Chapter Five
It’s my first opportunity for a lie-in in weeks, yet I’m up before the sun. No matter how far down under the fluffy duvet I burrow, sleep won’t come again. I flick on the bedside lamp. The weak light reaches under the canopy of the great wooden four-poster bed but bathes the corners in deep shadows. The oak-panelled walls absorb what little light reaches them. I can just make out the gargoyles carved on the sandstone mantelpiece across the room.
It wouldn’t be my first choice of décor. My flat has whitewashed floorboards, pristine pale blue walls, shabby-chic Frenchified furniture, antique mirrors and mission glass candleholders all over the place. It’s always perfectly neat. An uncluttered room makes for an uncluttered mind.
My mind is cluttered but it’s probably not because there’s enough dark brocade in here to clothe Queen Elizabeth. I had the weirdest dreams. Or not dreams, exactly. They were more like altered memories.
Ex-boyfriends seem to be ganging up on me this weekend. If it isn’t last night’s reminder about Skate, it’s today’s arrival of Karl. I’ve done my best not to think about that. Not because I don’t want to see him, but because I do.
After the Christmas party it took a few days to shove Karl down the list of things I have to worry about this weekend. I managed to shift him to number five or six. I pushed down the notion that he probably went home with Nadia that night even further. It’s none of my business and it shouldn’t bother me. It doesn’t, really (very much). I just think he should have better taste in women.
Then last night Mum asked Marley when Karl was coming. We never got to the meet-the-parents stage so Mum doesn’t know about us. She just thinks he’s Marley’s generous boss. When Marley said he may arrive today, he went straight back to top billing, lodging in my hippocampus and populating my dreams.
I dreamed we were walking in Soho one evening, hand in hand after a romantic dinner at a little Italian he liked, when I remembered I needed to shop for a wedding dress at Selfridges.
In reality we really did once go drinking after work in Soho, and were walking back to the Tube to go to his place when I remembered I needed to collect the shoes I’d had re-heeled at Selfridges.
I dreamed that as we approached the department store, a young woman stood in our way. She wore one of those oversized brightly coloured tee shirts over her street clothes, warning us that she was a charity mugger. ‘Hi!’ she chirped, doing a little dance in front of us to get us to stop. She stuck out her hand to Karl. They always go for the easy targets. He took it, smiling. ‘Can I talk to you for just a minute about the plight of the three-toed sloth? It’s been having a terrible time of it on Twitter thanks to the trolls who don’t want Jane Austen on the ten-pound note, and if we don’t do something about it soon, they’re going to overwhelm the refugee camps in Tyneside. But you can help. For only three pounds a month you can sponsor a sloth. That’s enough to make sure it learns to read Mandarin, and has enough McVitie’s biscuits for its tea.’
In actual fact, the girl collecting donations had been a pimply school leaver and the cause was probably Afghanistan or Syria.
In my dream, Karl reached for his wallet and, realising he had only a few hundred pounds in cash, offered her his platinum MasterCard. She ran it through the machine that dangled off her belt and gave him a receipt to write off against his taxes. Then she turned to me. I stood with my arms folded. ‘Why should we be the ones that have to help?’ I said. ‘I pay taxes so that the government can give aid to other countries. We spend 0.7 per cent of our gross national income on foreign aid. That’s almost nine billion pounds. If the aid isn’t getting to those who need it, then I’m sorry, but that’s because the governments aren’t being efficient. You shouldn’t expect us, individuals, to pay more to make up for the inefficiency of bureaucrats. You should be lobbying the governments to do better. Put that slogan on your tee shirt.’
She stared at me.
Karl stared at me.
In truth, Karl probably gave her a quid. We picked up my shoes, went to his place and went to bed. My tirade was completely accurate and they really did both stare at me open-mouthed. I cringe to think about it, though my argument seemed reasonable at the time.
Downstairs, Dad is already up. ‘Morning, Carol!’ he says from the cushioned window seat, his fingers absently picking out a melody on his travelling guitar. He’s practising for tonight. ‘Up? Showered and dressed? Efficient as always. How’d you sleep?’
‘Mmm, not great,’ I say, scanning the messages refreshing on my BlackBerry, which I’ve been optimistically aiming out the window. Finally, I’ve got a dribble of 3G, and only twenty-seven emails; it’s a slow day. If I worked for a US bank I’d have five times that number, and wedding or no wedding, would probably be in the office today. ‘I guess my mind’s a bit full at the moment.’
I kiss his forehead and settle down in the floral wing-back chair next to the window.
‘It’s not every day we mobilise the troops for your sister’s wedding. Your mother was barking orders in her sleep last night about the cake. If I go AWOL today, you won’t report me, will you?’
I laugh. ‘I’m happy to aid and abet.’
‘How are you, Carol? We haven’t seen much of you lately.’
I sigh. ‘Oh, everything’s fine. I’m just really busy at work. There doesn’t seem to be time for much else.’
He glanced up from his strings. ‘You know, it might be nice to have some time off work. Maybe you could take a sabbatical. Do some travelling.’
‘Dad, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself outside of work.’ I don’t mean for this statement to sound quite so sad. ‘I like my job.’
‘I just wish you liked your life as much,’ he said, quietly strumming.
This isn’t a new conversation. He can’t understand why I’d devote my life to a bank. Like he’s any better. He can’t criticise my BlackBerry while he plays his guitar. We’re both working. His work just sounds better.
Mrs Campbell hurries in. ‘I’m sorry ta bother ya,’ she says. ‘But the ice has arrived. Where do you want it?’
Dad and I jump up together. Marley and Jez are going to love this! We hurry after Mrs Campbell through a maze of hallways to the kitchen and out the back door. ‘Oh, but I can’t go out there in my boots,’ I say as I realise what I’m wearing. ‘They’ll be ruined.’ It’s not snowing at the moment but the ground is covered. ‘I’ll just have to put my other boots on.’
By the time I find my way back to the kitchen door the delivery men already have the ice sculpture out of the van and on to a hand truck. Mrs Campbell and Dad are peering at it, looks of consternation on their faces. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Does that look like a swan to you?’ Dad asks, walking around the sculpture.
I see what he means. ‘It looks more like a duck.’ Given that it’s going to double as a vodka luge, the expression Like water off a duck’s back comes to mind. ‘That’s okay. It’s a romantic duck.’
But I can see Dad’s disappointed. This is the one thing he got to plan for the wedding. ‘Maybe we can fix it,’ I say, putting my arm around him. ‘I’m sure we can make a few little changes. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Mrs Campbell? Could you please help me find some tools?’
I’ll just add ice sculpture to my CV.
I’m not sure whether I’ve improved things but the duck got a nose job. He’s now recovering comfortably in one of the outbuildings so that Marley doesn’t see him before tomorrow. She’s presiding over the breakfast table, even attempting conversation with the Monotonous Five. They’re staring as if under interrogation.
‘Oh no, Uncle Joel, you can’t!’ cries Jemima, startling the waitress as she sets Dad’s breakfast down.
‘Whatcha got there, Dad?’ I say, enjoying Jemima’s meltdown immensely.
‘Full English… sorry, full Scottish breakfast,’ he says, sliding his plate further away from my cousin.
‘But it’s blood sausage!’ Jemima says. ‘Do you know what’s in that? Mummy told me.’
‘Well, unless it’s been mislabelled, Jemima, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ He forks in a bite. ‘Mmm, nothing like a bit of bodily fluid for brekky.’
Jemima looks like she’s about to faint. Auntie Lou takes pity on her. ‘Jemima, dear, come sit next to me. I’m ever-so anxious to hear about your new business idea. I had no idea that colonic irritation was so popular!’
‘Irrigation,’ Mum says.
‘What did I say?’
‘Irritation!’
Auntie Lou shrugs.
Mollified, Jemima settles down next to Auntie Lou to extol the virtues of internal cleansing.
‘Carol, guess who’s just texted from the airport?’ Marley sings, prising my attention from the email I’m just finishing. Karl’s coming, finally! I feel a slight twinge that he texted her instead of me. But I suppose she was the one who invited him.
‘The Rendalls!’ she announces, to my parents’ delight. ‘You’ll have to see them when you get back from your massage. You probably want to head over there soon, don’t you think? And leave that thing in your room!’ She points to the BlackBerry, which buzzes in defiance.
For the second time in the morning I don my proper snow boots.
The air is sharp but the sun peeks through the clouds. Billions of tiny diamonds shine upon the snow blanketing the ground. I can see why Marley was so keen to come here. Dour upholstery, communications blackouts and temperamental water supply aside, it is beautiful.
The car park beside the spa is full. Scots must need a lot of post-Christmas stress relief.
I don’t really know what to expect as I push open the heavy wooden door. Incense and chimes, maybe, and ladies dressed in kimonos (I don’t know why).
The ladies aren’t in kimonos. They’re in white tops and trousers, like stylish nurses. One of them leads me through to a quiet changing room decorated in Ikea circa 2006. She hands me a white cotton robe, and slippers in a plastic sleeve. ‘You’re free to use these while you’re here.’ What she means is that as much as I might be tempted to wear my disposable slippers and ill-fitting robe back at the house, I may not. ‘When you’re ready,’ she continues, ‘you can wait in our relaxation area. Someone will come get you to begin the treatment.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you’ll just show me where I can lock my clothes.’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that. You can put them into one of the lockers here. There aren’t any locks but they’ll be fine.’
‘Then why call it a locker?’ I mumble. It took me ages to find these jeans. If someone nicks them there’s going to be hell to pay.
The idea of shuffling around strangers in a bathrobe and slippers sits badly with me. No matter how tightly tied the robe, the fact remains that only a stiff wind stands between me and nudity.
There are five other people in the relaxation area with me. None look particularly relaxed. It reminds me of a GP’s waiting room where everybody avoids eye contact but tries to guess what the others are in for. I don’t get the chance to guess before a slight, fair-haired woman approaches. I’ve got my hand down inside my robe trying to adjust the fabric.
‘Hi, I’m Faye,’ she says, all smiles. Speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a mental patient, she leads me through to another room. I wonder if they get many on day release around here, or if this patronising tone is meant to be soothing. I give her the stink eye just so she knows where she stands.
We enter the dimly lit room that smells of hippy. She lights a small candle and takes a moment to pray to the god of essential oils. ‘You can take off everything but your bottom half,’ she says, still sounding like she’s recovering from laryngitis. ‘Then lie face down on the table and cover yourself with this towel. I’ll just wait outside.’
As she’s guarding the only exit, I do as I’m told, grateful that at least I’ve got full coverage underwear on.
Faye knocks, quietly of course. ‘Relax,’ she croons. ‘I’m just going to take these down a bit.’
With that she peels my knickers down, exposing my arse and every insecurity I’ve ever had about my body. If she were a man, I’d be seconds away from penetration right now.
Is this a back massage or is it not a back massage? Because she’s kneading my cheeks like they’re bread dough. I’ve watched Mum make loaves since I was a child. I know what happens next. They double in size.
I try to relax but with Faye performing better foreplay than most of my ex-boyfriends, this isn’t easy. Every so often she tears herself away from my posterior to massage my back and shoulders. I use those seconds to try to unclench my buttocks. I can hear her breathing deeply.
My BlackBerry rings just as she takes aim at my coccyx. ‘’Scuse me a minute,’ I say, lunging for the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
‘Hi, Nadia.’
‘Where is the Green Energy Ltd. research note.’ Nadia never asks a question. She makes statements that demand answers.
‘Hello to you too,’ I say, mouthing sorry to Faye. Of course, I’m not really sorry. ‘It’s in their folder.’
‘We can’t find it. Where in the folder.’
‘In the folder named Research Notes, where I saved it. Are you in the folder now?’ I feel a stab of guilt that my colleagues are working when I’m not. Just because it’s the Friday after Christmas, and my sister’s wedding? Shoddy excuses.
I shrug into my robe, make a wait-a-minute gesture to Faye and shuffle into the changing room to finish the call. For once, I’d rather talk to Nadia than do what I’m doing.
I leave the spa tenser than when I arrived, and with the suspicion that I’ve just been sexually assaulted. I want to lie in my darkened room with my BlackBerry and pretend that never happened.
A car slows behind me on the drive. It must be the Rendalls! I spin around, grin plastered to my face. ‘Hello and wel… come.’
Robert the Rat rolls down his window. ‘Hello, I didn’t expect to see you out here. I can’t imagine what would bring you outside.’
I’m not prepared to meet my ex. For one thing, I’ve just been lying with my face in a hole on the massage table. I can still feel the creases. Not that he looks any better but then, he’s always rumpled – shaggy brown hair and stubble. I hope he’s planning to shave for the wedding photos.
‘I do go outside, you know.’
‘Yes, for sushi or no-fat latte. I don’t see a Starbucks around.’
‘If you must know, I was at the spa.’
He spluttered, his deep blue eyes wide. ‘You?!’
‘Yes, me. I had a massage. It was very… thorough. Anyway, I won’t keep you.’
‘Do you want a lift?’
‘No, thank you. I’m enjoying my walk.’ I turn back towards the house and stomp off. He beeps behind me.
‘I said I’ll walk, thank you!’ I shout.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘But you’re doing it in the middle of the drive. If you’ll move to the side, I can pass.’
Hmph. Is it any wonder we broke up?