‘It’s still a spa,’ I try to sound upbeat. ‘There’s bound to be some time to unwind, maybe get a pedicure, that sort of thing?’
‘I hope so, otherwise I’ll be straight on the phone to my agent.’
Now doesn’t seem like the right time to remind Violet that her phone is currently imprisoned in the hotel’s storage room under lock and key.
When I clambered into bed I had high hopes of being gently woken up by the sound of birds chirping in the trees outside. I had not counted on being rudely awoken by the aggressive rumblings of my own stomach, having consumed nothing but water and an assortment of leaves for supper last night. We were allowed three blueberries each for pudding, but apparently that was to ease us into the regime as sugar, even the natural kind, will be strictly off limits for the rest of our stay. I dread to think what they’re planning for breakfast. Water, maybe?
Violet is still snoring when I check today’s schedule. Something called MORNING BREATHING is happening at 6:30 which gives me 45 minutes to myself, so I grab my camera and race into the grounds, hoping to catch the rising sun through the trees.
It feels strange not to have my phone to hand at any moment of the day. It’s like a comfort blanket that doesn’t actually offer much comfort and my mind feels less cluttered without it. Most of the time I’m posting photos for Violet, but right now she’s losing her shit over the lack of wifi. She’s gone FERAL, btw. She actually tried to leap over the receptionist to get at the solitary phone in this spa earlier and is now in a small white room where she’s been asked to do some thinking, with nothing but a herbal tea for company. Smirk.
As for me, the only problem with not having my phone is that I’ve got a lot of time to thinkwithout distraction. Usually, if I start getting bogged down in memories about what happened with Dad, a simple scroll through Facebook would get me back off track. There’s always a new cat baby to coo over / a relative making questionable political statements to cringe about / a Fucking Susan to despair at. Now, while I wait for Violet’s ‘gentle anger management class’ to finish, there’s nowhere left to hide and nothing left to do but think.
So, yeah, it’s mostly Dad. He’d been The Best throughout my entire childhood. He embraced my dreams, he made me feel like I could achieve my goals, he looked after me when I was sick and Mum was stuck at work. Sometimes he’d even fashion spaghetti hoops on toast into famous artworks and have me guess what they were, like Spaghetti Van Gogh’s Toast Sunflowers.
Then he stopped being the best in spectacular fashion. I’d just finished my A levels and a long, hot summer lay ahead, filled with the promise of eighteenth birthday parties and endless days with my best friends Mila, Ben and also Holly. There were four of us back then and Holly completed our group. The familiar stab of pain jabs at my heart and I shake my head, frustrated with myself for letting my mind go down this sorry path.
‘Okay,Jasmine. Are you ready for you first spa treatment?’ A member of staff interrupts my thoughts with yet another glass of water. I’m going to be peeing purified thermal waters for weeks.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, unbelievably grateful for the distraction. Finally, something akin to what I’d hoped for this weekend!
It’s a problem, but I can’t help loving wildly sexist rap music. And right now everything feels a little Hot in Herre. Violet’s just back from ‘being told to fucking mellow out by some twat in a smock’, she said, painting a delightful picture, and now we’re both in our bikinis in a searing hot sauna. Violet’s got a gorgeous glow to her smooth skin. I am tugging at the bikini strap digging into my side flab, droplets of sweat landing on my pale thighs. We all have different qualities, right? Violet looks like a model, has a successful career and a relationship that seems to be going swimmingly. I just had quite a good poke around my belly button, which is now totally fluff-free.
I stretch my feet out onto the wooden step below, instantly pulling them back onto the towel I’m sat on because it’s hotter than the sun.
‘Time for a quick dip before your massage,’ says one of the spa workers. Then he waves towards a plunge pool and tells us to jump in. Violet looks nervous so I go first and—
‘MOTHER MARY AND JOSEPH’ The ice-cold water tightens around my lungs. It’s so cold that I’ve lost the use of my limbs which, apparently, is exactly what the spa staff expect to happen. A rubber hoop on a long metal pole is extended out for me to grab on to and I’m scooped back to dry land like a fish in a goldfish bowl.
‘So. Cold,’ I stammer through chattering jaw.
‘I’mnot doing that!’ Violet protests, waving her index finger from side to side. The guy with the rubber hoop nudges her in anyway.
‘OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!’ she cries. ‘I’m going to sue!’ And then, once she’s been fished out, ‘That was actually quite refreshing.’
If I wondered what the pile of soggy twigs were doing in the corner of our massage room, I now know. We’re being beaten with them. I’m at a spa in Switzerland with nothing but a mental boss and my own thoughts to keep my company, and now I’m being whacked across the back with half a Christmas tree.
Oh, and did I mention I’m completely naked?
‘Remind me why this is good for us,’ I say, back tense.
‘Purification. Boosts circulation. Stops the body ageing early. It originates from Russia,’ says my attacker between thwacks.
‘Should have bloody stayed there,’ I whisper. Violet giggles.
‘Try to empty your mind. Don’t speak. Get zen.’
‘Righto.’
‘I’d feel a bit more zen if you weren’t hitting me with sticks,’ Violet grumbles, getting such a glare from her own masseuse. Clearly not keen to go back to anger management class, she shuts her mouth and makes do with rolling her eyes at me. I pull faces in response. It’s funny, but Violet and I have had a couple of moments where we’ve bonded recently. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still completely bat shit, but it’s nice to feel like we’re ever so slightly more on the same wavelength.
There’s one thing I don’t love about the minimalist interiors of this spa. White walls? Sure! White marble bathroom? Yes please! White dinner plate with approx two pieces of cucumber on it? No, blooming, thank you. I am sooooooooo hungry. We’re in the middle of a five-course tasting menu, which I had very high hopes for, but it turns out that’s literally all you get. A taste of the food. I’ve started to feel like I’m in a cartoon world where everything I look at turns into a tasty dish.
‘Everything alright?’ asks a giant ham.
Ah, okay, it’s not a giant ham. It’s Violet, sat across from me at dinner. And she’s NOT EVEN EATEN the cucumber display on her plate.
‘I’m going to go crazy if I don’t eat some proper food soon,’ I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the calm atmosphere as others diners tuck into their own meals with seeming relish.
