Spa

by Olivia De Grove

  Control, thought Cathy, doing up her left shoelace, is the key word, and I’m out of it. When it comes to food, I can’t help myself. Maybe he’s right about my not liking myself, but then, nobody likes being fat. But he’s also wrong. I’m not unhappy. What have I got to be unhappy about? I have three lovely children, a successful husband, a beautiful house. I have everything a woman could want.”

  She tucked her key in the zippered pocket of her top and went down to the pool, ready but unwilling to face yet another two-mile hike.

  Chapter 26

  They were a small group at dinner that night. Cliff, Belle, and the doctor were all absent.

  According to Regina, her mother had been invited to dine “à deux” with the doctor, and no one had seen Cliff since the early part of the afternoon, except Cathy, who reported that she had seen him going upstairs around five o’clock. So it was just the four of them for dinner, plus Mariette, who had elected to act as hostess in the doctor’s absence.

  Joyce, Maxine, and Regina all chose the A menu, and Mariette relayed their orders to the kitchen, explaining that the maid was feeling a little under the weather. When she returned after what seemed like an unusually long absence, she was carrying three orders of mushroom salad, lamb chops dijonnaise, and what looked like diced, frozen carrots. Total, 260 calories.

  Cathy, who hadn’t had anything to do with mushrooms since she was eight years old and found out that they were a fungus, and who would have been even less inclined to order them if she had known that only an hour before these particular ones had been growing in a field behind the kitchen, ended up with Navajo stew and bulgur, followed by fresh fruit, for five calories more.

  Cathy looked glumly at her bulgur and stew when Mariette placed it in front of her, and poked it gingerly with her fork.

  “What’s this?”

  “Bulgur,” said Joyce, popping a sliver of mustardy lamb chop into her mouth and savoring the taste. It was amazing how good everything tasted when you didn’t get much of it.

  “I know it’s bulgur. It said that on the menu. But what is it?” She sounded peevish.

  She must be in the throes of chocolate withdrawal, decided Joyce, offering an explanation.

  “Wheat. Ground and cooked. Kind of like grits, I think.”

  “Grits. Yuck, I hate grits.” She poked it again. “This looks like lumpy glue.” Reluctantly she took a forkful. She was starving after all the exercise, and any food was better than no food—almost.

  “Well?” Joyce stopped chewing long enough to swallow and to carve off another sliver of chop.

  “It tastes like lumpy glue, too.” Cathy pouted. She was faced with a dilemma. Eat something you don’t like, or go hungry.

  After a few minutes of pushing the bulgur around the plate, trying to hide it under the stew, she gave up, took a forkful and swallowed, grimacing. Then she eyed Joyce’s second tiny lamb chop.

  “Oh no. I need all these calories. You choose your menu, you have to live with it.” Joyce thought she could easily see how food could become one’s primary interest. Only good manners kept her from moving her dish further away, to protect her chop from the covetous Cathy.

  While they were waiting for the minted pears and fresh fruit to arrive, Cathy, uncomfortable at being thrust into a situation where there was no male authority figure, launched another attack on the doctor’s interest in Belle.

  “I don’t think it’s right for your mother to monopolize Dr. Voight so much. After all, we are guests here, too,” she said to Regina.

  “Actually, I think it’s the other way around. He’s the one who’s so hot to trot. He practically insisted that Mother have dinner alone with him tonight.” She raised her thick, glossy brows for emphasis. “I think he wants to jump on her bones.”

  Maxine gave a startled gasp. Why did children have to talk like that?

  Cathy, who was taking the doctor’s absence from the table as a personal rejection, refused to be put off. “I still don’t think it’s fair. Anyway, does he have to be so obvious about it?”

  But Regina just shrugged. She had other thoughts on her mind at the moment.

  All through the meal, Joyce had been stealing covert glances at Maxine. There was no doubt that their little talk at lunch had had some effect. She seemed much brighter than she had the previous afternoon, chatting on about how she had met Adolpho, the chef, the day before, and what a nice man he was. She seemed to be very impressed by the fact that he was cordon bleu and that “he was a man who knew his food.”

  After dinner, Maxine said she was going to pay another visit to the kitchen, and Cathy, who said she was exhausted after the day’s efforts, announced that she was going to bed early. Mariette and Regina went off somewhere together, and Joyce was left to her own devices.

  She knew she had two choices. Either she could go up to her room and start to work on the article—which is what she should do, or she could go up to Cliff’s room and find out why he was avoiding her—which is what she definitely should not do. The choice was obvious. Sometimes you have to do something you know you shouldn’t do.

  A few minutes later, she tapped lightly on his door. If he was asleep, she didn’t want to wake him. And, if he didn’t really want company, he could just pretend he hadn’t heard the knock. And if.…

  A voice responded from within saying what could have either been “Come in” or “Go away.” It was hard to tell. Joyce decided to accentuate the positive and turned the crystal door knob and went in.

  Cliff was lying on the bed, ankles crossed, arms folded behind his head, naked from the waist up or fully dressed from the waist down, depending on your point of view. From Joyce’s point of view, it was the former. She had a strong urge to run her fingers through the black mat of chest hair which spread itself from one powerful shoulder to the other before tapering down into a long V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his slacks.

  He raised his eyebrows when he saw that it was her. “Well, well. Don’t tell me its monsoon season already.”

  “Why have you been avoiding me?” She demanded tersely, ignoring the sarcasm and the chest hair, and getting straight to the point.

  “Avoiding you?”

  “I haven’t seen you for three days.”

  “And three nights,” he added.

  Joyce nodded. “Oh, so that’s it. Can’t take a little rejection, eh?”

  He rolled over onto one elbow so that he was facing her. “A little rejection? You are the first woman who has ever turned me down. That is not a little rejection.”

  “I am?” Joyce couldn’t help the grin that was spreading across her face. “Really?”

  He rolled back onto his back, putting his hands behind his head again. “I don’t believe it. I just told you that I was crushed by your rejection, and all you can think of is how terrific that is for your ego.”

  “Were you?”

  “Was I what?” he asked grumpily.

  “Crushed by my rejection?”

  He thought for a minute. “Well, maybe ‘crushed’ was too strong a word. ‘Dented’ a little is more like it.”

  “You could have tried again.”

  “Would you have said Yes?” His voice echoed the hope which leapt into his eyes.

  “No. Maybe.… Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, with the irritation of the undecided. Cliff sighed. “Look, Joyce, I’m glad you find this all so ego-gratifying, but could we discuss your evident need to destroy what’s left of my confidence some other time. I’ve had a rough day.” He closed his eyes.

  Joyce debated with herself for a minute, and then sat down in the chair beside the bed.

  Cliff opened his eyes again. “You’re still here.”

  “You look like you could use someone to talk to. Besides, I think I owe you one. Tell me what was so rough about today.”

  He thought for a moment. “You’re right. You do.” And then he sat up and scrunched a pillow behind his magnificent shoulders. “I had a call from my agent today.�
�

  Joyce nodded. So that was it.

  Cliff continued. “He’s got a part for me but.…” He shook his head. “He actually thinks that I should consider playing an extraterrestrial rabbit. Can you believe it?”

  “An extraterrestrial rabbi?” Joyce drew a long beard on her mental picture of Cliff.

  “Rabb-ittt.” He bit off the “t” and shrugged, as though the word itself revealed the entire truth of his dilemma.

  Joyce was struggling with the idea. Erasing her previous picture, she tried to form a new one of Cliff Eastman, eighteen-carat dream-boat, dressed up like an outer-space Easter bunny.

  “Incredible, isn’t it? After all these years of sweeping women off their feet, I am supposed to play a furry second fiddle to one of the Brat Pack.”

  “Oh Cliff, I am sorry.” She was trying to suppress a giggle. The mental picture she had been searching for had just formed. “I mean that’s, that’s not good, is it?”

  “It’s a long way from being the romantic lead, unless you’re into ‘Watership Downs’.”

  She had managed to force the giggle back down, hoping that he hadn’t noticed. Obviously, it was not funny to him.

  “You think it’s funny, don’t you?”

  “No, I … well, you have to admit there’s a certain amount of humor in it.” He didn’t look like he was about to admit any such thing. She composed her face and tried to change the subject.

  “Rabbits can be very uh … uh … appealing.” She was desperately trying to sound encouraging, but when she said the word “rabbit,” the giggle started to rise again. She cleared her throat.

  “Only to other rabbits. I’m a lover, for Christ’s sake, not a pet!” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for the bottle of aspirin on the night table. He shook three out into his hand, threw them into the back of his throat and then swallowed them without any water, pulling a face as one got stuck part way down and began to melt.

  “Do you have a headache?” Now there was an insightful question, thought Joyce, desperately trying to find something else to say to take her mind off rabbits.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He lay back on the bed and resumed his earlier position. “God, I could use a drink.”

  “That’s not the answer, you know.” Great, she thought, Joyce the temperance leader was just what he needed.

  “No, it isn’t, but it’ll do until one comes along.” He paused and rolled over on his side again.

  “Do you know how old I am?”

  “Well, not exactly. But I’d guess you were somewhere around forty-five?” She hoped he wasn’t younger.

  “Close. Actually, I’m forty-seven. And, in spite of myself and all the years in Hollywood, I seem to have managed to hold onto most of my looks and all of my talent. I really am a good actor, you know.”

  “I know. I mean, I’ve always thought so.”

  He sighed. “The reason I came here was because I got turned down for a part. It really was a great part, too. Right up my alley. Could have had me back up there on top before you could do this.” He snapped his fingers. “And do you know who they picked for it instead?”

  Joyce shook her head.

  “Pierce Brosnan.” He spit out the name as though it were poison on his tongue.

  “Oh, Pierce Brosnan? He’s very good. He.…” His glare stopped her in mid-sentence.

  “I know he’s good. He’s too bloody good. He’s also a lot younger than me. That’s why he got the part. They’re trying to tell me that I’m over the hill, a has-been at forty-seven because I can’t draw the youth market any more. And now this idiot agent of mine wants me to play a seven-foot rabbit in a silver suit!” He was almost shouting now.

  Joyce was quiet. Let him get it all out of his system, she thought. It’ll make him feel better. At least it always did with Harry. He ranted on for another minute and then was silent for a while before speaking again.

  “So, that’s it. That’s my story. And I guess part of yours, too, now that I’ve spilled my guts.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “‘Aging Star Seeks Solace at Spa’. I can see it now.”

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that. What was said here tonight is off the record. Totally off the record. Just one friend to another. O.K.?”

  He sat up and leaned forward. She caught the scent of his aftershave. “You know shhweetheart, you’re a dame with a lotta class.” Screwing up his eyes and talking over his bottom lip, he did a passable Bogart.

  Joyce knew instinctively that it was time for her to go. She stood up. “Well, time for me to go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  The tension in the room suddenly shot up like mercury on a hot day. He patted the bed beside him.

  “Why go all the way down the hall when I have plenty of room right here?” He looked incredibly seductive, and she felt her pulse racing. It would be so easy to say Yes. She moved over to the bedside table and picked up the aspirin bottle. Her hands were shaking as she pretended to read the instructions on the label.

  “Nope, nowhere does it say ‘take Joyce, and if pain continues consult your doctor’.” She put the bottle down. “Cliff, I don’t want to be a palliative for your ego-ache. It wouldn’t do either one of us any good if I went to bed with you under these circumstances.” She walked over to the door.

  “Joyce?” he called after her, the husky tone of his voice sent ripples of desire pulsating across the room like a magnet.

  “What?” She didn’t turn around. If she turned around now, she knew that she would be there until morning—at least.

  “Come here,” he commanded her softly.

  “I … I can’t. Cliff please don’t do this. It’s not.…”

  But before she could finish she sensed that he was standing behind her. And then, a moment later, she felt the warm insistent pressure of his hands on her bare shoulders. Turning her slowly around to face him, he captured her eyes with his own and she felt her knees grow suddenly weaker. Then as he held her there, imprisoned in his gaze, she felt a hot flush begin to suffuse her skin, emanating outward from where his hands caressed her shoulders until it traversed her entire body. In spite of the heat, she shivered.

  “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered against her hair.

  “Oh Cliff, I can’t.…” she said, her voice quavering with the effort of refusing him.

  “Stay with me,” he murmured, through a flurry of kisses against her throat.

  “Oh Cliff.…”

  “Stay.…” he pleaded softly, as his mouth found hers and she responded to him, drawing his kiss into the very depths of her being.

  He held her there in the kiss for what seemed like a long, long time, coaxing, commanding, beseeching, and still part of her fought to regain control. She was afraid of what lay on the other side of surrender. Not from him but from herself. But she was losing the battle. And, like drowning, after the first short, frantic struggle, the peace of the deep water is welcomed with acceptance and relief. And Joyce Redmond was just about to sink into the deepest water she had ever been in.

  Unfortunately, Cliff, the consummate master of seduction, had failed to perceive that his conquest was at hand. Instead of gently easing her toward the bed, he decided that to clinch the deal he would play his ace card. The one that never failed. He whispered something in her left ear.

  The unexpected presence of words in the realm of sensation shocked her almost as much as what she thought she had heard him say, and instantly her mind became alert and her body was put on hold.

  “What did you say?” she whispered against the pulse of his throat.

  He repeated the offer. “I said, if you’ll stay, I can be any man you like. You name it. It’s your fantasy. You can go to bed with any character I’ve ever played, or if there’s some one else you’d prefer, I could wing it.”

  “What!” She broke away from him. “That’s so sick! I don’t want to go to bed with them. I want to go to bed with you. No, wait. I didn’t mean that. I meant. O
h, I don’t know what I meant.” She ran over to the door. “I don’t want to go to bed with anybody but Fredo!” And she slammed the door shut behind her.

  Cliff stood dumbfounded in the middle of the room. “Fredo? I don’t get it. If she likes Italians, why didn’t she just say so? I was great as Marc Antony.”

  Chapter 27

  The following morning, Belle Taylor went in search of the doctor. The past few days had been very interesting, not to say enjoyable. But even while she had been basking in all the attention, she had also been racking her brains to figure out just what it was that he was really after. Not for one moment had she considered the possibility that his motive was simple passion. All her instincts told her that there was something more going here than just great sex. Men didn’t come on like that to women like her because they were overcome with desire. They saved that for young twinkies like Mariette.

  But, if passion was not the motive, then what was? She thought she had a pretty good idea. And now she wanted him to either confirm it or deny it. Belle Taylor was a woman who always liked to know where she stood, even when she was lying down.

  After he had left her the previous evening, she had gotten up and smoked a couple of cigarettes, trying to think it through. But no matter how she looked at it, it only came up one way. She was not the self-deluding type, and she knew that, without a doubt, the most attractive thing about her was her bank account.

  “You’re a cynic, Belle,” she had said to herself, watching the tip of her cigarette glowing orange in the dark.

  “Not a cynic, just a realist,” she had answered back. But then, after she got back into bed, she found herself nuzzling against the pillow where his head had been, breathing in the slightly animal scent he had left behind. “There’s no fool like an old fool,” she mumbled to herself, as she drifted off into the best night’s sleep she had had in ages.

  Now, as she was walking across the patio on the way to his office, she began to examine the situation with the same cool head that she brought to any business transaction. Why did he want money from her? He seemed to have more than enough of his own. Although, God knows, looks could be deceiving. How many times had she had to pretend to be flush when she was really flat broke?