4. Megan
Chapter 4
Megan
Hattie and Kara are already waiting for me in the spa reception when I arrive. After checking in and completing our health questionnaires, we’re shown through to the changing room by one of the members of staff. Everyone here is stunning, in sharp white coats with short sleeves that show off their year round golden tans.
“If you’d like to change in here, I’ll be back shortly to show you to your treatment rooms, and then once you're all done I’ll meet you with your complimentary champagne,” she smiles sweetly.
I know what Hattie’s thinking. ‘It’s not complimentary if you’re already paying to be here’ , but what actually comes out of her mouth is not what I expect at all.
“No champagne for me, thanks.” She directs her gaze back at Kara and me. “I’m doing Dry January. All those nights at the bar are taking their toll.”
“I’m doing Dry January too, I’m afraid,” Kara adds. “May I have a sparkling water, please?”
My gaze darts back and forth between them. Since when was this decided? Is everyone doing some health kick plan I don’t know about?
“Just the one glass then, miss?” the hostess asks me. I bite the inside of my cheek while I consider my options. I love drinking champagne in the spa, wrapped up all snug in my bright white robe, gossiping and laughing before we head for our treatments. It won’t be as fun if I’m the only one doing it.
“Sparkling water for me too, thanks.”
While I change out of my clothes, Hattie fills Kara in on the big news, and I try not to feel too jealous. Apparently, Rob carried her over the threshold and had fresh flowers in every room for her.
Flowers are basically Rob’s love language. He bought some for me on my birthday, but it’s not the same as when a boyfriend buys them for you. Not that anyone ever has.
I keep my mouth shut and shove those feelings down. Mum always taught me if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. It’s a mantra I repeat with my students all the time.
“Welcome, ladies,” the staff member says, her same perma-smile plastered on her face. “If you’d like to follow me, your treatment rooms are now ready.”
We file out as she holds the door open for us.
“My back needs this desperately,” Kara groans. “I’ve been hunched over my desk far too much lately.”
“You’re in the three rooms at the end of the corridor. I have one male massage therapist with us today. I hope that’s OK?” We all nod, and she looks at each of us in turn. “Does anyone have a preference?”
“You have the guy,” Hattie says, nudging me with her elbow. “I’ll probably try to fuck him or something.”
She and Kara burst out laughing, but the joke is lost on me. That’s old Hattie talking, the Hattie who used dating apps like her personal penis directory and never slept with the same man twice.
Now she’s settled down with Rob— moved in with him for goodness' sake —I know she wouldn’t do anything like that. Which means she thinks I’m so desperate for male attention I have to resort to paying for it.
I knock twice and open the door slowly when I hear a call to come in.
“Hi, welcome, I’m Alexander. You must be Megan.” Alexander is of average height, with broad shoulders and corded forearms I get a good look at when he shakes my hand. A smattering of fair hair dusts his tanned skin and I follow it up to find him clean shaven, with short blonde hair styled back from his face.
He’s undeniably attractive, and I love a well-groomed man. If I spotted him in a pub, I’d definitely admire him from afar, but there’ll be none of that here in his place of work.
“Nice to meet you.”
“I have you booked in for a deep tissue massage,” he says, consulting his iPad. “Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“I can see you’ve completed your health questionnaire for today. Are there any problem areas you’d like me to focus on?”
My entire life would be a good place to start.
“No, just a general massage, thank you.”
“Great. I’ll give you a few moments to undress and get yourself into position on the table, and I’ll knock before I come back in. OK?”
“Super. Thank you.”
He leaves and I take my first deep breath of the day. The treatment room is beautiful, with warm terracotta walls and dim lighting. From somewhere, a speaker plays relaxing music, and a diffuser releases the scent of eucalyptus and citrus into the air. I should feel calm already, but my chest is heavy.
“Come on, Megan,” I whisper to myself, slipping out of my robe and hanging it on the peg on the back of the door. “This was your idea. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
Hopping up on the table, I wriggle myself into position, pulling the soft, warm towels over my lower back as I fit my face in the hole.
As promised, Alexander knocks a few minutes later, and I stay silent as he trickles oil into his palms, rubbing them together to warm it up. Some massage therapists want to chat the whole time they’re working on you, but I’m hoping this one will just let me lie here in silence. I slept terribly, and I don’t have the energy for small talk today.
“I’m going to place my hands on you now,” Alexander says, positioning himself at the top of the table and resting his open palms on my shoulder blades.
Goosebumps prickle across my skin when I realise Hattie was right. It’s been almost a year since I’ve felt the touch of a man. His warm hands send a shiver up my spine, but not in a good way. Yes, I’m craving human contact, but I want an adoring touch, from a man who loves me, not from someone I’ve had to pay for the pleasure. My eyes squeeze shut, and I force myself to breathe deeply.
My shoulders loosen as he works the oil into my skin, but then they snap together, my breath hitching as my body tightens.
I give myself a mental shake and wriggle a little, forcing myself to relax.
“Is everything OK, ma’am?” he asks, his firm strokes slowing down.
Ma’am! Since when have I been 'ma'am'?
Am I an old, decrepit, spinster woman?
“It’s fine,” I try to say, but my voice cracks as the lump in my throat becomes too big to swallow and before I know it, a heaving sob rumbles out of me.
Alexander removes his hands and takes a step away.
“Would you like me to arrange for someone else to treat you?”
“No, it’s fine. You've done nothing wrong,” I say through the face hole. “I’m just… I’m not… I think I should go home, actually.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you. I want to go home.”
“You, um, you have a lot of oil on your back. May I clean it up?”
The tenderness in his voice makes me cry harder.
“Yes please,” I sniff, trying to stem the flow of tears and snot that will drip on the floor any second now.
He towels me off, and when he steps out of the room, I throw on my robe, and hurry back to the changing rooms. Dressing quickly, I grab my stuff, leaving my hair in a messy bun.
At reception, I make my apologies, avoid eye contact, and leave a hefty tip for the shortest, most expensive massage I’ve ever had. I would be worried if Hattie or Kara did a runner like this, so I text them from the car.
Megan: Feeling a bit unwell so I’ve gone home early. Have a wonderful day! Love you both!
I drive home with the radio loud enough to drown out my thoughts. A right turn, a left turn, straight down the high street. If I just follow the same route I've driven hundreds of times, I'll be safe at home in no time.
Our house, no, my house, is on the second floor of a complex built above a huge supermarket in the nineties. All the underground parking is for customers, but there’s a small car park at the rear for residents.
I use my key fob to get inside the front entrance where our mailboxes line one wall, but someone is blocking the door to the main part of the building. I just want to be inside already. Hanging back, I watch while they struggle with the door, yanking it over and over.
“You need to use your fob to unlock it,” I tell him, pointing to the panel on the wall.
“Yeah, I just need to get in quickly,” the man says gruffly.
“Do you live here?”
“Course I do.” He pulls his hoodie further up over his face and a cold feeling makes me step back against the mailboxes.
I don’t believe him. There are about forty apartments in our complex, and I don’t know all the residents, but something's off. We’re pretty hot on security here, hence the double entrances before you can access the stairs and elevators to all floors.
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Listen, bitch,” he says, snapping his arm out to grab the front of my coat. He pulls me up close to him, and I realise he can’t be much older than fifteen. He could be one of my students, and I try to place him, but none of that matters when he snarls in my face. “Just let me in the fucking door.”
Whenever I've heard people talk about fight or flight, I always assumed I'd be able to fight and stick up for myself, but I'm frozen to the spot. In a flash, he tries to snatch my bag off my shoulder, and I'm about to hand it over when the main door beeps.
“What’s going on?” I hear someone yell, then I’m shoved back into the mailboxes, the metal doors denting under the force of my skull.
There’s more shouting, then bright light. Sharp, piercing pain. And when he finally lets go, cold, hard tile against my cheek.