Soft music was playing in a reception area that smelled of the sea, or at least the manufactured version of what the sea could smell like, irrespective of sewage outlets or the detritus of ice cream cornets and cardboard packaging. There were soft colours on the walls and floors. The carpet was thick. Never mind that the old house might have boasted shiny marble floors in its sparkling past, the carpet was there to aid the air of peace and tranquillity.
The receptionist looked as though she should have been named Miss Perfect. Her name badge said otherwise. Karen Pinker.
The smile was wide and welcoming.
‘Mrs Driver? My name is Karen. Welcome to The Beauty Spot Health and Beauty Clinic.’
Honey immediately gave Karen Pinker the name of Karen Perfect. Women who didn’t regard themselves as ugly or a bit shabby around the edges would certainly do so after being faced on arrival with such perfection. Honey had an inkling this was done for a purpose. Designer psychiatry – be what you see before you – at a given price of course. If you didn’t feel a need for improvement before arrival, you certainly did after meeting Karen.
‘Thank you.’ It was hard to smile and be courteous to someone who made you feel like a toad, but Honey was pretty certain she’d made a good job of it.
Karen’s pearly whites flashed like diamonds at the bottom of a fifty-foot well. ‘If you’d like to sign in, then I’ll take you to your room. Lovely!’
The exclamation was delivered with an air of breathless wonder. The flawless complexion of the girl in the white coat shone with the confidence of youth. Not a wrinkle creased the creamy soft skin. Her lips were like two little velvet cushions pouting from her face. They looked so soft, so beautifully formed. Honey briefly wondered if designer lips were readily available; if they were then this chick had them.
Honey found herself sucking her lips in. Despite having adorned them with a nice apricot shade that morning, compared to the luscious lips on this babe they were as becoming as a couple of stale cream crackers.
Still, that’s what you’re here for, she reminded herself. You’ll be a new woman when you leave.
Karen handed her a folder which she insisted held everything Honey needed to know. A few taps of the keyboard and she was signed in.
‘Your itinerary and general information on your stay here, but do ask if you need clarification. We are here to assist you become the woman you wish to be. This way please,’ said a smiling Karen.
Karen Pinker from the rear was as perfect as Karen Pinker from the front. A tight bum and slim hips filled out the white coat of the girl in front of her. Karen looked pristine as well as pretty, all lightness and brightness; stark contrast to Honey’s dark jeans and black sweater, – uniform for someone who knows they’re overweight but does their best to hide the fact – which basically is treating the symptoms not the cause, she said to herself. She knew this off by heart because her mother had told her so. Her mother was always telling her so.
The room allotted as hers oozed the same ambience and sense of calm as the rest of the place. The bed looked comfortable, the colours were cool, and the north-facing window sparkled with pure white light. Artists favoured pure white northern light. An artist had told her that once when she was maybe nineteen or twenty. He’d been trying to get her to strip off so he could paint her in the nude. Sensing her hesitation he’d breezily begun gathering easel and charcoal, at the same time expounding on the benefits of clear northern light on her youthfully firm flesh. ‘It’ll make it look like satin,’ he’d said. ‘I can strip off too if that puts you at ease.’
Was she kidding?
Judging from her beaming smile, no, she was not. This was surreal. No. Worse. Sincere. The girl really meant it.
In retrospect the artist being in the nude would have had some definite advantages. His clothes perpetually smelled of linseed oil and turpentine; pretty unappealing stuff on the how-to-smell-seductive front. So she’d never given in to his sexual overtures. His true intentions had been obvious from the tightness of his trousers, but it was no good. She couldn’t fancy the man and swiftly bid him adieu.
The last sight she had of him was standing with his jeans undone and primed for fallout. Because his hands were on his zip, he was reduced to holding two paint brushes in his mouth.
She’d slammed the door, swearing to God that she’d never get even remotely involved with someone artistic ever again. The thing about the northern light had stayed with her though.
‘Here’s the closet.’
Karen swung open the door of a slim closet neatly set into an alcove. It was very narrow, hardly enough to take the few items and the bag Honey had brought with her.
‘And here’s your robe and slippers. Our mantra is that by supplying simple but luxurious items for you to lounge in, everything of the outside world will be left outside the door. We espouse that inner calm is the natural basis of external calm and therefore beauty.’
Honey didn’t argue, but watched intrigued.
A terry towelling robe, as neatly presented as everything else in the spa, hung on a beechwood hanger. No grotty plastic or wire hanger salvaged from a dry-cleaning article here!
Karen took the robe and slippers out of the closet. The slippers were placed on the floor in front of a chair. With dextrous ease she arranged the robe on the bed, one arm of it stretched out and the other neatly tucked into the belt. It looked almost human – as though it were about to run away or whip open in an act of devilish ecstasy, exposing whatever lay within.
‘You’re scheduled for the mud therapy at three. It should take about fifty minutes. Tomorrow morning you’re scheduled for your first treatment. First a seaweed cocoon wrap followed by immersion in an anti-aging Hawaiian pumice bath and collagen-infused mudpack.’
‘I am?’
Honey stalled her imagination with regard to the robe.
Karen smiled her sugar-sweet smile, holding her head pertly and prettily to one side like an inquisitive pigeon.
‘We always make an effort to match our clients to the most suitable treatments. That’s why our inquiry form asks for so much personal information. Of course, if anything does not suit your requirements, we can always discuss suitable alternatives. But that really should not be necessary. We pride ourselves on being very accurate and I’m sure you will agree that we’ve chosen wisely. Certain criteria match certain clients.’
All the time she was speaking, Karen Pinker maintained her sugar-sweet smile but still pouted, the Botox keeping things in shape, Honey supposed.
‘Oh really,’ said Honey. ‘So how do you do that?’
‘Mostly it depends on your age. Some treatments are more suited to younger complexions. The seaweed cocoon, the collagen-infused mudpack, and the Hawaiian volcanic pumice bath are particularly beneficial to the older woman.’
She sounded as though she’d learned the mantra off by heart by the same method – and with as much enthusiasm – as Honey had once learned her two times table. Once learned, never forgotten.
Honey studied the programme she’d been given. Yep. There was no mistake. She was down for everything Karen had told her. They’d taken note of the year of her birth – round about the time juke boxes still had places in public bars.
‘Now if you’d like to take off your clothes and put on your robe.’
She was instantly reminded of turpentine and an artist’s list of excuses to get in her pants. Not that Karen had any ulterior motive of course. It was just a bit unnerving, what with the white northern light and now getting stripped off.
The last thing she wanted was for this so-perfect young woman to see her own less-than-perfect bits. A sense of panic broke in.
‘Can you just give me a minute?’
Karen smiled sweetly. ‘It’s no bother. I’ll help you. There’s no need to be embarrassed.’
‘Everything?’ The lumpy bits! The fat pants! She’d see it all!
Little Miss Perfect carried on, oblivious to the fallout of a long-ago liais
on – or rather near-miss liaison.
She was reciting again. ‘You’ll find that everything you need is provided for you. From personal hygiene items to paper underwear and cleansing cream. No make-up, of course – after all, you’re here to be cleansed and beautified.’
Honey opened her mouth to protest, but really, was there anything to be worried about? Everything was provided. Karen the beautiful had said so.
Obediently, in a manner she hadn’t assumed since she was seven years old and had been caught wearing her mother’s pure silk underwear as a pair of pirate trousers, she meekly disrobed.
‘No need,’ said Karen, as Honey reached for the hanger on which the towelling robe had been hanging – the only hanger in the closet? How odd was that?
‘I’ll put everything in here,’ she said, neatly folding and putting things into Honey’s bag. ‘I’ll put it in storage until you need it.’
Disaster! Karen was already unzipping Honey’s bag in which she had everything she needed – including food.
‘What about my purse? My phone?’
She yelped those words with as much fervour as the radio operator on the Titanic had tapped out an SOS on seeing an iceberg.
Honey looked on with silent alarm as Karen pushed everything into the bag.
‘You won’t need any of this,’ she said. ‘It’s a rule here. We are quite stringent in our rule-making as opposed to lesser establishments, but we do guarantee to do wonders for tired bodies and faces. As I’ve already explained to you, the aim is to leave the world and your belongings outside. In effect we require that you put yourself entirely in our hands and come to us, let’s say, as naked as a newborn babe.’
The naked bit hit her bad. The smell of turpentine resurrected itself in her memory. But there were worse things. On the one hand she wanted to say that her face and body weren’t that tired-looking and Doherty seemed quite taken with them. Her social life was good and she could get by without looking like an escapee from a heavily airbrushed makeover picture, thank you very much. On the other hand she was here professionally. Snooping, not sniping, was the job in hand, so she held her tongue.
Did she really want to jeopardize everything for a box of Thorntons chocolates, two baguettes with cheese and chutney, and two packets of salt and vinegar Hula Hoops? All that besides the half a pound of Cheddar, et cetera …
The truth was difficult to ignore, but she had to be strong.
Mouth-watering desperately, she watched as her hidden feasts were taken out of her sight. She had no choice but to bow to the inevitable.
‘You won’t be sorry,’ Karen said breezily.
‘No,’ said Honey in a small voice. The girl didn’t even know she was doling out torture.
It’s only for three days, she told herself after Karen had left her to meditate, calm her inner being, and study this evening’s menu.
Velouté of plaice with simply cooked vegetables and herbal tea. Her stomach rumbled in rebellion.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think of food. Despite everything visions of Aberdeen Angus fillet covered in Diane sauce and washed down with a glass or two of Cabernet Sauvignon persisted. Her stomach groaned. The evening meal seemed like aeons away. Her stomach was desperate, her mouth was dry. She had to chew something. Her desperately searching fingers grabbed something softly attractive; her brain not really questioning what it was as long as it was something.
She began to chew. Whatever it was, it was tasteless, but she couldn’t stop herself.
When she opened her eyes the end of her towelling bathrobe belt was a soggy mess.
Chapter Six
Honey tossed and turned. In her dreams she was eating sausages. The dreams were so lucid that she could almost smell them, their cholesterol-inducing presence sizzling and spitting, filling the air with a delicious aroma.
Waking was almost disappointing.
‘Well, it makes a difference from flying through the air naked,’ she muttered.
First port of call was breakfast. Blueberries, a handful of nuts, and a cup of acorn coffee.
The other women – who Honey couldn’t stop thinking of as inmates – swapped stories of past health and beauty treatments. Between talk they chewed like hamsters.
Honey was the only one eating with her eyes closed.
Someone noticed, commenting that she’d read about how meditation aided the absorption of carotene into the system.
In the process of swallowing the dreadful stuff, Honey jerked her head in an unintended nod.
The others took this as confirmation that meditation did indeed do that. She opened one eye. Should she tell them that she was pretending to eat sausages? No. Why burst their bubble?
No doubt the nutty breakfast should make her feel like shinning up a tree. Instead she reached for the end of the belt holding her robe together. One end was already soggy so she started on the other.
Ten o’clock and it was assessment time.
‘Ms Serena Sarabande is the resident consultant,’ Karen explained in hushed tones.
Honey tucked the belt ends in her pocket and entered the oh-so-white consulting room. ‘I can’t wait.’
The main relief to the pristine whiteness was down to a fat black Buddha sitting on a low glass table in front of the window.
Serena Sarabande was as white as her room. She shone and, standing in front of the window as she was, it seemed like a bright white halo had formed around her.
‘Mrs Driver. Welcome.’
Her chin was held high. Her eyes scrutinized.
Honey cringed inside her towelling robe. She didn’t want her body open to criticism. Criticism didn’t sit well on her shoulders; or her hips; or her thighs.
She began the usual rigmarole. Getting weighed came first. The lectures would come next, along with the two most dreaded words in the English language – dreaded by her that is. Diet and exercise.
‘You’re overweight.’
Really.
‘You need to exercise. Do you have gym membership?’
Honey shook her head dumbly.
‘Never mind. We can do a quick fix if you wish it.’
Honey’s ears pricked up. What was that? She didn’t need to exercise?
‘Oh!’
There was a lot of meaning in that little word and Serena Sarabande was right on it.
‘Let me measure you and see where things go. Undo your robe please.’
Being careful to hide the chewed belt ends, Honey opened her robe.
Bust, waist, upper arms, lower arms, hips, thighs and calves; nothing escaped Serena Sarabande’s measuring and jotting down of figures.
Ms Sarabande’s attention lingered on Honey’s breasts. ‘These could be firmer. Have you thought about surgery?’
Honey looked down to see that Serena was cupping her breasts in her palms as though they were two dollops of cold custard.
‘I don’t really … I mean … I thought … I mean …’
Good God, listen to me stammering, she said to herself. She hadn’t done that since Carl, her deceased husband, had asked her to marry him – something she’d lived to regret.
‘It would work wonders for your uplift,’ Serena pointed out. ‘And an opulent bosom is so unfashionable!’
Intrigued, she rose to the occasion. There was no harm in finding out and anyway, this stay was partly about research after all.
‘What does that entail?’ asked Honey.
Serena took a green marker pen from her desk and began to draw lines over Honey’s breasts, at the same time explaining the procedure. ‘This is where we will make the cuts, take out the fat, and reform your breasts into a more pleasing style.’
There was a style in breasts? Well how about that!
Serena stood with one hand on her hip, thoughtfully eyeing the lines she’d drawn.
Honey looked at them too. She looked like the beginning of a crossword puzzle.
‘The surgeon would have to reposition the nipples, of course.’
Honey gulped. ‘Of course. And just how would that be done?’
‘Simple,’ said Serena with a nonchalant wave of her hand. ‘The surgeon would cut it out from where it isn’t wanted and sew it on where it is. Of course, the sensitivity can be affected.’
‘I see.’
And she didn’t like it. What was the point of something looking pretty if its function was impaired?
She had to play along. ‘And you do that here?’
Serena let loose with a superior smile.
‘No. Of course not. We just advise our most valued clients where they can get it done. There are various options. You can opt to have it done in this country, but the cost …’
She paused, her whole body sighing as though disgusted at the outrageous demands of the nip and tuck brigade.
‘I’m not a millionaire.’
Serena nodded as though she understood. ‘We favour Venezuela. Very good clinics, very good surgeons, and a very, very good price. Would you like to discuss the options with Dr Dexter?’
‘I would have to think about that.’
‘It’s a very good price,’ Serena repeated.
Honey thought of her bank balance. It would have to be good. Play along, play along, she told herself.
‘It’s not the money. I’m just a bit nervous about having an operation. It would be awful if something went wrong. Do things often go wrong?’
She fancied a faint pinkness flushed Serena’s cheeks before dissipating.
‘No. Of course not. You’ll be perfectly safe with us.’
‘I’m sure I will. Somebody doesn’t get murdered here every day of the week. That must have been difficult for you.’
Serena’s ice cool features went Arctic before a minimum thaw set in. ‘A random incident and beyond our control. Very unfortunate.’
‘Yes. Very. Especially for Carlotta Macrottie.’
Chapter Seven
Steve Doherty stared longingly at the state of his desk, silently wishing that he had a fairy godmother who would whisk everything away. There were papers everywhere. Some needed filling in with details he wasn’t sure he knew; the necessary red tape that seemed to cover everything nowadays from arresting a felon to getting a cup of coffee from the machine at the end of the corridor.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 3