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And with that, she had no choice but to grab her purse and kiss her son goodbye, before clambering into the back seat like a kid crawling through the closet to Narnia.
The interior was almost as magical. It was upholstered in burgundy leather, and the trim was made of gleaming chrome. The two banquettes that faced each other were wide enough to stretch out and sleep on, and the marshmallow-fluffy pillows scattered about looked inviting.
The coffee table between the seats held one remote control for a large flat-screen TV, and another for the moonroof overhead. Next to it was a small phone which she guessed would allow her to speak to Olivier. She gingerly set it far away from her, lest she embarrass herself by butt-dialing him.
The interior of the tiny fridge revealed an array of delights, including tiny bottles of champagne, flat and sparkling water, and two silver trays of treats. One bore a calligraphed sign that read salmon vol-au-vents and the other said strawberry/raspberry petits fours.
Gingerly, she withdrew the platters, holding them as if they might bite. Her first thought was that this offering smacked of the last meal of a condemned prisoner, and if she didn’t trust Corbin’s word that she was safe with this unknown driver, she would have been wary.
But what bothered her even more, as her salivary glands began to flood her mouth, was the calorie count that these things represented. Even through the wrapping, she could smell the fresh country butter used in the pastries. The strawberries perched atop the little cakes had been carved into roses. And salmon! A fish she could seldom afford, and so rarely indulged in. They whispered her name in taunting tones, like fairies in the glade: Melllanieee, Melll….
Should she?
Hands shaking, swallowing hard, she tapped into her diet app, where she discovered to her dismay that just one of those creamy petit fours clocked in at close to 150 calories, thanks to all that butter and fresh cream. As for the vol-au-vents, well, she was staring 300 smackers in the face. Each.
To give in would be suicide. Just this morning, a Minion had arrived with a basket of warm rye bread and a wheel of cumin gouda the size of a tricycle tire, and after embarrassing herself by consuming a wedge big enough to chock a semi-truck from rolling downhill, she had panicked and wrapped up the rest, begging Zanifa to take it home with her. So maybe she’d had her dose of saturated fat for one day.
As she leaned forward to regretfully replace the platters in the fridge, she felt that tummy roll around her waist fold upon itself, reminding her that she’d been a bad, bad girl, and didn’t deserve any treats today.
But she was thirsty. It was a toss-up between the champagne and the water, and Melanie decided that an itsy-bitsy teeny weenie sip of bubbly wouldn’t kill her. Popping the bottle to a satisfying fizz, she poured herself a drop and sipped on it with a sigh.
Delicious.
She examined the label, and then swiftly Googled the name. Then she stared at her screen and opened up another page to make sure what she was reading was accurate. The liquid gold in the bottle was part of a special reserve vintage, almost 20 years old, and so rare that it couldn’t be bought on the open market.
Immediately deciding that there was a special circle in Hell for people who wasted champagne like this, Melanie set about finishing the bottle, so that by the time the car slowed and Olivier announced that they had arrived at their destination, she was, to put it delicately, in a much more positive frame of mind.
“We are here, madame,” he repeated, holding her door open for her.
Melanie stepped out, looking around, not even caring that her mouth was hanging open. They were in a covered area before a short flight of white marble steps, which led to a large, sprawling Mediterranean-style building surrounded by lush lawns and flowerbeds, and kissed by wafting date palms that buzzed with tiny bees sipping at the creamy blossoms.
The windows, doors, and archways, even the porte cochère through which they had driven, had a distinctly North African feel about it. She almost expected Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine character to step out from behind a pillar and ask Sam to play it again.
A sign above the entrance said Spa de Tunisie in gilt letters, and beneath it stood two smiling young women in brilliant white uniforms.
Queenie had sent her to a spa. A luxurious, expensive looking one.
The two women stepped forward, greeted her warmly, introduced themselves as Andrea and Amélie, and whisked her inside. The last she saw of Olivier was him making a hand signal letting her know he would be waiting for her outside.
She was swept past the front desk, no need to check in, into a spacious lounge where a few pampered-looking women lounged upon recliners, either dozing with satin eye masks on, or sipping on tall frosty glasses while reading novels or scrolling through their phones.
In a private dressing room beyond, she was not even expected to change into the proffered robe; the two women literally undressed her and slipped it onto her as if she was a 17th century royal who needed to be dressed by ladies-in-waiting.
What followed was a blur of sensory delight. After being force-fed a tall glass of lemon-infused water, she was led through a gamut of treatments, starting with a lavender-scented steam in the sauna, followed by a plunge into an ice bath so cold that Melanie yelped, raising titters from her handmaidens. All the while, they crooned encouragingly, commenting on her perfect skin and urging her to relax and enjoy it.
Which, to be honest, she didn’t need much talking into.
She was led to a monsoon shower where she was steamed once more, then scrubbed down with handfuls of pink Himalayan salt. Next, off to sink up to her neck in a tub filled with olive-green Rasul mud and seaweed, which was way better than falling into a bog. Then another bracing shower that reminded her of the hosing down Corbin had given her on that day. Only everything smelled better.
Corbin. She wondered what he would say if he could see her now, and whether he understood during his conversation with Olivier the full extent of the treatment she would be receiving. If he did, her certainly knew how to keep a secret. The thought made her smile, and she was glad he’d managed to convince her to come. Never in her life had she experienced pampering as luxurious as this.
Once she was so clean she squeaked, she was led to yet another room, where a large, dark-skinned masseur waited. The man was as powerfully built as a prize fighter, with abs she could grate cheese on, and his accent was thick, pegging him as probably Senegalese or Mauritian. He grinned as she approached, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth and an adorable pair of dimples which gave him an almost childlike air, belying the fact that with those muscles he could probably break a man’s back over his knee.
He was unnecessarily bare-chested, but Melanie didn’t mind one bit. The only pity was that she was expected to close her eyes throughout the massage—but she still stole a peek whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
So sue her.
She clambered onto the massage table as Andrea and Amélie stood waiting in the corner. Under the thin cotton sheet was she was as naked as a jaybird, but by now she was too deeply immersed in the sheer hedonism of the experience to give a hoot.
