‘I don’t know. Sharks?’
He looks annoyed. ‘What are you afraid of?’
You repeating this question over and over until we die.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I can’t read you. You are very closed off. You are surrounded by purple. It’s no use… it will take hours,’ he sighs, making a bridge with his fingers. ‘Probably seven or eight hours before you open.’
He smiles unexpectedly. ‘And when you do. It will be beautiful. You will shine and you will know yourself.’
We do a polite bow before he moves through the group, reading palms and stroking the air above people’s heads.
Our detox breakfast – a bowl of straw basically - is deeply unsatisfying and dry as sticks. So is the midday salad of leaves and celery. And the silent dinner is such a disappointment that I am close to tears. The coffee we were promised turned out to be a caffeine enema.
The miserable faces around me dig around their plates to see if there’s any actual food hidden under the mossy lumps. Then Endless Cloud appears holding a large sign, ‘Surprise!’ and gets our hopes up only to reveal the decanter he is carrying is full of hot water with lemon slices. It is clearly not the neat gin that it should be. It’s too much. I would kill for a glass of chilled Sauvignon right now.
A wave of resentment washes over me as I excuse myself from the table using mime.
Gandalf intercepts. His soft smile just makes me feel worse.
‘I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be happy,’ I blurt out before I know what I’m saying.
He looks down at his wrist. ‘Seven and a half hours. Very good.’
He’s as mad as a box of frogs.
‘You are open at last. Be free, Nell. Be free of your anger.’
Like it is that easy.
I’m bitterly regretting my decision to come here. Instead of heading straight to my room, I take myself off for an unscheduled walk, and within minutes I am pounding along a forest track, the fresh, mountain air whipping through my hair, invigorating my soul. I can feel my mind clearing with each step. I allow myself to wander into the past, back when Ava and I were children. Back through bright green Irish smocks (Riverdance), Lycra leotards (jazzfunk), glitter tutus (disco ballet) and Turkish veils (exotic belly dancing). Isn’t Ava gorgeous? Have you thought about sending her to the Bolshoi Academy - like it’s just at the end of the street. How about Britain’s Got Talent? Do you think she’ll make the Olympics? The more the jealousy between the other mothers grew, the more my own mother would puff out her chest and exaggerate my sister’s capabilities, treating Ava like a diva. ‘We have dancing tonight so we MUST keep a light tummy.’
Me and my father would frequently share an eye roll between us, and I’d get a knowing wink. Eventually, it must have taken its toll on the family budget.
‘SHOES! MORE SHOES!’ I’d hear my mother yelling and ‘NEW COSTUMES! FABULOUS NEW COSTUMES! MUST HAVE! MUST! MUST! NEED! NEED!’
Cupboards were stuffed to the brim, colourful plumes, chiffon veils and sparkling dresses spilling out everywhere upstairs and then soon even the dining room couldn’t hold them all. The hallway from the front door to the kitchen all-but-disappeared behind racks of theatrical costumes and when one day, my father couldn’t find his golf clubs. He lost his temper with my mother calling her ridiculous and accusing her of getting far too carried away. And this bit I think I’ll remember for the rest of my life, my father yelled, ‘Nell has just as much talent as Ava has. If only you would stop to take notice!’
My mother never did stop to take notice, but I did balloon with love for my father for sticking up for me. And of course, neither parent knew that Ava and I had been hiding at the top of the stairs listening to their argument unfold. We looked silently at each other and scarpered to bed. We never spoke of it again.
As I reach the end of the track, I slow my pace and turn around. I have a new life now, away from it all. I shall leave all of that baggage behind me.
Just as I’m wondering if there’s any way I could fake an emergency to get a taxi out of here, I stumble across a small stone barn hidden at the back of the property. I peer in through the small open window and can’t believe my eyes. A lake’s worth of wine and mountains of food.
I stare blindly at it, my taste buds salivating while my inner moral compass whizzes back and forth. These must be confiscated goodies that innocent customers, like me, have brought in thinking that this place would be more of a relaxing getaway than the terrifying boot camp it actually is.
I really shouldn’t.
Ah fuck it.
Within seconds, I’ve opened the door and I’m helping myself. I rip open a bag of crisps and stuff them in my mouth. I swipe up a bottle of pop and glug it straight down while I’m yanking off the lid to some cheese. As I’m frantically rifling through the shelves for chocolate biscuits, a rustling noise behind me causes me to freeze.
Oh dear.
I spin round to see Oliver staring at the stolen goods in my arms.
Chapter 8