‘Ah?’
‘It would be odd, wouldn’t it? If he arrived on my doorstep unannounced.’
‘It would be a little out of the norm. However, he did send me here.’
‘Oh?’
‘He wants you to try out the resort spa so you can recommend it to guests if it ever comes up in conversation.’
‘Really?’ I get to skive off work and enjoy the fancy day spa? It’s heavenly according to guests who’ve visited the bookshop, coming in afterwards almost floppy from relaxation. Most of the natural products they use are made with oils sourced locally from various flowers and plants like coconut, frangipani and lemongrass.
She grins. ‘Really. All staff are invited to try the spa and if you’d like to use it privately on your day off, there’s a hefty discount then too.’ She hands me a spa menu full of face and body treatments that I’ve already committed to memory from dreaming about being pampered. ‘Go wild as long as you’re back in the bookshop by lunchtime.’
‘He’s not so bad, is he?’ OK, that might be the free massage offer talking, but really, as far as bosses go, if you can overlook his many rules and regulations, he does have a sweet side by inviting staff to partake in complimentary activities.
‘He has his good days. Best to head over now in case they get busy after the breakfast rush.’
‘Ooh, say no more. Wait! Who’s going to open the bookshop?’
‘Yours truly at your service.’ The dimples in her cheeks deepen. ‘I love telling Turt all my problems. For a tortoise, he’s a surprisingly good listener.’
‘Ha. That he is. A guest by the name of Bernie might come in for some beach reads she called about. If she does, I’ve put them under the counter so she can make her selection as she won’t have much time because she’s going island hopping on the fast boat at 11a.m.’
‘OK, I’ll look after her.’
After Mariola leaves I throw myself in the shower. When I’m ready I cycle to the spa which is on the opposite side of the Cabana Bar, further down the beach near the rainforest. It’s tranquil this end, with only the occasional birdsong and the crash of waves.
I introduce myself and choose my treatment. The woman behind the counter has a thick Seychellois Creole accent that I find difficult to understand. ‘Sorry, I missed that again,’ I say.
‘Couples? Couples massage, OK?’
‘It’s only me though. I’m not in a couple.’
‘OK?’
‘Well, it’s not OK, it’s a bit of a disaster really. My boyfriend of a few months broke up with me on Instagram stories! He didn’t have the decency to call, or even post a picture on the grid, but these things happen and I will be OK.’
‘OK!’
‘Yes! Totally OK!’
It’s nice to have the support of a total stranger. Maybe she’s one of those massage therapists who can recognise a woman coming off a bad breakup simply by the way I hold myself, that and the bags under my eyes from the whole Tia Amboro fiasco. A massage is just the tonic after what I’ve been through.
The woman leads me to a room with two massage beds. The air is fragranced with the scent of an oil burner. Meditation music plays from unseen speakers. The styling is pared back with only the jarrah massage beds and deep brown warmth of the wooden floors and a small table with an oil burner.
‘Naked?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Get naked. There’s a towel to cover yourself when you get on the bed.’
‘Ooh, right. Of course.’ Now I remember why I don’t get massages very often. It seems so wildly personal to get starkers with a person you’ve never met before and have them run their hands up and down the length of you. Why didn’t I choose a facial?
She closes the door and leaves me to it. I quickly undress, living in fear that she’s about to burst in at any moment, and then promptly fling myself on the bed and drape the small towel over myself. I take a deep breath of lemongrass-scented air and close my eyes. Time to relax and unwind. Time to blot out all the problems that have blighted me. Time to?—
‘OK? Couple?’
I startle. ‘Couple?’
