“Would you two like the couples and friends suite, or would you like private rooms?”
“We’d like our massages and facials in private rooms, but we would like to eat the fruit plates in a communal area, please,” said Irene.
“Perfect. Ian and Spencer will be with you shortly. You don’t mind having men perform your services, do you?” asked the receptionist. She hadn’t bothered with eye contact up until this point, but now she met each of use squarely, challenging us to not accept being fondled by strange men.
“Of course not,” said Irene. “We’re not sexist. Any job a woman can do, a man can do.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way. You’ll find robes that you may change into right through this door,” said the receptionist, her voice once again as light and soothing as the harp/pan flute combo. She ushered us into a violet-lit hallway, gesturing to two frosted glass doors. “Enjoy!”
I realized I was going to get to take off my mic and be away from Irene. Without being too obvious, I scanned my surroundings for a phone. Unfortunately, the spa had evolved past technologies like phones. Instead of electronics there were plants and water and soft light.
I removed my clothes and microphone and put on my robe. I was a little itchy over the idea of being touched up and down by some guy I didn’t know. On the other hand, I was becoming so desensitized to my lack of privacy that I wasn’t sure I even cared.
There were two light taps on my door and it opened a crack. “All set?” asked a deep voice.
“I guess so,” I said.
“I’m Spencer,” said a burly man who was about six and a half feet tall.
“Emma,” I said, holding out my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Emma.” He shook my hand. His hands were so soft. I suppose from all that massage oil he was always handling. They felt like they were carved out of pats of cool butter. “Follow me this way,” he said.
We were just a few steps out of the room when I made my move. I hadn’t even known I was going to do it, but then, like a cheetah, I sprang into action. “Could I make a quick phone call?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Just come down to this room as soon as you’re ready. I will leave the door open a little so you remember which room.”
“I don’t have a phone with me, I’m afraid. Do you have one I could borrow?”
“Of course. Actually, since you’re in your robe already and probably don’t want to go back up front to the reception area,” he reached into his pocket, “would you like to use mine?”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Here you go,” he said, pressing a few buttons and handing it to me. “It should be all ready for you.”
I took it and stepped into the massage room. “It will be just a second. I appreciate this very much,” I said, closing the door.
I started dialing Pete’s number, but my mind went blank. Back at home it was programmed into my phone. I realized that perhaps I didn’t even know his number. I tried to think if anyone else would know it. “Think, Emma. Think,” I whispered to myself. My pulse was racing. This was my big opportunity and I was going to blow it. I took a chance and dialed what I thought the number was. It rang and rang, and then the old familiar greeting came up: “Hey, this is Pete. Leave me a message.”
“Pete! It’s Emma. Don’t call me back. This isn’t my phone. I just
want to tell you I’m thinking of you. You don’t need to worry about anything. Okay? I will call you back if I get a chance, but don’t return this call. I miss you. Very much.” I hesitated, unsure if I should say more. “I hope you’re thinking of me. I can’t wait to see you. Bye.” I hung up and sighed, biting my lip. If only he had answered. I should have known he wouldn’t answer a call from a number he didn’t know. Then again, why wouldn’t he, when it might be from me. What if he was angry with me? Could I blame him? I would be furious if the roles were reversed.
I stepped out of the room and handed Spencer his phone. “Thank you,” I said.
“It was no problem,” said Spencer. “Are you ready for your massage?”
“Sure,” I said, lying down on the table. The cold pats of butter descended onto my back.
“You’re tense,” Spencer remarked after a few minutes.
“I know,” I said.
“I’ll take care of that for you,” he said, lighting a few more candles and dousing me in essential oils. Between my irrational fear of exploding into a ball of flames and my fear that Pete was avoiding me, I wasn’t enjoying any of this. Similar to bad sex, it seemed to go on forever. Eventually, when my body felt like tenderized meat probably feels, Spencer stopped touching me and turned up the lights a little. “It’s time for your fruit plate,” he whispered. His breath was warm in my ear.
“Yay,” I said, stifling the urge to gag or giggle.
He led me out to a small courtyard where Irene was already waiting, her feet soaking in a pond of fish.