*
The health centre was a dark wood raised bungalow with a veranda at the front. It smelt strongly of herbs and sandalwood joss sticks, and in the background was the sound of chanting, Om, om, ommmmmmm.
We were greeted by a young Indian woman in a red sari, who took our names, then led us along a corridor and into treatment rooms. Moments later, I was undressed, on a couch, and had been anointed with what felt like a bucket of pungent-smelling oil. Soon, I was being pummelled and stroked by the two female therapists, one on either side of me.
They started to slap me lightly then poured on more oil and got to work. ‘Rosemary, good for muscles,’ said one of the masseuses.
As the massage continued, due to the copious oil that had been poured all over me, I found myself sliding forward and back along the leather couch at an alarming speed. I dug my fingers under the sides of the bed and held on in order to stop shooting out through the open window opposite, like a cannonball out of a cannon, into the courtyard at the back.
‘You loosen up, lady,’ said one of the masseuses. ‘You very tense.’
Story of my life lately, I thought as I tried to let go and surrender to the rhythm.
‘Let go, let go,’ urged the other masseuse. I loosened my grip on the couch and tried to relax. Forward and back, up and down, they stroked and I slithered. It had been years since I’d had a massage and I felt I’d lost the ability to switch off. Life, work and commitments always seemed to take precedence. Running my shop was a full-time business, often spilling over into my evenings and weekends, so aspirations to have regular treatments or a facial seemed to get shoved to the bottom of the list. Even this holiday with Pete and Marcia had been combined with purchasing a small amount of merchandise to have sent back home. While my friends had been dozing on the beach in Kerala, I’d been combing the market stalls nearby, looking for appropriate acquisitions while trying to ignore Stuart’s voice in my head advising me not to get into debt before I left. As the masseuse bade me turn over, I wondered what to expect this afternoon. A psychic? What would she see? Anything? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be told about my future. It might be bad news. Life had been uncertain on so many levels before I’d left to come away. Business was slow and my love life at an all-time low. Could things change? Or would it be more of the same – work, work, work; getting older; more Friday nights alone in front of Netflix, trying to convince myself I was OK. I didn’t need anyone. I was strong, independent. I was OK, and keeping busy provided a way to block out the fact that I was fifty, single, and all my previous relationships hadn’t worked out for one reason or another. If I hadn’t got it right so far, there was little chance I was going to succeed in the future, so I’d given up looking. I’d worked hard to create a life where it appeared that I had it all and I didn’t need anyone. I had a lovely house, though I barely spent any time there, great friends, though mainly couples, but really nothing to complain about. My work was my life; that was an achievement, though lately I’d realized that I rarely got the chance just to kick back and enjoy life. The truth was, behind the mask of the independent, successful businesswoman, I was lonely at times. No wonder I was tense.
‘OK, waking up now lady,’ said the masseuse, just as I was finally beginning to doze off. ‘Drink much water. Get dressed when ready.’
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About the Author
Cathy lives in Bath with her husband and three cats. In her spare time, she is happiest digging, planting or reading in the garden or on a walk with friends in the local countryside – usually ending in a pub. For more about Cathy, you can find her on Twitter, Facebook and on her website.
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Also by Cathy Hopkins
The Kicking the Bucket List
Dancing Over the Hill
Blast from the Past
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