Spa Read online

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  Gertrude showed each of them to their “rooms,” although the term underestimated the reality. Each of the guest rooms was actually a suite, consisting of a bedroom and a small sitting room and bathroom done in a blend of European antiques and plantation chic which gave them a timeless air of casual comfort.

  Each bathroom contained a marble tub and separate shower and a complete array of things like toothpaste, shampoo, soap, hand-cream etc. etc., as well as a turquoise terry robe and a pair of matching terry slippers embroidered with the double waves of the spa logo.

  But, when Joyce finally closed the door on her suite, she was interested less in the amenities and luxuries than in basking in the peace and quiet of an empty room. It had been a hectic and tiring day, and already her mind was busy working on the article. Examining and discarding angles. Summing up her impressions of the spa and the other guests. Anything to keep from thinking about the way she had felt when Cliff Eastman had come up behind her in the hallway and said, “Lovely.” It had been so corny. But so effective.

  She kicked off her shoes and undid her dress, letting it fall to the floor. Then she squirmed her way out of the clinging pantyhose which stuck to her legs like so many polyester leeches, and lay down on the white and blue duvet of the double bed. The soft, clean cotton felt good against her sticky skin. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon light. The room was cool. She closed her eyes.

  Visions of a young Harry and Maxine on their honeymoon drifted at the edge of her mind. She tried to picture them in bed together—big, blustering Harry and tiny, timid Maxine—bodies twisting in passion on the tangled sheets. But even her imagination couldn’t manage that. Harry and Maxine faded from the picture and were replaced in the tangle of sheets with two other figures. The man’s face became clearer. It was Cliff. But before the woman’s face came into focus, Joyce was fast asleep.

  Chapter 16

  When Joyce woke up, she could tell it was getting late, because the sun no longer shed a thin, bright line beneath the curtains. She turned over. The digital radio clock beside the bed said 6:31. There was half an hour before they were expected to gather in the drawing room for pre-dinner cocktails. She decided to have a shower and wash her hair.

  In the rose-colored marble shower stall, jets of hot water sprayed out from several different levels and angles, and she let them play for a while on the muscles of her legs and back, soothing and relaxing away the tensions of travel. After a few minutes, she ducked her head under one of the higher jets, poured spa shampoo into the palms of her hands, and massaged it vigorously through her hair. In the soft island water it soon lathered into thick, creamy bubbles that smelled heavily of coconut.

  After rinsing off, Joyce stepped out onto the fluffy white carpet and, pulling on the turquoise robe, tied the belt tightly around her waist. Then, reaching for one of the luxuriously thick, matching towels from the rail next to the sink, she wrapped her hair in it, turban style, before padding out onto the small balcony that led off the sitting room. She was feeling much better.

  It was a beautiful evening. The sun was low, dipping down into the far edge of the Caribbean, its slanted rays staining the wispy clouds lavender and fuschia against the deeping ultramarine of the evening sky. Everything was very still. The birds had stopped their singing and gone to nest for the night. Even the rows of royal palms that lined the drive had ceased their swaying and stood like silent, dark sentinels against the sunset. It was a night made for romance, she thought to herself. If, of course, you were into that sort of thing.

  With a sigh, she turned back to face the sea, her mind on the other Venus down on the terrace. St. Christophe was certainly a fitting place for the goddess of love and beauty. Might even make a good title shot for the article. Kind of a “fountain of youth” angle. She took one more look at the escaping sun and went back inside to dry her hair.

  That was the trouble with being a journalist. You could never just accept things and enjoy them for what they were. Everything had to have an angle, she thought, bending from the waist, and brushing her hair forward before she began to dry it.

  It took her quite a while with such a heavy mane, especially as her tiny travel dryer with the dual voltage attachment seemed to blow with all the power of a confirmed asthmatic. But, when she had finished, she stood upright and tossed the hair back from her face and it foamed around her shoulders like a sun-struck chestnut wave. She looked in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. It was the first time in a long time she had stopped to really notice how she looked.

  Then, as usual, she stroked on lipstick quickly, but tonight she added a swipe of peach blusher and a touch of navy blue mascara as well, finishing off with a healthy spray of Galanos. She rarely wore perfume or mascara but, for some reason, tonight she felt like looking her best.

  Next she dressed in a pair of taupe linen trousers and matching silk-knit sweater. It was an outfit she had bought on a whim at Bonwit’s. Hardly appropriate for her lifestyle, it was too delicate and far too expensive, even though she had bought it on sale. But it made her look like a very well-to-do Westchester matron—somebody who could actually afford to spend three thousand dollars for a week of Spartan self-indulgence—so, she had decided to bring it along.

  Finished dressing, she slipped into a pair of canvas espadrilles and tucked her room key into the pocket of the trousers. On the way out the door, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror—provided, no doubt, to either intimidate or congratulate, depending on one’s success during the week. She looked as good as she felt. Harry would hardly recognize this casual but elegant and unharried woman. She wondered what Cliff would think.

  Cocktails were a brief affair for her, since, by the time she reached the drawing room, the maid was just striking the brass gong on the sideboard to indicate that dinner was about to be served.

  They all drifted into the dining room, which was furnished in much the same style as the drawing room. A long rosewood table with a border of intricate marquetry shone to a high gleam, and was surrounded by eight matching chairs with pale green silk seats. On the green-and-ivory striped silk-covered wall behind the head chair was a large hunting print showing several horses, a pack of dogs, and one frightened fox cavorting across an English field. Slightly out of place, perhaps, but positively reeking of old world charm. On either side of the painting and behind each chair, wall sconces with dark green lampshades fringed in gold provided a glow of subdued and very flattering light.

  Dr. Voight sat at the head of the table with Belle on his right and Regina on his left, and directed the others to sit wherever they pleased. Maxine took the chair next to Belle and Cliff sat next to Joyce who was sitting beside Regina. Cathy, who arrived flushed and out of breath just as everyone was seated, naturally took a seat on Cliff’s other side.

  The doctor tapped on his crystal water glass to get their attention.

  “Guten Abend, ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are using the small private dining room because there are only a few of us and it is much more, shall we say, intimate.” He glanced briefly at Belle. “Beside your napkins you will find a small printed menu. On it are the two selections for dinner this evening. You may choose either the A menu or the B menu for your meal, but you may not choose from both, as the caloric content has been carefully calculated for each menu.” He smiled benevolently, “Now please enjoy your dinner,” and went back to talking to Belle.

  The maid came round and filled each of their water glasses with Perrier, floating a slice of lemon on top and tucking a spring of mint down the side.

  Cliff raised his glass to Joyce. “Here’s to dietetic juleps.” He took a sip and made a face. “Wish I had brought some vodka with me.”

  The appetizer was served next. Joyce had chosen the B menu, and received a minted cucumber salad. Regina and Cliff had both chosen the A menu and were served a small cup of borscht. Cathy, who seemed to have trouble deciding between starvation and deprivation, eventually chose the B menu after seein
g how small the cup of borscht was.

  Then came the main course, for Joyce a shrimp curry with chutney and brown rice. And for the others chicken Stroganoff with summer squash. The portions were decidedly smaller than any of them were used to, but, to everyone’s surprise, it actually tasted like “real” food.

  Joyce ate slowly, chewing each mouthful. She had read somewhere that you eat less if you chew more, and since this was certainly less, she wanted to make the most of it. Cliff ate the chicken but left the squash and pushed his plate away. This delighted Cathy, who had wolfed down her Stroganoff and was busy scraping miniscule bits of chicken and sauce off her plate. She looked around to see if the doctor was watching, and then leaned closer and whispered to Cliff.

  “Aren’t you going to eat your squash?”

  “No. You can have it if you want. I don’t like squash very much.”

  Cathy pulled the plate toward her and in two seconds had cleaned up the squash.

  “Just wait untill my friends hear that I ate Cliff Eastman’s squash.” Cathy sat back, momentarily sated.

  Joyce supressed a urge to be sarcastic. She bet there were a ton of women in Hollywood who could boast of an even more intimate connection with him than that.

  Dessert followed. Joyce got a pineapple boat with coconut sauce that reminded her rather alarmingly of the shampoo she had used earlier, and the others had strawberries Romanoff. All in all, it was a tasty if slight meal, and Joyce kept the menu cards and tucked them into her pocket, in case she might need them for the article.

  Throughout the dinner, Dr. Voight had been busy with Mrs. Taylor, and Regina had been sulkily shoving her food around her plate, much to Cathy’s chagrin. Joyce noticed that Maxine had been very quiet. She had hardly said two words, breaking her silence only once to ask Dr. Voight a question about the origin of the recipes for tonight’s menu. It was the sort of question people usually ask when they feel they have to make conversation but really have nothing to say. And, although she nodded and smiled occasionally, her eyes seemed dull and far away. Joyce wondered if she was thinking about Harry and, if so, what she was thinking. They certainly seemed like an odd couple.

  Her thoughts of Maxine were interrupted by Cliff’s leg brushing against hers. She started. And then the color rose in her face as he apologized. What was wrong with her anyway? She was as jumpy as Fredo when the cat down the hall was in season. She waited an appropriate length of time and then, in the guise of changing her position, carefully moved her leg away.

  She hadn’t felt so nervous around a man since she was sixteen and Biff Collins, her first real crush, had asked her to the sock hop. Beautiful Biff: what had ever happened to him?

  Chapter 17

  After dinner, everyone but Cliff, who said he was going to get a “little air,” which Joyce suspected might just be 80 proof, assembled in the drawing room for conversation and herbal tea or, if something more exciting was desired, Perrier and bitters.

  Joyce had gone into a mild case of shock when she found out that coffee was not served before, during, or after any meal, because caffeine triggered the release of insulin, which in turn caused the blood sugar to drop, thus stimulating the appetite, a very definite no-no on an 800-calorie-a-day regime. The same rules also applied to diet soft drinks, which also included too much sodium and therefore caused water retention. So for social sipping, it was either herbal tea, Perrier, or one of the ubiquitous cleansing cocktails, and, of course, water.

  Water! Joyce had made a face. Nobody in New York drank water. You never knew where it had been. Coffee and Coke were it, even if it did mean going through life bloated and starving.

  So, still craving a capuccino, Joyce curled up on a blue and yellow brocade couch, assuming an air of indifferent nonchalance which to anyone who believed in body language, would have signaled that she was neither indifferent nor nonchalant, but was, instead, watchful and on edge.

  She picked up a copy of the National Geographic from the coffee table, thumbed through it, and then proceeded to appear deeply engrossed in an article entitled “Animal Husbandry in Uganda—The Scientific Solution?” What she was really doing, though, was waiting for Cliff to come back from wherever he had disappeared to.

  And so she sat, gripping the magazine, print blurring into solid columns in front of her eyes, afraid one moment that Cliff would sit next to her, thereby declaring that she had read his signals correctly, and the next moment afraid that he would not. Either way, the magazine made a good prop.

  Cathy plopped down beside her on the couch.

  “I’m still hungry. How about you?”

  Joyce shook her head and continued to let her eyes scan the columns of print. She wished Cathy would go away.

  “What are you reading?” The curious Mouse, as Joyce had now privately and permanently christened her, craned her neck to see the title.

  Joyce closed the magazine. “Nothing really, just some piece about animal husbandry.”

  Cathy frowned. Animal husbandry sounded slightly salacious. Besides, she wasn’t all that sure what it meant. She decided to change the subject.

  “Don’t you think that Dr. Voight is paying too much attention to Mrs. Taylor?” She nodded in the direction of the fireplace where the doctor had one massive arm draped along the marble mantel just inches above a set of bared shoulders which sloped down to a flaming red dress that lit up the room like a signal fire.

  Belle said something and the doctor leaned forward. Joyce thought again about the lions at the zoo.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn in the morning.”

  Her eyes wandered toward the door that led to the hallway and then wandered back.

  “Who are you waiting for?” echoed her mother’s voice, in a tone that said she not only knew but also disapproved.

  “That’s different.” Cathy was not about to be dissuaded. “He has to talk to us in the morning. He’s supposed to be the host. He should circulate, not stand there with his nose stuck in Mrs. Taylor’s cleavage.” She was unable to hide the tone of petulance in her voice. She felt hungry and miserable, missing Michael and the children. And she longed for a frozen Milky Way.

  “Can’t you see there’s something going on between them?” Joyce sighed with exasperation.

  “There is?” said Cathy incredulously and stared at them again.

  “You’d have to be blind not to see it. He’s interested in her as more than a guest, that’s for sure. And he probably wants to know what makes her tick before he decides to try and ring her chimes.”

  “… Mother ticks, alright.” Regina settled herself at the other end of the couch, drawing her long legs up under her taut little bottom. “Like two sticks of dynamite attached to a Seiko. But he’d better watch out, or she’ll have his balls for breakfast.”

  Cathy turned to the new arrival, glad of a diversion from the thoughts of Milky Ways.

  “You’re Regina Taylor.”

  “I know.” Regina smoothed a crease out of her white cotton trousers.

  “My name’s Cathy Stewart. I’ve seen you on all the magazines.”

  “Impressive, isn’t it? I mean all this beauty in one body.” She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes. Joyce laughed. She liked the girl for not taking herself too seriously.

  “Don’t you like being beautiful?” Cathy was amazed. Looks were nothing to be taken lightly, as far as she was concerned.

  “Like it?” Regina shrugged her slim, pale shoulders. “I’m stuck with it. People have always made a fuss about how I look. But I guess I’d have to say that it doesn’t exactly thrill me. I mean I don’t go around saying, “Hey, look: that’s me,” on the cover of Vogue or Glamour. Most of the time I try to ignore it.”

  “Ignore it! Gosh, I’d give anything to look like you.” Cathy leaned closer, her enthusiasm making her brave.

  Regina leaned back. “Why don’t you give up food? That’d be a good start.”

  Cathy’s face crumbled. Joyce thought she might be going t
o cry.

  “Well that rates a minus five on the sensitivity scale,’ she said to the girl.

  Regina’s face tinged with pink. “I’m sorry. It just popped out. I didn’t mean it. I guess you could say I’m an unfortunate product of my environment.” She nodded toward her mother who was laughing at something the doctor had just said, her breasts quivering with the effort. The doctor seemed mesmerized, watching the heavy gold chain she wore around her neck appear and disappear in the cavernous cleavage.

  “Actually, I’m really a very nice person.” Regina smiled a warm enveloping smile to demonstrate, and put out a hand for Cathy to shake.

  “Friends?”

  “O.K. I guess I am a little touchy about the weight. It’s not your fault I’m fat.” Cathy relaxed a little and changed the subject again, in an attempt to include Joyce.

  “Joyce’s husband works in the Silicon Valley.”

  “No, that’s silicon chips. Actually, he works in Newark.” Joyce was surprised at how easily the lie came out. She was getting better. “My name’s Joyce Allan. Nice to meet you.”

  “My husband is in the magazine business.…” Maxine had joined the group now, sitting in the pale-blue watered-silk wing chair on the other side of the coffee table. She proceeded to give her name, rank, and marital affiliation for the benefit of anyone who had not already heard it.

  “Oh, Destiny. I almost did a cover for them last month, but Mother said they weren’t willing to pay the going rate, so I didn’t do it.”

  “Do you always do everything your mother tells you?” That cover was a sore point with Joyce who, on Harry’s bellowed instruction, had had to rush around two days before they went to press to find someone else. Unable to find a face famous enough to replace Regina for their piece on “America’s New Elite” at such short notice, she had finally ended up getting a picture of Mayor Koch to go with the article on corruption in the boroughs. It didn’t have nearly the same impact and Harry had held her responsible.