white tube three of four centimetres long cut, I guessed, from a straw from Groucho’s. She stirred the powder with the tip of the straw, then separated it into two lines. She leaned over, clamped one nostril shut with her finger and held the straw to the other. She sniffed back the powder in one quick noisy snort, pinched both nostrils together and vigorously shook her head.
Vivienne gave me the straw. I hesitated.
‘First time?’ she asked, and I nodded my head. ‘Lucky you.’
Was this a test?
I wasn’t sure, but I had no intention of failing.
I copied Vivienne and snorted back the remaining line of coke. She licked the surface of the paper and rubbed her index finger over her gums. She flushed the paper down the toilet, sucked out the residue from the red and white straw and put it in her pocket. The smile about her lips reminded me of Claire.
If you were supposed to get high from the cocaine, I didn’t sense anything except pins and needles in my nose and mouth.
We went back to the pool. We dropped our robes on plastic chairs and Vivienne dived straight in the deep end. She had assured the barman at Groucho’s that, like him, her French was non-existent. When it came to swimming, she had told me she was ‘hopeless.’ I watched as she sliced the water freestyle in steady strokes, did a flip turn and swam back to where I was standing.
‘The water’s delicious. It feels like silk.’
I dived in. I swam a length underwater. I felt as if I could have held my breath forever and she was dead right, the water was as slippery as massage oil and felt like silk softly stroking my skin. I came up at the shallow end. I took a breath and hugged the bottom of the pool as I swam back to where Vivienne was waiting. The woman was still doing her kicking exercises but I didn’t care. I kissed Vivienne on the lips and our bodies glued together like magnets.
We tore ourselves apart and swam another few lengths. Jets of water fired out about a metre below the surface of the pool. By clinging to the rail and holding your feet apart against the side wall, you could direct the jet at your genitals. Vivienne showed me. It was sensual, silly, fun. I laughed. I wasn’t trying to be anyone.
We raced to the shallow end and I made sure we arrived at the same moment. We sat opposite each other in the Jacuzzi entangling and disentangling our feet. My mind was spinning and popping like the bubbles in the circular whirlpool. Her eyes were bright in the steamy light. I wanted her. She wanted me. It wasn’t love. Love is like being burned in flames then plunged into icy water. Love leaves scars and broken hearts. Your emotions change from one second to the next. It wasn’t like that. Our hormones were exploding. Our adrenaline was pumping. It was mating season in a wildlife documentary.
There was another woman in the sauna sweating out toxins. She reminded me of a seal, her big body wrapped in a towel. We stayed for two minutes.
‘I love the sauna, it’s so boring. It’s like being a galley slave.’
I thought of Marley for one second. He said strange things but not like Vivienne.
We collected our robes and went back to the men’s changing rooms. We stepped into the shower. We slathered our palms with soap from the pump container and washed the chlorine from each other in long lazy strokes. I adored her skinny body, her pert breasts, the dark mysterious slot dividing the dome of her pubis. She ran the tip of her finger over the scratches on my back.
‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘It did. It doesn’t now.’
‘Did it feel good?’
‘Not really.’
She went down on her haunches.
‘Cazzo,’ she said. ‘Poor baby.’
As she took me into her mouth, I thought: there is just this moment. This now. Buddhists say live every day as if it may be your last. If this was my last day and we crashed at 100 miles per hour on the M3 going back to London, I would die with a smile on my face. I pictured that smile behind closed eyes and remembered the smiley face Vivienne had drawn on the window at Rowley’s back in another lifetime.
The water beat down on my skull. Vivienne ran her tongue over every part of my cock as if it were a memory machine that would hold the shape inside her forever. She moved up and down, finding rhythm. I sensed the quickening beat of my heart and heard the milling of my breath through the sound of the shower.
She stopped before I came, heightening my arousal. We switched positions. I bent her forward. I inserted my tongue in her pussy, her bottom. I licked every fold and curve. I wanted to enter every part of her, her head and her soul. She was Eve. I was Adam. My serpent was a rod of iron. I felt a sense of invincibility, of madness, a desire that was extreme and overpowering. I lifted her into my arms. She clung to my neck and her legs locked behind my back as I pushed up inside her. She was as light as a bird. She rocked up and down, gaining pace in a pulsing rhythmic motion. There is when making love a moment when the body defies gravity. This is the moment to strive for. This was the moment we had reached.
When we came, it was fierce and dramatic like nothing I had experienced before. I didn’t have a feeling of loss, a little death. On the contrary, I felt reborn. My mouth tingled. My body tingled. I was still hard and she sucked me beneath the driving rain of the shower until I thought my heart was going to burst. She swallowed the last dregs of my semen. Then we kissed and I wasn’t sure if it was my taste or her taste that filled my mouth, and I thought: if sex has a taste, this is the taste.
‘Did it feel like silk?’
‘You feel like silk.’
‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
It felt as if time was suspended until she turned off the shower and the clock started ticking again. She opened the glass door and vanished like a ghost through the steam-coated mirrors. I dried and dressed. I placed my wet swimwear in the same bag with string handles and sat in one of the plastic chairs watching the woman still kicking the surface of the water. I didn’t know where she was going but I reckoned she was going to get there.
There were hairdryers in the changing rooms, but Vivienne’s hair was wet still and combed back in a way that emphasised the curve of her cheekbones. Men stole looks at her as they passed on the way to the pool. She didn’t seem to notice. As we approached the main reception, her phone buzzed with a text.
‘Perfect timing.’
‘Your inner metronome,’ I said, and she grabbed my arm.
‘Were you really a fisherman?’
‘Yes, really
.’
We reached the café where a man was waiting for us. He stood and kissed Vivienne’s cheeks.
‘This is Flippo,’ she said. ‘Flippo, Ben Foster.’
We shook hands.
Flippo was Italian and spoke perfect English with a sunny accent. He wore green shorts, a white shirt (the long sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow). Ray-Bans with mirror lenses held back his black, swept back hair. His face was full of light and energy. I wondered if it was from Flippo that Vivienne had learned the word cazzo.
We ordered cups of cappuccino and carrot cake. I watched Vivienne gobble hers down as fast as she had snorted back
the coke.
‘Wow, you going for a world record?’ asked Flippo.
‘Sometimes, I don’t eat for a couple of days, then everything tastes so good.’
‘You’re a crazy girl.’
‘Thank you.’
She had a foam moustache on her top lip as she drank the cappuccino.
Flippo had a case at his feet that he opened on the table and removed about twenty watches wrapped in cloth bags.
‘When we choose something, it is a process of elimination. I love this coffee.’ Vivienne took another sip from her cup and wiped away her moustache. ‘We don’t choose with our eyes, we choose with our psyche.’
‘Wow, deep,’ the Italian said.
She looked at me. ‘Eliminate those you don’t like and see what’s left?’
‘Me?’ I said.
‘Do it for fun.’
I gazed down at the watches. They weren’t new, they were classics, antiques, collectables, each unique in its own way. I instantly discarded three that were monstrously large and two more with gaudy gold straps. I liked the Rolex, but it was heavy. The De Grisogono was too fussy, and I wasn’t sure I liked the square face of the Cartier. The Longines Heritage ‘looks right whatever the occasion’ and ‘John Travolta wears a Breitling Navitimer every time he flies.’