The Spa Day by Nicola Yeager

you never work
again.’
    He smiles with relief and takes a deep breath.
    ‘Well – I don’t know where to start.   It seems to me that this guy – Clive – is
royally fucking you over. It’s heart-breaking. You’re funny, bubbly, beautiful
and sexy. But, for whatever reason or reasons, you’ve got this boyfriend,
fiancé whose bloody career or money or whatever it is, is far, far more
important to him than you are. He’s probably convinced you that he’s doing it
for you in some way, or for the both of you, but I think he’s only doing it for
him. He doesn’t have to work or live six thousand miles away from you, but he
does. He’s made that choice, knowing that it would be damn impossible for you
to join him and you’re waiting here like some…fucking…piece of furniture that
he’s bought and put into storage until he’s ready to…use it again, sit on it,
keep his clothes in it or whatever sort of piece of furniture it is. I don’t
even know him and I want to punch him. He’s not a man, he’s a worm. I’m sorry.
That was all off the top of my head. It got a bit sticky with the furniture
metaphor there. Could have been wittier, I suppose…’
    ‘It was OK. It was quite funny. Not brilliantly funny, but…’
    ‘You’re not just saying that?’
    ‘Under other circumstances I’d have laughed slightly.’
    ‘It’s good that you didn’t. I wouldn’t want the clients
outside to hear laughter coming from in here. I might get a bad name.’
    We both say ‘listen’ at the same time.
    ‘You go first’ I say.
    ‘Hm. What are you going to do now? For Christmas, I mean.
Have you got family you can go to?’
    I mention my sister, but I suppose my lack of enthusiasm
must have been shining through. Both of my parents are visiting my dad’s
brother and his family in Carlisle, so that’s not really an option. James is
pursing his lips together, thinking about something and I think I know what it
is, or should I say what I hope it is.
    ‘Listen. If you don’t want to impose yourself on any friends
or relatives – and I guess you don’t want to keep explaining yourself as to why
your boyfriend, fiancé thing isn’t with you or what’s been going on with him –
and you don’t fancy staying with his family, and I can’t blame you under the
circumstances, well, if you’ve got absolutely nothing else you can do and you
don’t fancy being alone…’
    He scratches his head and looks serious.
    ‘Sorry. Forget that. I’m temporarily inarticulate. You don’t
know me, but I’m not a psychopath or anything, or at least not diagnosed as one
yet. If you’d like to stay with me over Christmas, you’re quite welcome. No
strings attached. I’ll be out with the camera most of the time, anyway. I’ve
got a spare room with a futon bed in it. I don’t really ‘do’ Christmas very
much, so if you’re interested, you can avoid the whole thing. Just an idea. You
can take it or leave it. I won’t be offended if you say no.’
    I think of my alternatives. Trekking up to Carlisle and
being bored out of my skull, the Christmas from hell with Clive’s parents, my
sister’s continuous concerned and sympathetic glances or sitting in my flat,
watching films on TV that I’ve already seen a million times and eating ready
meals and After Eights. Actually, that last bit sounds quite good!
    ‘It’s very nice of you, but I don’t want you to do this
‘cause you feel sorry for me in some way or other. I could get that at my
sister’s.’
    ‘It’s nothing to do with that. Really. This is just really
weird for me. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s just – I just
feel that it’s the right thing to do. Everything about it is right. D’you know what I mean? But it’s nothing to do with feeling
sorry for you. It’s miles away from that.’
    We look at each other for a few seconds. It seems like an
hour. He gently places a finger under my chin, tilts my head up and kisses me
once, very