Frances averted her eyes from the number. She had no idea of her weight and no interest in learning it. She knew she could be thinner, and of course when she was younger she was indeed much thinner, but she was generally happy with her body as long as it wasn’t giving her pain, and bored by all the different ways women droned on about the subject of weight, as if it were one of the great mysteries of life. The recent weight-losers, evangelical about whatever method had worked for them, the thin women who called themselves fat, the average women who called themselves obese, the ones desperate for her to join in their lavish self-loathing. ‘Oh, Frances, isn’t it just so depressing when you see young, thin girls like that!’ ‘Not especially,’ Frances would say, adding extra butter to her bread roll.
Yao wrote something on a form in a cream-coloured file marked in black sharpie block letters with her name, frances welty.
This was starting to feel too much like a visit to the doctor. Frances felt exposed and vulnerable and regretful. She wanted to go home. She wanted a muffin.
‘I’d really like to get to my room now,’ she said. ‘It was a long drive.’
‘Absolutely. I’m going to book you into the spa for an urgent massage for that back pain,’ said Yao. ‘Shall I give you half an hour to settle into your room, enjoy your welcome smoothie and read your welcome pack?’
‘That sounds like heaven,’ said Frances.
They walked back past the dining room, where her darling drug dealers, Jessica and Ben, stood with their own white-uniformed wellness consultant, a dark-haired young woman who, according to her name badge, was called Delilah. Delilah was delivering the same spiel as Yao about the warning bells.
Jessica’s plastic face was filled with worry, so much so that she was almost, but not quite, pulling off a frown. ‘But what if you don’t hear the bell?’
‘Then off with your head!’ said Frances.
Everyone turned to look at her. Ben, whose cap was now the wrong way around again, raised a single eyebrow.
‘Joke,’ said Frances weakly.
Frances saw the two wellness consultants exchange looks she couldn’t quite read. She wondered if they were sleeping together. They’d have such aerobic, flexible sex with all that wellness pumping through their young bodies. It would be just so awesome.
Yao led her back towards the Titanic stairs. As Frances hurried to keep pace, they passed a man and two women coming down the staircase together, all three in olive-green robes featuring the Tranquillum House emblem.
The man lagged behind to put on glasses so he could closely examine the wall on the landing. He was so tall the dressing-gown was more like a miniskirt, revealing knobbly knees and very white, very hairy legs. They were the sort of male legs that made you feel uncomfortable, as if you were looking at a private part of the body.
‘Well, my point is that you just don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore!’ he said, as he peered at the wall. ‘That’s what I just love about houses like this: the attention to detail. I mean, think of those tiles I was showing you earlier. What’s extraordinary is that somebody took the time to individually – hello again, Yao! Another guest, is it? How are you?’
He took off his glasses, beamed at Frances and thrust out his hand. ‘Napoleon!’ he cried.
It took her a terrifying second to realise he was introducing himself, not just yelling out a random historical figure’s name.
‘Frances,’ she said in the nick of time.
‘Nice to meet you! Here for the ten-day retreat, I assume?’
He was on the stair above her, so his height was even more pronounced. It was like tipping her head back to look at a monument.
‘I am.’ Frances made a tremendous effort not to comment on his height, as she knew from her six-foot friend Jen that tall people were well aware they were tall. ‘I most certainly am.’
Napoleon indicated the two women further down the stairs. ‘Us too! These are my beautiful girls, my wife, Heather, and daughter, Zoe.’
The two women were also notably tall. They were a basketball team. They gave her the restrained, polite smiles of a celebrity’s family members who are used to having to wait while he is accosted by fans, except that in this case it was Napoleon doing the accosting. The wife, Heather, bounced on the balls of her feet. She was wiry, with extremely wrinkled, tanned skin, as if she’d been scrunched up and then spread smooth. Heather skin like leather, thought Frances. That was a really mean mnemonic but Heather would never know. Heather had grey hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and bloodshot eyes. She seemed very intense, which was fine. Frances had some intense friends; she knew how to cope with intensity. (Never try to match it.)
The daughter, Zoe, had her dad’s height and the casual grace of an athletic, outdoorsy girl. Showy Zoe? But she wasn’t showy at all. Not-showy Zoe. Zoe certainly didn’t look like she was in need of a health resort. How much more rejuvenated could you get?
Frances thought about the young couple, Ben and Jessica, who also seemed in sparkling good health. Were health resorts only attended by the already healthy? Was she going to be the least healthy-looking person here? She’d never been bottom of the class, except for that one time in Transcendental Meditation for Beginners.
‘We thought we’d explore the hot springs, maybe have a quick soak,’ said Napoleon to Yao and Frances, as if they’d asked. ‘Then we’ll do a few laps of the pool.’
Clearly, they were one of those active families who threw their bags down on the floor and left their hotel room the moment they checked in.
‘I’m planning a quick nap before an urgent massage,’ said Frances.
‘Excellent idea!’ cried Napoleon. ‘A nap and a massage! Sounds perfect! Isn’t this place amazing? And I hear the hot springs are incredible.’ He was an extremely enthusiastic man.
‘Make sure you rehydrate after the hot springs,’ Yao said to him. ‘There are water bottles at reception.’
‘Will do, Yao! And then we’ll be back in time for the noble silence!’
‘Noble silence?’ said Frances.
‘It will all become clear, Frances,’ said Yao.
‘It’s in your information pack, Frances!’ said Napoleon. ‘Bit of a surprise; I wasn’t expecting the “silence” aspect. I’ve heard of silent retreats, of course, but must admit they didn’t appeal – I’m a talker myself, as my girls here will tell you. But we’ll roll with the punches, go with the flow!’
As he talked on in the comforting way of the chronically loquacious, Frances watched his wife and daughter further down the stairs. The daughter, who wore black flip-flops, put one heel on the step above her and leaned forward as if she were discreetly stretching her hamstring. The mother watched her daughter, and Frances saw the ghost of a smile, followed almost immediately by an expression of pure despair that dragged all her features down, as if she were clawing at her cheeks. Then in the next instant it was gone and she smiled benignly up at Frances, and Frances felt as though she had seen something she shouldn’t have.
Napoleon said, ‘It wasn’t you who arrived in that Lamborghini was it, Frances? I saw it from our room. That’s one hell of a car.’
‘Not me – I’m the Peugeot,’ said Frances.
‘Nothing wrong with the Peugeot! Although I hear those jackals charge like wounded bulls when it comes to servicing, right?’
He mixed his metaphors most delightfully. Frances was keen to talk more with him. He was someone who would answer any question with candour and vigour. She loved those sorts of people.
‘Dad,’ said his daughter. Not-showy Zoe. ‘Let the lady pass. She’s only just got here. She probably wants to get to her room.’
‘Sorry, sorry, I’ll see you at dinner! Although we won’t be chatting then, will we?’ He tapped the side of his nose and grinned, but there was a trapped, panicky look in his eyes. ‘Lovely to meet you!’ He clapped Yao on the shoulder. ‘See you later, Yao, mate!’
Frances followed Yao up the stairs. At the top, he turned right and led her down a carpeted hallway lined with historical photos that she planned to study later.
‘This wing of the house was added in 1895,’ said Yao. ‘You’ll find all the rooms have original fireplaces with marble mantelpieces of Georgian design. Not that you’ll be lighting any fires in this heat.’
‘I didn’t expect to see families doing this retreat,’ commented Frances. ‘I must admit I thought there’d be more . . . people like me.’
Fatter people than me, Yao. Much fatter.