‘But it’s not the truth,’ Neil said. ‘She’s a lying bitch.’
I wanted to drive my fist into his face. But no one even rebuked him.
Mike, Vincent, Misty and John Joe helped Neil up and led him gently from the room.
22
I had promised myself that Monday would be the day I’d get organized and start exercising. Once I was making myself skinny and beautiful I’d feel more hopeful about winning Luke back.
I decided to ask Chris to show me the gym. There are some women, who, when heart-broken, have no interest whatsoever in other men. I wasn’t one of them. On the contrary, I yearned for male approval as a form of restoration. Call me shallow, call me needy, call me whatever you like so long as you call me.
After lunch, for once, Chris wasn’t deep in conversation with a brown jumper. He was reading, his foot up on his opposite knee, deliberately looking sexy just to scare me away.
He wore an impressive pair of boots – black, square-toed, lizard-skin chelsea boots that would have given him the freedom of trendy New York City. While I was thrilled to be in close contact with such a well-shod man, it had the double-edged effect of scaring me away. I was so in awe of his footwear that I feared I wasn’t worthy to talk to him.
I was afraid the other inmates would deduce that I fancied Chris. Luckily their attention was elsewhere, as Neil loudly held court, a circle of sympathetic nodding dogs around him. But I still couldn’t get off my arse and approach Chris.
Just get up, I urged myself, walk four paces across the room and speak to him.
Right you are, I replied with conviction. But I remained superglued to the chair.
I’ll count to five, I bargained. And then I’ll do it.
I counted to five.
Ten! I’ve changed my mind. I’ll count to ten and then I’ll talk to him.
Just as I felt my bum lift off the chair to begin my cross-room odyssey, I froze with fear. My make-up! I hadn’t checked it since that morning. I scurried along to my room and brushed my hair and retouched my make-up in a fierce, mascara-blobbing, lipstick-swerving hurry.
If he’s still there when I get back, I swear to God I’ll speak to him, I promised myself.
When I got back down, he was exactly where he’d been, still unencumbered by middle-aged men. I had no excuse.
Just pretend he’s hideous, I advised myself. Try to imagine him with no teeth and one eye.
So, shaking slightly, I found myself making my way across the floor to him.
‘Er, Chris,’ I said. The words surprised me by sounding normal. And not an adolescent boy’s voice-breaking soprano.
‘Rachel.’ He put his book down and looked up at me, his the-sun’s-too-bright, blue eyes burning. His beautiful mouth was turned up in a slight smile. ‘How’s it going? Sit down.’
I was so thrilled that he hadn’t slammed his book down on the table and thundered ‘What?!’ that I beamed at him.
‘Will you show me something?’ I asked.
‘Wehay.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘My luck is in.’
Flustered and flushed, I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, so I just said ‘Er, no… I mean, I didn’t mean… will you show me the sauna?’ I felt safest asking to see the sauna, because I knew for sure there really was one.
‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Do you want to get your stuff?’
‘Not yet, I just want to see it, for the moment.’
‘Right,’ he said, putting down his book. ‘Off we go!’
‘Mind them lovely boots, Chris,’ Mike called in a camp voice. ‘You don’t want to get them muddy’
‘Peasants,’ I clicked, with a heavenward roll of my eyes. But Chris just laughed.
‘John Joe wanted to know where I got them,’ he grinned. ‘He thought they’d do for milking the cows.’
Out we went into the freezing weather. The trees were swaying in the high winds and my hair whipped round my face. As we skidded across a fifty-yard patch of muddy grass I wondered about faking a slip and, when Chris went to help me up, pulling him down on top of me and… Before I got my chance we arrived at a little outhouse.
In I burst, Chris right behind me. Then he slammed the door behind us to keep out the wind and the rain.
We were in a tiny, little room that was lovely and warm. It had a washing-machine and a spin dryer in it, both of which were hopping around doing their thing. The noise was intense, as it echoed off the stone walls and floor. I looked expectantly at Chris, waiting for him to lead me on further.
‘Ready when you are.’ I smiled, but it was tinged with anxiety because there didn’t seem to be any doors other than the one we had just come in.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that to a man in my condition.’ He laughed.
I tried to smile, but found I couldn’t. He put his cold hands on top of the vibrating washing-machine, then ran his hands through his fair hair.
‘Phew,’ he said. ‘You can see why they call it the sauna.’
‘This is the sauna?’ I asked, my voice trembling.
‘Yes.’
I looked around. But where were the Swedish pine walls, the Swedish pine benches, the big fluffy towels, the pores that were opening and detoxifying? There was just this little room with exposed breeze blocks, a concrete floor and a couple of red plastic laundry baskets.
‘It doesn’t look much like a sauna,’ I managed.
‘The sauna is only its nickname,’ said Chris, looking carefully at me. ‘Because it gets so hot in here when we’re doing our washing and drying. See?’
‘Is there an actual sauna?’ I asked, holding my breath.
And there was a pause that seemed to go on for ever before the answer came. ‘No.’
Everything inside me slumped. But it was dull despair I felt rather than outrage. I had known. At some level, I already knew. There was no sauna. Maybe there wasn’t even a gym. Or massage.
At that thought, I became gripped with panic.
‘Can we go back over to the dining-room?’ I asked, in a quavery, high-pitched voice. ‘Can I ask you some questions about our timetable?’
‘Sure.’
I grabbed him by the sweatshirt and broke into a run as I dragged him through the gale. This time there were no fantasies about tripping. I reached the timetable on the wall in the main house almost before Chris left the outhouse.