She dragged her mind back to Ben and Jessica. So, yes, she would remember to be age-appropriate with Ben. She would pretend they were related. She’d behave like his aunt. She certainly wouldn’t touch him. My God, she hadn’t touched him already, had she? The review was making her doubt everything about herself. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. She had a habit of touching people on the arm to make a point, or when they said something that made her laugh, or when she felt in any way fondly towards them.
At least talking with Ben and Jessica had calmed her down. She’d scared herself for a moment there. Loss of self, indeed. What a drama queen.
The road circled up towards the house. Ben politely kept his powerful car at a respectable distance behind Frances, even though he probably longed to floor it on the curves.
She drove up a stately driveway lined with towering pine trees.
‘Not too shabby,’ she murmured.
She’d prepared herself for a seedier reality than the website pictures, but up close Tranquillum House was beautiful. The lacy white balconies glowed in the sunlight. The garden was lush and green in the summer heat, with a sign helpfully proclaiming this property uses rainwater so no-one could criticise the lushness.
Two white-uniformed staff members, with the floaty, straight-backed postures of the spiritually advanced, emerged unhurriedly from the house onto the wide veranda to greet them. Perhaps they’d been off meditating while she was stuck outside the gate trying to ring them. Frances had barely come to a complete stop when her car door was opened by the man. He was young, of course, like everyone, Asian, with a hipster beard and a man bun, bright-eyed and smooth-skinned. A delightful man-kid.
‘Namaste.’ The man-kid pressed his palms together and bowed. ‘A very warm welcome to Tranquillum House.’
He spoke with a tiny . . . measured . . . pause between each word.
‘I’m Yao,’ he said. ‘Your personal wellness consultant.’
‘Hello, Yao. I’m Frances Welty. Your new victim.’
She undid her seatbelt and smiled up at him. She told herself she would not laugh, or attempt to imitate his yogic voice, or let it drive her mad.
‘We’ll take care of everything from here,’ said Yao. ‘How many bags do you have?’
‘Just the one,’ said Frances. She indicated the back seat. ‘I can carry it. It’s quite light.’ She didn’t want to let the bag out of her sight because she’d packed a few banned items, like coffee, tea, chocolate (dark chocolate – antioxidants!) and just one bottle of a good red (also antioxidants!).
‘Leave your bag right there, Frances, and your keys in the ignition,’ said Yao firmly.
Damn it. Oh well. Her slight embarrassment over her contraband, even though there was no way he could tell just by looking at the bag (she was normally such a good girl when it came to rules), caused her to hop out of the car awkwardly and too fast, forgetting her new fragility.
‘Ooof,’ she said. She straightened slowly and met Yao’s eyes. ‘Back pain.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Yao. ‘I’m going to arrange an urgent massage at the spa for you.’ He took a small notepad and pencil out of his pocket and made a note.
‘I also have a paper cut,’ said Frances solemnly. She held up her thumb.
Yao took hold of her thumb and peered at it. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to get some aloe vera on that.’
Oh God, he was gorgeous with his little notebook, taking her paper cut so seriously. She caught herself studying his shoulders and looked away fast. For God’s sake, Frances. Nobody had warned her that this would happen during middle age: these sudden, wildly inappropriate waves of desire for young men, with no biological imperative whatsoever. Maybe this was what men felt like all their lives? No wonder the poor things had to pay out all that money in lawsuits.
‘And you’re here for the ten-day cleanse,’ said Yao.
‘That’s right,’ said Frances.
‘Awesome,’ said Yao, causing Frances to fortunately lose all desire in an instant. She could never sleep with someone who said ‘awesome’.
‘So . . . may I go inside?’ asked Frances snappily. Now she felt quite ill at the thought of sex with the man-kid, or sex with anyone for that matter; she was far too hot.
She saw that Yao was distracted by the sight of Ben and Jessica’s car, or possibly by Jessica, who was standing with one hip cocked, slowly curling a long strand of hair around her finger while Ben talked to another white-uniformed wellness consultant, a young woman with skin so beautiful it looked like it was lit from within.
‘That’s a Lamborghini,’ said Frances.
‘I know it is,’ said Yao, forgetting to put the tiny pauses between his words. He gestured towards the house, stepping aside to let Frances cross the threshold first.
She walked into a large entrance hall and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The soft hush unique to old houses washed over her like cool water. There were beautiful details wherever she looked: honey-coloured parquetry floors, antique chandeliers, ornately carved ceiling cornices and leadlight windows.
‘This is so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Oh – and look at that. It’s like the staircase from the Titanic!’