‘I also have a paper cut,’ said Frances solemnly. She held up her thumb.
Yao took hold of her thumb and peered at it. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to get some aloe vera on that.’
Oh God, he was gorgeous with his little notebook, taking her paper cut so seriously. She caught herself studying his shoulders and looked away fast. For God’s sake, Frances. Nobody had warned her that this would happen during middle age: these sudden, wildly inappropriate waves of desire for young men, with no biological imperative whatsoever. Maybe this was what men felt like all their lives? No wonder the poor things had to pay out all that money in lawsuits.
‘And you’re here for the ten-day cleanse,’ said Yao.
‘That’s right,’ said Frances.
‘Awesome,’ said Yao, causing Frances to fortunately lose all desire in an instant. She could never sleep with someone who said ‘awesome’.
‘So . . . may I go inside?’ asked Frances snappily. Now she felt quite ill at the thought of sex with the man-kid, or sex with anyone for that matter; she was far too hot.
She saw that Yao was distracted by the sight of Ben and Jessica’s car, or possibly by Jessica, who was standing with one hip cocked, slowly curling a long strand of hair around her finger while Ben talked to another white-uniformed wellness consultant, a young woman with skin so beautiful it looked like it was lit from within.
‘That’s a Lamborghini,’ said Frances.
‘I know it is,’ said Yao, forgetting to put the tiny pauses between his words. He gestured towards the house, stepping aside to let Frances cross the threshold first.
She walked into a large entrance hall and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The soft hush unique to old houses washed over her like cool water. There were beautiful details wherever she looked: honey-coloured parquetry floors, antique chandeliers, ornately carved ceiling cornices and leadlight windows.
‘This is so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Oh – and look at that. It’s like the staircase from the Titanic!’
She walked over to touch the lustrous mahogany wood. Flecks of light streamed from a stained-glass window on the landing.
‘As you may know, Tranquillum House was built in 1840 and this is the original red cedar and rosewood staircase,’ said Yao. ‘Other people have commented on the resemblance to the Titanic’s staircase. So far we’ve had much better luck than the Titanic. We won’t sink, Frances!’
He’d clearly made this joke many times before. Frances gave him a more generous laugh than it deserved.
‘The house was built of locally quarried sandstone by a wealthy solicitor from England.’ Yao continued to recite facts like a nerdy museum guide. ‘He wanted a house that would be “the best in the colony”.’
‘Built with the help of convicts, I understand,’ said Frances, who had read the website.
‘That’s right,’ said Yao. ‘The solicitor was granted five hundred acres of good farming land and assigned ten convicts. He got lucky because they included two former stonemason brothers from York.’
‘We have a convict in our family tree,’ said Frances. ‘She was transported from Dublin for stealing a silk gown. We’re tremendously proud of her.’
Yao gestured away from the staircase to make it clear she wasn’t to go up there just yet. ‘I know you’ll want to rest after that long drive, but first I’d like to give you a quick tour of your new home for the next ten days.’
‘Unless I don’t last the distance,’ said Frances. Ten days suddenly seemed like a very long time. ‘I might go home early.’
‘No-one goes home early,’ said Yao serenely.
‘Well, yes, but they can,’ said Frances. ‘If they choose.’
‘No-one goes home early,’ repeated Yao. ‘It just doesn’t happen. No-one wants to go home at all! You’re about to embark on a truly transformative experience, Frances.’
He led her to a large room at the side of the house with bay windows overlooking the valley and one long monastery-like table. ‘This is the dining room where you’ll come for your meals. All the guests eat together, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Frances hoarsely. She cleared her throat. ‘Great.’
‘Breakfast is served at seven am, lunch at noon and dinner at six pm.’
‘Breakfast at seven am?’ Frances blanched. She could manage the communal meals for lunch and dinner, but she couldn’t eat and talk with strangers in the morning. ‘I’m a night owl,’ she told Yao. ‘I’m normally comatose at seven am.’
‘Ah, but that’s the old Frances – the new Frances will have already done a sunrise tai chi class and guided meditation by seven,’ said Yao.
‘I seriously doubt that,’ said Frances.
Yao smiled, as if he knew better.
‘There will be a five-minute warning bell before meals are served – or smoothies, during the fast periods. We do ask that you come promptly to the dining room as soon as you hear the warning bell.’
‘Certainly,’ said Frances, with a rising sense of horror. She’d quite forgotten about the ‘fast periods’. ‘Is there . . . ah, room service?’
‘I’m afraid not, although your morning and late-evening smoothies will be brought to your room,’ said Yao.
‘But no club sandwiches at midnight, hey?’
Yao shuddered. ‘God no.’
He led her past the dining room to a cosy living room lined with bookshelves. A number of couches surrounded a marble fireplace.
‘The Lavender Room,’ said Yao. ‘You’re welcome to come here any time to relax, read or enjoy an herbal tea.’
He said ‘herbal’ the American way: erbal.
‘Lovely,’ said Frances, mollified by the sight of the books. They walked by a closed door with the word private stencilled on it in gold letters, which Frances, being Frances, felt strongly compelled to open. She couldn’t abide member-only lounges to which she didn’t have membership.
‘This leads to our director’s office at the top of the house.’ Yao touched the door gently. ‘We do ask that you only open this door if you have an appointment.’
‘By all means,’ said Frances resentfully.
‘You will meet the director later today,’ said Yao, as if this were a special treat she’d been long anticipating. ‘At your first guided meditation.’
‘Awesome,’ said Frances through her teeth.
‘Now you’ll want to see the gym,’ said Yao.
‘Oh, not especially,’ said Frances, but he was already leading her back across the reception area to the opposite side of the house.
‘This was originally the drawing room,’ said Yao. ‘It’s been refurbished as a state-of-the-art gym.’
‘Well, that is a tragedy,’ Frances proclaimed when Yao opened a glass door to reveal a light-filled room crowded with what appeared to be elaborate torture devices.
Yao’s smile faltered. ‘We kept all the original plasterwork.’ He pointed at the ceiling.
Frances gave a disdainful sniff. Marvellous. You can lie back and admire the ceiling rose while you’re being drawn and quartered.
Yao looked at her face and hurriedly closed the gym door. ‘Let me show you the yoga and meditation studio.’ He continued past the gym to a door at the far corner of the house. ‘Watch your head.’
She ducked unnecessarily beneath the doorjamb and followed Yao down a flight of narrow stone stairs.
‘I smell wine,’ she said.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ said Yao. ‘It’s the ghost of old wine.’
He pushed back a heavy oak door with some effort and ushered her into a surprisingly large cave-like room with an arched wood-beamed ceiling, brick walls lined with a few chairs, and a series of soft blue rectangular mats laid out at intervals on the hardwood floor.