Chapter 24
24
A WOMAN’S TOUCH
Niamh is back on form when we arrive at Sonas Spa and is happy to take the lead while I eye the price list on the wall and try not to suffer a myocardial infarction. (I’ve checked, by the way and Dr Miranda Bailey was in her early forties when she had a heart attack in Grey’s , so it’s entirely possible that one might befall me too.) While Niamh chats to the receptionist, who she apparently taught five years ago, Laura explains the different arrays of facials to me. It seems our Laura is no stranger to pampering sessions. That’s probably why she looks a good five to ten years younger than both Niamh and me. I’d been putting it down to the fact she only has one child whereas I’ve endured twin boys and Niamh has four of the little darlings. Given the fact Niamh works with teenage children all day every day too, it’s a wonder she doesn’t look as if she’s in her nineties. I’m convinced young people thrive through sucking the life force directly out of surrounding adults.
Laura is explaining something to me about how collagen and skin elasticity should be key areas of focus for menopausal women but I’m only half listening. My skin care regime, if I could be so bold to call it that, has only recently moved on from baby wipes and the occasional sweep of moisturiser. I only switched up my routine because I’d noticed my skin was suddenly drier than the Sahara desert in the middle of a heatwave – and when I say ‘switched up’, I switched to Dove soap and a regular sweep of moisturiser. I’ve never had a proper facial in my life and the last time I had a full manicure was just before my wedding when I went all out and got false nails with a French Polish. They had felt so alien on my hands that I’d hauled them off on the plane to our honeymoon and it had taken months for my natural nails to recover. Not realising I was only peeling off falsies, Simon also took months to recover from thinking I had lost the run of myself and was tearing my actual nails from my fingers.
I probably should have realised then that Simon Cooke did not have the stomach to spend a lifetime of forevers with me.
I’m pulled from my reverie with the arrival of what looks like a literal child carrying a tray of tall-stemmed glasses, filled to the brim with Prosecco, and a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. I could get used to this kind of pampering, I think, wondering if I could just request that I be allowed to lay on a chaise-longue, drinking fizz and eating chocolate-covered fruit while Niamh and Laura get all their treatments done without me.
The childlike figure, who it turns out is the salon owner, speaks in a soft, angelic voice as she welcomes us to her spa and the City Girl experience. Combined with the soft background music and the sweet smell of essential oils in the air, her voice actually has quite a soothing effect. And as I drink more of the chilled-to-perfection Prosecco, I start to think this sweet angel child could convince me to try anything. Even hot wax.
Thankfully for me, her and my unkempt pubic region, she doesn’t.
Instead she tells us that we will each enjoy a soothing rejuvenating facial, perfect for menopausal skin.
‘Does it have collagen?’ Laura asks and the salon owner, whose name is Gabby according to the shiny badge on her tunic, nods that it does. She adds, ‘Gold star for you!’ and Laura beams with pride while I feel a little jealous that I don’t appear to be Gabby’s favourite.
‘Along with your facial, you will each enjoy a hot stone massage to ease any tension from your bodies and a luxury manicure with gel polish.’ It sounds quite lovely.
‘And the makeover part?’ I ask, wondering how on earth Gabby and team of angels can fit all those treatments into our three-hour slot.
‘Well I hope you won’t be too disappointed,’ Gabby trills. ‘But your friend Niamh here explained you were a little nervous at the thought of a transformation and maybe could benefit more from our rejuvenation and relaxation package so we did a little rejigging and poof – no need to fear we’ll go in heavy handed with the foundation and blusher. Although, don’t worry, you’ll still get your Prosecco and snacks!’ She smiles but I’m wondering just how awkward it was for Niamh to explain my reticence. Could that be why she was in a funny mood earlier?
‘Well, that sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered,’ Laura says.
‘Yes,’ Gabby replies in a tone of voice that oozes empathy and sympathy, ‘Niamh tells me it has been a tough time for you. Don’t worry, we’ll help ease some of that tension in your body and have you floating out of here a new woman.’
‘Thank you,’ Laura says a little tearfully. I look at Niamh to thank her too and see she’s also a little tearful, but when she sees me looking she quickly adopts a smile and claps her hands together to attract all our attention. ‘Right then,’ she says, in her best teacher voice. ‘We should get going with all this carry on, shouldn’t we?’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘For organising this. You’re a star.’
‘Sure, I know,’ she says. ‘And when I thought about it, the last thing any of us need is a massive makeover. Before you know it, we’ll lose the run of ourselves and dye our hair Menopause Magenta, start wearing really thick glasses frames and dungarees with DM boots.’
‘Menopause Magenta?’ Laura asks.
‘It’s a thing,’ Niamh says. ‘I’ve seen it. You must have seen it. Women having mid-life crises start dying their hair wacky colours and experimenting with different looks and, you know, fair play to them if it makes them happy. But it’s not you, girls. It’s not what you need and it’s not what sixteen-year-old you would have wanted either. Sixteen-year-old us would want us to feel good and look good and put ourselves first for a bit. So get your holes into those treatment rooms and get pampered for Christ’s sake.’
There’s something a little manic about how she’s talking but I’m certainly not crazy enough to pull at this particular thread any further just now. I sense that my darling Niamh might just be on the edge. So I nod, say, ‘Yes, miss,’ like the good girl I am and get my hole – as she so delicately put it – into the treatment room where Gabby hands me a dressing gown and instructs me to strip down to my knickers and get ready for stage one of my pampering, the hot stone massage. I start to reluctantly do exactly as she tells me, even though it’s been at least ten years since anyone has seen me without a bra.
‘I’ll just leave the room while you get ready,’ she says before I have my top lifted enough to reveal that I opted for comfort not fashion with my underwear today. ‘You can put your clothes on that chair and then lie down on your tummy on the table and I’ll be in shortly. I’ve left you a little blanket there to pull up around yourself to make you feel more relaxed. The massage is concentrated on your neck and back. It’s all very discreet.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God. No enforced nudity.
Gabby looks at me. ‘It’s okay to find this a bit unsettling,’ she says. ‘Especially if you’re not used to pampering yourself – and you’d be surprised the number of women who are not at all used to pampering themselves. Some even find it very emotional. It can be a form of release.’
I feel a little bubble of something I can’t quite name rise up inside me and I immediately try to dampen it down. I don’t want to be feeling ‘feelings’ in front of a virtual stranger. I don’t want any form of ‘release’ – whatever that means. A fart, after all, is a form of release.
‘I’m only saying,’ Gabby continues. ‘What happens in here, stays in here. Consider it to have the sanctity of a confessional. And there is no body issue, lump or bump I haven’t seen before and dealt with before. So relax and let me take care of you for a bit.’
I don’t think I have ever wanted to hug a stranger more. Gabby exudes a calmness and I immediately know I can trust her as she gives a small smile and gestures towards the door, indicating she is leaving. I strip off in peace and quiet and climb up on the table which – oh my God – is heated. If they could, I’m sure my boobs would sigh with relief as I rest them on the gently warmed towelling surface, then place my head on the cushioned headrest. I haul the soft blanket Gabby left for me up over my back and then I allow myself to let go, relax and embrace the calming sensations of this dimly lit, fragrant, almost womb-like treatment room.
To some women these spa visits are par for the course but for me it’s a revolutionary act of self-care – something I put to the bottom of a very long and never-ending to-do list. Massages and facials, and even a gel polish, are not something I’ve had the time or money for as I tried to raise my boys and just get through each day. If I had extra money it went to treating the boys. Or my mum. Or paying a little extra off a bill.
The wobbly feeling returns. It dawns on me it’s guilt, even though Niamh is still insisting on covering the cost for this afternoon. Could it be that I feel guilty simply for putting myself first?
I remind myself to breathe through it. It’s okay to put myself first for an afternoon, isn’t it? It’s okay to relax enough to enjoy a massage, and a facial and a gel nail polish. I might even go for slut-red even though I have no one to be a slut for.
There’s a knock on the door and Gabby lets herself back in and asks if I’m comfortable in a voice that is even softer than it was before. I wonder if it would be appropriate to ask her to make me a recording of her reading a bedtime story that I can play to lull myself over to sleep each evening.
Sadly, I’m pretty sure it isn’t, so I say nothing and simply allow myself to relax while she gets to work. ‘I’ll do a light massage first,’ she whispers in her little angelic voice. ‘Just to loosen you up a bit. Then we’ll place the hot stones on acupressure points along your neck and spine. This will help release any further tension and anxiety your body might be holding on to, and it may ease any pain you may be experiencing in that area. Do you suffer from back pain?’
‘I’m forty-six,’ I tell her. ‘I suffer from back pain, knee pain, hip pain and just general all-over pain.’ I say it in a jokey voice even though I’m not joking. Every month a new ailment seems to get added to my list of ongoing ailments. Injuries no longer heal quickly and they leave their mark as you edge closer to your demise.
Gabby gives a little angelic tinkle, which I think is a laugh. ‘Forty-six is hardly old,’ she says. ‘You’ve a lot of living left in you.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But sometimes it feels old. You’ll understand in time, probably. What age are you, Gabby?’
‘Oh, I’m twenty-eight – the big three-oh is looming! Eek!’ she says. I want to cry. I can barely remember my own big three-oh these days. I just have scattered images in my mind of a meal out with Simon and friends, drinks and then wishing I’d skipped both when dealing with two boisterous toddlers the following day. Simon, if I remember correctly, had a terrible hangover and had to take to his bed.
‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘By the time you walk out of here today we’ll have you feeling re-invigorated and hopefully minus all those aches and pains.’
‘If you achieve that I’ll be calling the Vatican to have you lined up for a sainthood,’ I joke.
The touch of her hands on my back makes me jump even though I’ve been fully anticipating it.
‘Sorry, is that a little cold for you?’ she asks, but no, it’s not cold. Her hands are perfectly warm and lovely. The feeling of them pressing into my tired muscles and drawing down along my spine just feels so good.
‘’S’fine,’ I say, my words already a little slurred with the blissful sensations flowing through my body right now. I stifle a moan, afraid to let it out in case it sounds a little like a sex moan. Not that I remember too much about sex moans. It has been a long, long time since I moaned about anything other than housework and Donegal drivers.
It’s been ten years since someone touched my bare skin in so tender yet purposeful a way. Of course, the more I try to hold in the moans of pleasure and release, the greater my need to vocalise how I am feeling grows. Never in my life did I think I’d have to start trying to remember the names of all the Walton children to stop my body reacting involuntarily to being caressed by another human. Dear God, is that what Gabby meant when she said someone people find it a form of release?
John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen… who comes after Mary Ellen? It better not be me, that’s for sure. It’s not Jim-Bob. I know that much. Or the youngest girl – Elizabeth. I run through my ‘Goodnights’ to keep my mind focused on not humiliating myself as Gabby’s hands run the length of my spine.
‘ Erin !’ I finally gasp out loud, with great relief.