The Woman in Cabin 10(45)

“I’m sorry,” Eva said, and she did sound sorry. “But there’s only one chair upstairs. I’d be delighted to book you in for a manicure this afternoon, after your wrap. Or is there another treatment you’d prefer? We can offer Reiki, Swedish massage, Thai massage, reflexology. . . . We also have a flotation tank—if you’ve never tried one, they’re incredibly soothing.”

“No!” I said reflexively. Tina and Chloe turned their heads, and I realized suddenly how loudly I’d spoken, and consciously lowered my voice. “No, no, thank you. Flotation’s not . . . not really my thing.”

Just the thought of lying down here in a sealed plastic coffin full of water . . .

“No problem,” Eva said with a smile. “Well, if you’re all ready to begin? The treatment rooms are down the corridor. Each has its own en suite shower. Robes and towels are provided.”

I nodded, hardly hearing her instructions, and then as she turned to go back upstairs, I followed Chloe and Tina down the corridor, hoping that my growing fear didn’t show in my face. I could do this. I could not let my phobias get in the way of doing a good job. Hi, Rowan, no, I didn’t try the spa because it was two floors down and had no windows. Sorry.

No. No way. It would be better once we were out of this narrow corridor and in our own treatment rooms.

I’d been hoping that the spa treatment time would give me a chance to talk to Tina, Anne, and Chloe, and sound them out about their movements last night, but as Chloe disappeared into her treatment room, the door closing behind her, I realized that wasn’t going to be the case.

On the other side of the corridor, Tina had stopped at a door marked “Treatment Room 1,” and I waited for her to enter so I could pass on down the corridor, but she turned back to face me, her hand on the doorknob.

“Darling,” she said awkwardly, “I, um . . . I may have been a little abrupt, when we last spoke.”

For a moment I couldn’t think what she was talking about, and then it came back—our encounter on the deck, her spitting fury at my questions. Why had she been so touchy about her movements last night?

“What can I say . . . hangover . . . lack of cigs. But that’s no excuse for snapping at you.” Her whole bearing and manner screamed a woman more used to demanding apologies than giving them.

“It’s fine,” I said stiffly. “I completely understand, I’m not a morning person, either. I— Honestly, consider it forgotten.” But I felt my face flush with the lie.

Tina put her hand out and squeezed my arm, with what I assumed was meant to be a friendly gesture of farewell, but her rings were cold against my skin, and as the door swung shut behind her, I let the shudder I had been repressing roll over me.

Then I took a deep breath and tapped at the door of treatment room three.

“Come in, Miss Blacklock!” said a voice from inside, and the door swung open and Ulla was standing there smiling, wearing a white spa uniform. I stepped inside the little room, looking around me. It was small—but not as narrow as the corridor, and with only Ulla and myself, it felt considerably less crowded. I felt the tightness in my chest ease slightly.

The room was lit with the same flickering electric candles as the stairwell, and there was a raised bed in the center, covered with clear plastic film. A white sheet was folded at the foot.

“Welcome to the spa, Miss Blacklock,” Ulla said. “Today you will be experiencing a mud wrap. Have you had one before?”

I shook my head, mutely.

“It is very pleasurable and very good for detoxing the skin. The first step is to please remove your clothes and lie upon the bed, covering with the sheet.”

“Should I keep my underwear on?” I said, trying to sound as if I went to spas every day.

“No, the mud will stain,” Ulla said firmly. My face must have expressed my feelings, because she bent and took what looked like a piece of crumpled hand towel from a cupboard.

“If you prefer, we provide disposable panties. Some of our guests use them, some do not; it is entirely how you feel comfortable. And now I will leave you to undress. The shower, if you wish it, is through here.”

She indicated a door to the left of the bed, and then backed out of the room with a smile, closing the door softly, and I began to strip off my clothes layer by layer, feeling more and more uncomfortable. I piled them on the chair along with my shoes and then, when I was completely naked, I stepped into the flimsy paper knickers and climbed onto the bed, my bare skin sticking uncomfortably to the plastic, and pulled the white sheet up to my chin.

Almost as soon as I’d done so—quickly enough to make me wonder queasily whether there was some kind of camera in the room—there was a soft knock on the door and I heard Ulla’s voice.

“May I come in, Miss Blacklock?”

“Yes,” I said croakily, and she entered, holding a bowl of what looked like, and presumably was, warm mud.

“If you would like to lie on your front,” Ulla said softly, and I wriggled around. It was surprisingly difficult, with the sticky film clinging to my skin, and I felt the sheet slip, but Ulla deftly tweaked it back into place. She touched something to the side of the door and the room was filled with soft whale sounds and the crash of waves. I had the unsettling image again of the weight of water just the other side of the thin metal hull . . .

“Could you . . .” I said awkwardly, speaking into the bed. “Is there another track?”