Sitting Pretty Read online

  ‘Lie down.’ She pushed me – actually pushed me – back onto the bed. ‘I have your form here. You have stiff neck. I know exactly what you need – deep tissue massage.’

  ‘There’s nothing on my form about a stiff neck.’ I tried to move sideways but was stopped by the first hand pinning my neck firmly back down while my head did the cat thing again. This could be dangerous. You can do somebody physical harm by manhandling their neck badly, I’m sure of it.

  ‘Would you please stop!’ I said as forcefully as I could while lying on my diaphragm and having a heavy weight bear down on it from behind. ‘Just stop!’

  My voice must have been loud enough to be heard outside over the tinkly music, as another girl came rushing to the door to see what was going on.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ came one of the daftest questions she could have asked.

  There was a simultaneous ‘yes’ from me and ‘no’ from the heavy-handed masseuse. The new girl, who had clearly trained in the school of believing that the customer was always right, came all the way into the room.

  ‘I think you should stop that for now, Nadia,’ she said. ‘What seems to be the problem, Ms Dixon?’

  ‘No, this not Ms Dixon,’ old Heavy Hands interrupted. ‘This is …’

  ‘I’m Beth Dixon,’ I swung myself round and upright. ‘And you must have the wrong form.’

  ‘This is form I was given,’ Heavy Hands insisted. ‘Is not my fault.’

  The new girl sighed. ‘I think we’d better call the manageress,’

  ‘Please do enjoy your facial, Ms Dixon,’ the manageress smiled confidently as she left me in the capable hands of their very best beauty therapist. I knew she was their very best beauty therapist because the manageress had told me. About half a dozen times. ‘And please accept all your treatments today on the house. We will, of course, book you another massage, free of charge, at any time during your stay. I hope this will go some way to making up for your discomfort.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said as she padded away. I wouldn’t want to be in that masseuse’s shoes right now, the amount of free treatments they were giving me to make up for her mistake. I had tried to tell them that just a free massage would be more than enough – accidents do happen – and that I was perfectly happy to pay for my other treatments. But they wouldn’t hear of it. There had also been a whispered conversation about a gift basket, which made me start to wonder if they had some idea what I was really doing here.

  My facial went as smoothly as my skin felt after it. She really was their very best beauty therapist.

  ‘Thank you so much, Ms Dixon,’ she smiled as I stood up.

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve really enjoyed myself.’ And apart from the one little hiccup, I had.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘This was a very full and inclusive report you wrote, Beth.’ It was Monday morning and Henry was peering over the top of a pair of spectacles I’d never seen him wear before. He looked rather like a wise owl, but in a cute way. And was it my imagination, or was his top lip twitching ever so slightly?

  ‘Thank you,’ I ventured, trying to watch out for further traces of lip movement without actually looking as if I was looking.

  ‘Perhaps next time you don’t need to include quite so much extraneous detail.’ There it went again, twitching ever so slightly. ‘I know I told you to attach an extra page for comments if you felt it necessary. However,’ he shuffled the pages in front of him, and a warm flush started to creep up my neck, ‘the bare fact, on page one, that your waiter at breakfast on Sunday morning had a small stain on his tie would have sufficed. The fact that it was coffee coloured and shaped a bit like the Live Aid guitar, and that you’d recommended Stain Devils to him, wasn’t strictly relevant.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, the flush creeping higher. I felt like the school swot having been called into the kindly headmaster’s office to be gently told off for being too swotty.

  He shuffled the pages again, clearly searching out the worst examples of my excessive wittering. ‘Your praise, on page four, for the management’s idea to serve complimentary sherry and mince pies in the bar while somebody sang Christmas songs at the piano, was perfectly justified. But,’ both his lips were trembling now and I could see him clamping them together momentarily, ‘your description of the singer sounding just like Shakira, and the following two paragraphs explaining how Shakira is a singer who some people think sounds like a sheep …’ A snort of laughter escaped his throat. It seemed to take him by as much surprise as it took me and we both ended up hooting with laughter as if it was some massive joke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I breathed, a moment later. ‘I suppose I was a bit over enthusiastic.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to hear that I do actually know who Shakira is?’

  ‘I didn’t think that would be your sort of music,’ I mumbled, hoping he didn’t ask me just what I thought his sort of music would be.

  ‘What do you think would be my sort of music?’

  ‘Well …’ I floundered, trying to remember if I’d noticed his CD collection at all and wishing I’d been a bit nosier while I’d been working and staying in his home. My memory came up with a big fat blank. Would he be into opera? Classical, maybe?

  ‘I suppose I look like a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan?’ He must have clocked my blank look, because he added, ‘They wrote light opera, or operetta. The Pirates of Penzance? The Mikado?’ He suddenly grinned at me – it made him look a lot younger and a lot less stuffy. ‘Sorry, I’m teasing you. That’s the sort of music my wife liked. It wasn’t my cup of tea at all, but she left some CDs behind when she left. I thought you might have seen them.’

  ‘No.’ He had a wife – or rather an ex-wife. So he’d been married. I wondered what had gone wrong. I supposed that meant he wasn’t gay – unless that was why they split up?

  ‘Actually I like all sorts of music, from Eric Clapton and The Beatles, to Coldplay, Gnarls Barkley, Adele, Emeli Sandé …’

  ‘Oh, I loved her at the Olympic ceremonies,’ I jumped in, ‘And I love Coldplay …’ I petered out, realising I’d just interrupted my boss.

  ‘I’m glad you approve, Beth. Now, shall we get back to your report?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The next Halliday Vacation Club property I was sent to, a couple of days later, was in Leeds – well, just outside it, really – a lovely country house hotel set in seven acres of woodland, with, of course, the usual spa amenities and indoor and outdoor pools. They did golf too, although I was highly relieved that Henry wasn’t expecting me to try and look as if I knew anything at all about that – other than that you have to wear funny trousers, and that golfing establishments have some very outdated ideas about women.

  Henry drove me to Southampton station to catch the half past eight train – he’d been highly amused by my wanting to book an advance ticket and save him money. I’d been gobsmacked when instead of doing that, he’d upgraded the Kings’ Cross to Leeds part to first class. That was when he’d explained to me that it would look better if I left a first class ticket from London lying around in my room than an advance economy from a station in the same county where the Halliday head office was. Sneaky. Again.

  Under his instructions, I’d phoned and booked a hotel car at the other end for when I arrived. The Samsonite spinner was packed with a different set of clothes which, once again, looked far too posh for the likes of me. I wondered if the expectation for the hotel staff to think me a con-woman who’d shoplifted or pick-pocketed all these fancy things would ever go away. Must be my guilty conscience getting to me after my recent spate of squatting – however nicely – in other people’s homes.

  The train was on time and, as Southampton was its starting point, empty when I got on, so I grabbed a table seat and slotted the Samsonite under the end of it as it wouldn’t fit into the luggage rack above the seat. I felt an itch to make a note of that in my report, as a Victor Meldrew voice
in my head asked what was the point of a luggage rack that wouldn’t hold anything bigger than your average briefcase? I’d have to watch that voice. I’d already handed in one over-zealous report. I didn’t want Henry to think that they’d all be like that.

  Brightstone Hall was absolutely gorgeous. The driver, who’d been waiting for me holding a sign with my name on it as I walked out of the station, drove me up the sweeping driveway and I gazed at the beautiful building, which had been requisitioned as a convalescent hospital for officers during the first world war.

  Hark the Herald Angels Sing was playing very softly in the background while the receptionist checked me in. There were understated Christmas flowers on the desk and a couple of small tables and a beautiful, real Christmas tree in the corner where the stairs curved upwards, decorated in classic red and gold. Dinner was already being served in the main dining room, she informed me, although I could, of course, eat in the piano bar or order room service. Henry had suggested I try out the main dining room first and, having read their menu online, I was more than happy to do so. So I only went up to my room long enough to leave my coat and use the bathroom before coming back down again.

  The crusted mackerel fillet I had for my appetiser was very good, but the monkfish-wrapped in Parma ham with cockles and red wine jus I ordered for my main course was sensational. I thought the desserts at my first assignment would be hard to beat so I went for the Yorkshire cheese plate, which was excellent. I could see I was going to have a hard time finding any fault with the food.

  By the time I went back up to my room after coffee and liqueurs in the piano bar, where an excellent pianist alternated Christmassy music with gentle jazz classics, my bed had been turned down, my slippers and dressing gown had been laid out, and there was a chocolate mint on my pillow which there hadn’t been in the first hotel. I’d have to make a note of that.

  I ran a bath while I unpacked, and a cloud of jasmine scented the air in the bathroom and wafted through to the bedroom. The fluffy white towels awaited me on a rail by the bath tub, and there were flowers in a vase on a little shelf. I could really get used to doing this for a living.

  Henry wasn’t going to be lurking on the side-lines for this midweek trip – this was my first solo assignment – although of course he was just at the end of a phone call or an email. I wondered what he and Talisker were doing.

  After sleeping soundly on my pillow top mattress, the next day followed pretty much the same format as the Hampshire hotel, only minus the misunderstanding with the massage therapist.

  In fact, I was on my way back to my room after my afternoon in the spa when my fancy new work mobile rang. The caller display said it was Henry, so I hurried to open my door and go inside before I answered.

  ‘How’s it going, Beth?’ Henry asked, before I had a chance to say hello.

  ‘Very well,’ I replied, slightly out of breath from rushing – I would have thought with all the dog walking I’d be fitter than that.

  ‘Any problems with the spa?’ I could hear the smile in his voice – he’d had a good laugh when I described to him how I’d been manhandled by Heavy Hands. I’d tried to make it sound funnier than it was as I felt sorry for the masseuse, however I suspect she might have been in for a verbal warning about not confirming the guest’s name against their health check form – she could have caused somebody an injury.

  ‘None at all. It was absolutely first class – just like everything else here. I’m so relaxed I probably won’t need the return half of my ticket. I could just float home tomorrow. It’s going to be difficult finding anything wrong to put on the check list.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, Beth,’ he said, as if he thought I was worried about not finding anything wrong. ‘Listen, I need to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Fire away,’ I instructed him, cheekily.

  ‘I have to go to a ball tomorrow night. It’s the Hampshire Hogs for Hope charity fundraiser. I know it’s very short notice as your train doesn’t get to Southampton until twenty-two minutes past four, but I was wondering if you would accompany me … That is, unless you already have plans for the evening? Like I said, it is short notice.’

  ‘I’d love to, Henry, but are you sure you want to take me? I don’t have anything to wear to that sort of do.’ A ball? Me? Had every other woman he knew turned out to be busy and he was left with just me? I wasn’t the sort of woman who got taken to balls. I was the sort of woman who walked the dogs of the women who got taken to balls. Or rather, the voice in my head said, I used to be.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I know your size and I can get two or three sent over ready for you to try on and see which one you like best.’

  ‘That would be great,’ I said, a frisson of excitement battling it out with a tremor of anxiety. I was going to a ball!

  ‘Lovely. See if they can fit you in for a wash and blow dry in the salon before you leave in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll do that right now.’ I had a sudden panic that they wouldn’t be able to fit me in and that I’d turn up looking a mess.

  ‘Thanks, Beth, see you tomorrow.’ And with that he hung up.

  The salon would be busy most of the morning and in the afternoon, but the first appointment of the day was available and so, after an early breakfast, I was packed and leaning back having my already perfectly clean hair washed with what smelled like the same shampoo as that amongst the toiletries in the room. Another perk of this job, I’d realised, was that I’d never need to worry about taming my frizzy hair back into its bob, there always seemed to be a hairdresser around to do it for me.

  Of course, what with this being north, it being almost the end of November, and me coming out of a hairdressers and on my way to something fancy, the rain was pouring down as if there were stagehands on very tall ladders outside chucking never-ending buckets of water about when I came out from my appointment. Not good. Not good at all.

  The receptionist caught my anxious look and within seconds of my checking out, the concierge was holding an umbrella close to my head while I got in to the car that was going to take me back to the station. And with the driver performing a similar service at the station entrance, I sighed in relief as I headed, blow-dried hair still in place, for my train.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to announce the eleven forty-five train to London Kings Cross from platform eight has been cancelled due to an incident on the line. The next train to London Kings Cross will be the twelve fifteen from platform six.’

  Oh great, I thought, wheeling my case back along the platform. We’d specifically chosen the quarter to twelve train because it involved less changes. Now I’d end up making the extra change, which all added to the journey time. It wouldn’t have mattered normally, but if I got back too late I’d let Henry down.

  I pulled my phone out and sent him a text to warn him I’d be on a later train and that I’d let him know as soon as I could what time I’d be due in. A moment later I got one back telling me he’d pick me up from Winchester and save a bit of time.

  The twelve fifteen crawled into Leeds station as if it had all the time in the world. It was probably just reluctant to get there because it turned out there were three sets of passengers wanting to travel on it rather than the two I’d thought, as the train before mine had been cancelled too. The incident on the line must have been a serious one. Reservations suddenly became meaningless, especially if yours was the same seat as two other people, either one of which could shout louder than you. I found myself extremely thankful that Henry had booked me a first class ticket for this leg of the journey – at least the scrum in this carriage wasn’t as bad as what I could see going on further down the train. We eventually pulled out of the station at twenty-five to one and I sent Henry another text to let him know.

  The train was already quite full when we stopped at Wakefield and more people got on than got off. From my window seat I could see the drinks trolley being pulled off one carriage and onto the next,
so the carriages further down must have been too full for it to pass through. It did the same thing at the next stop, Doncaster, then Grantham, then Stevenage.

  When we reached Kings Cross at six minutes past three, there was another undignified scrum as everyone tried to get off first. There was no way I was going to make my three fifteen connection at Paddington for the Reading train, so I stayed in my seat and sent Henry another text message until it subsided.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Henry was waiting for me as I walked out of Winchester station at half past five. It was such a relief to see him standing there. And also that it wasn’t raining.

  ‘I’m so sorry …’ I started to say.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he jumped in, opening the passenger door for me – a habit his brother hadn’t picked up from him. ‘You couldn’t help the trains. It’s my fault. I should have thought. I could have booked you an appointment at the hairdressers here and changed your ticket to an earlier train.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have made any difference,’ I told him, doing up my seat belt. ‘The one before mine was cancelled as well, so I’d still have got here at the same time.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he started up the car, ‘you’re here now and we’re not running that late. I’m just sorry to have given you such a stressful journey.’

  As we drove back to his cottage, chatting about the ball and my trip to Leeds, I thought how nice and calm he was about all this. I couldn’t help thinking how in the same situation, Alex would have niggled on all evening about how I’d kept him waiting. Alex. How long had it been since I’d given him a thought? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d looked at his Facebook page. And now here I was, off to get ready for a ball I was about to attend with another man. OK, so the other man was my probably gay boss, but he was handsome, witty, and sensitive. Alex only scored one and a half out of three on those qualities.