Short Stories by Francesca Astraea

I’ve been rereading the Percy Jackson series and this was partially inspired by the spa in The Sea of Monsters. The other part of my inspiration was my almost overwhelming desire to go on holiday.

‘Tony,’ Beverley began. ‘I’ve been thinking, about the holiday…’

‘Mm?’ Tony glanced over his newspaper (or, as the daughter would call it, his toilet paper), faintly disgruntled at the interruption.

Beverley put the tea tray down and took a breath. ‘Well, I’ve looked at the figures, and I think we can afford two this year.’

‘Two?’ This had Tony’s attention. The last time his wife suggested two of anything it had been children, which backfired when they both turned out to be a lot like her mother and nothing like Tony’s friends.

‘Yes. And I was thinking, as well as Benidorm, we could try—this.’ Beverley produced a glossy brochure from her sewing basket and put it next to the tea tray.

‘“Reinvigorate your mind and body at the Ambrosia Spa and Hotel. Enjoy out of this world treatments, connect with your inner self and leave more in tune with your soul… No surgery, no fad diets, no timetable. We take your lead—because you know what’s right for you!” Beverley, why?’

‘Well, we go to Benidorm every year. And I love it, Tone, don’t get me wrong, but I thought it might be nice to try somewhere else too. Have a bit of an adventure.’

‘Adventure? I’m not sure how much adventure you get in a spa…’

‘Exotic smoothies. Seaweed wraps. Couple’s massages.’ Beverley’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. Tony felt his tea churn uncomfortably through his stomach.

‘It’s my sixty-fifth this year,’ Beverley reminded him. ‘Why not try something a bit different? Plus we can spend some quality time away from the hustle and bustle. Just the two of us.’

‘Are you sure we can afford Spain as well?’

‘Absolutely. We’ve already paid Andreas for the deposit on the apartment, haven’t we? And we know exactly what everything costs, thereabouts.’

‘What about the euro? The exchange rate could shift.’

‘You’ve said that every year of the past fifteen. We’ve always been fine. We can afford it, Tone, we’ve worked hard for this.’

Six months later, Tony was glad he had managed to persuade Beverley to do Benidorm before the spa. It relaxed him, for a start, and he rather felt that if the Ambrosia had those ridiculous add-on charges for dressing downs and paper slippers, he had the perfect excuse not to allow Beverley to indulge.

The location: a sparkling Mediterranean island further east than Tony had ever been, part of an archipelago Tony could not pronounce. He’d checked, and he was fairly sure there was a chance a dinghy full of Syrians would wash up on the beach if they weren’t careful.

‘If they do, Tone,’ Beverley had said with a roll of her eyes, ‘you needn’t worry yourself about rescuing them.’

Tony didn’t like to admit it, but the first few days, he was confused by near enough everything. Far less signage was in English that he was used to on holiday, with far fewer Brits. In fact, he had counted at least eight languages around the pool. Almost as many as you heard going to the shops back home. He had seen maybe three British families—again, about what you see back home. The majority of guests were from the Mediterranean or Arabian Peninsula. This was according to Beverley, who of course chatted to everyone she met the nail bar and the smoothie station and around the pool. There was even a young couple from Nigeria. Beverley told him off being surprised they had passports.

The spa itself, Tony had to admit, was beautiful. Set in hills overlooking an electric blue sea, it was all pale stone, Doric columns and white cotton hangings. The staff, mostly young women, wore hair pulled into buns and pale blue trousers and tunics that never rumpled. They were on hand everywhere: the pool, the sauna, the dining pavilion. None of the attendants pressured Tony into buying anything, which surprised him. They let him be with his pint and his book, asking only if he wanted another beer (he did). Maybe they had paid for everything as part of their package, or maybe they’d be slapped with a giant bill when they checked out.

As the fortnight wore on, Tony added to the lobster-esque suntan he had picked up in Spain, reading James Patterson thrillers and partaking in precisely one spa treatment every three days. Beverley, on the other hand, had two or three treatments each day. They weren’t an added cost, she assured him. Her hair became noticeably shinier, her nails neater; even her glasses looked cleaner and brighter than normal. And somehow, despite hearty dinners and a regular afternoon ice cream, she actually seemed to be losing weight.

‘Am I?’ She asked when Tony pointed out as they were getting ready for the evening. ‘You know I never weigh myself, Tone, that’s a one-way trip to misery.’ She adjusted her dress strap, which was slipping down in a way it hadn’t in Benidorm. ‘Do you know, I think it’s all the swimming. I think I’m toning up. Toning up, ha.’

Tony scowled. ‘I preferred when you looked normal.’ Beverley blinked. ‘Normal? Tony, I’ve used a couple of muscles and had a hair mask. I do look normal.’

On their final day at the spa, Tony and Beverley had a couple’s appointment with someone about lifestyle coaching. The term reminded Tony unpleasantly of that show Beverley and their daughter liked to watch, the one where gay blokes fixed people’s wardrobes. The attendant they met boasted a clipboard and teeth so white they actually made Tony wince.

‘Let’s see, you’ve been here… Two weeks?’ Beverley and Tony nodded. ‘And you’ve both done the sauna, the exfoliating facial, the couple’s massages—’

‘Twice,’ Beverley put in.

‘I can see you’ve really taken advantage of what’s on offer, ma’am! Hair treatments, hot stone massages, mani-pedi, Indian head massage, daily meditation with Pamela, yoga nidra… and you’ve taken advantage of the pool! Well, no wonder you’re glowing, ma’am. How did you enjoy the treatments?’

‘Oh, I loved them! Beverley replied. ‘I’m going to take up yoga when we get back, and my hair feels so much thicker. I hadn’t realised I was over conditioning it.’

‘Kayleigh does have a magic touch,’ the attendant smiled. ‘And you, sir… you’ve… been for no treatments by yourself.’

‘Well,’ Tony said defensively, ‘they’re not my thing.’

‘Improving your mind-body connection isn’t your thing.’ The attendant raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a shame. Ma’am, is that what you were hoping for?’

Beverley blinked several times. ‘No, to be honest, it isn’t.’

‘I understand.’ The attendant placed a reassuring hand on Beverley’s arm. ‘Sometimes they just don’t want to evolve.’

Tony realised with a jolt that they were talking about him. ‘Well, I don’t think—’

‘Sir, do you want to connect with your inner self?’

‘Well, I—’ Tony glanced at Beverley, heart stopping as he remembered how much she had been hoping to spend time together. ‘I suppose.’

‘In that case, sir, drink this.’ The attendant produced a tall, frosted glass out of nowhere. Its contents were pearlescent, almost glowing—perhaps an effect of the cold glass.

With another glance at Beverley, Tony sipped it cautiously. Paper straw. Ridiculous. The ocean would be fine with some plastic in it. The drink was tastier than he expected, like a very thin vanilla milkshake. To his surprise, he finished it a couple of gulps.

‘Now,’ the attendant said, ‘you should start feeling a lot more like yourself.’

The next day, Beverley went through airport security with a large suitcase, a carry-on bag and a fossil the size of a dinner plate.