By stark contrast, my masseuse sighs loudly. ‘See? The bloating has massively gone down, but I have to say you’re as hard as rock. And you have such terrible energies.’
I find myself apologising more than once as she digs around in my internal organs. Then with unexpected force, she flips me over and gets to work, pummelling the life out of my back.
Pummel, pummel, grind, grind.
Pointy knuckles are stabbing into my knotty back. I’m writhing in agony against the backdrop of gentle yoga music and Oliver’s contented sighs, and repeated thumbs up for his masseuse, who we learn is called Charmagne because her mother was such a great lover.
Really, this is too much. Why don’t they get a room?
‘A lover of fine wines!’ she giggles. ‘Chardonnay and champagne! So I’m Charmagne!’
Oliver catches my eye and is trying not to snigger. He looks pretty content to me.I mean who wouldn’t?He’s having his head cradled by Charmagne, her breasts are all but in his face, and she’s flirting up a storm. While I’m over here, being battered like a fish.
When the whole ordeal is over, I am shepherded over to an enthusiastic-looking group of people who tell me that we are going to be spending the next five hours staring at a pebble. Maybe it is because I am weak with hunger, filled with despair, and every bone in my body now aches, that when faced with this news, my entire soul splinters. I drop to the ground, head in hands like a professional footballer missing the winning penalty of the World Cup.
How long have I been here? What am I doing? What is the point of it all? When did my life choices take me down such a bewildering path?
Endless Cloud comes over to wave a crystal in my face. I watch mesmerised as he swishes it this way and that, an inch from my nose.
‘Shanti, shanti, shanti,’ he coos. His hand lands with a heavy thump on my shoulder jolting me from the hypnotic trance. ‘Feeling better, yah?’
I look from the crystal up to his woolly eyebrows and burst into tears. He is quick to envelop me in a bony cuddle that is so uncomfortable my tears immediately stop.
When, what seems like the four years we have spent pebble gazing, finally comes to an end, we learn dinner is to be orthodox, earth-friendly and vegan. It is to be cooked as a group with whatever we can collect from the next activity, which is ‘Forest Bathing’.
‘Vee will experience Shinrin-yoku. Our tree friends are waiting for us, yah?’
I let out a disappointed sigh. ‘Christ, why can’t we eat here and go to bed? I’m shattered,’ I say to equally tired faces around me. Who knew that staring at a pebble would be so utterly draining?
Gandalf smiles at us and floats away.
Essentially, we are embarking on a moonlit hike into the forest and up a great bloody mountain to enjoy hugging thousand-year old trees and the like, and to forage for nuts, fruits and wild mushrooms. This simply isn’t on. I’m starving hungry and clearly not a squirrel. I look around for Gandalf to voice my many complaints. He glides over as if anticipating my grievance and thrusts a sign into my hands just as we are about to set off.
Oh great. It’s my turn for silence.
I hear Oliver chatting animatedly with the other group members as we set off. He is asking them questions about themselves and they are keen to tell him their whole life stories. He really is a nosy bugger. He looks the picture of good health and immensely relaxed. His skin is glowing whereas I feel like a shrivelled crone in comparison.
A surprisingly short while later, we have feasted on a BBQ of dried, shrivelled forest floor remnants that even a starving hamster would turn its nose up at, and we’ve thanked the trees by way of dry humping them. My stomach is so empty that I feel light-headed and as I look around the group and the natural surroundings, it all feels other-worldly. Bizarrely, as we make our way back to the retreat, I realise, due to the sheer physical exhaustion of it, I haven’t thought about Dan or my sister or their betrayal once.
Gandalf takes the sign back from me with a knowing flick of his long locks. I have no words to say to him. I wouldn’t know where to begin anyway.
‘Shanti,’ he whispers.
Fuck off,I want to whisper back.
But I don’t. I’m too well-mannered and tired. I dig out the huge metal key from my pocket and return abruptly to my room. After a relaxing candle-lit bath, scented with calm-inducing aromatherapy oils, I wrap myself in Spain’s tiniest towel and wander out on to the balcony to gaze at the starry night, glistening up in the sky. I contemplate what I’m going to do with my life and whether a Lottery win is my only credible option at this juncture, when a movement to my right causes me to jump. It’s Oliver, doing the same, stretching almost naked thanks to his own tiny towel, on the next balcony along. At least he’s covering up this time. His lean torso does something funny to my pelvis, there’s a definite twanging sensation, and as he rakes a hand sensually through his hair and turns in slow motion towards me, we experience an awkward moment as he catches me peeking at him. Blatantly sexualising him if you will. I watch a smile spread over his face.
Shitting hell.
I scamper back inside and leap into bed. I hear him sliding his balcony door closed and let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
Think about sleep.
Think about breathing.
Do not think about that thigh.
That solid thigh poking out from the gap in the towel.
