Our Stop(36)

She said it shiftily – not mad, or angry – she was like a teenager who didn’t have the words for her feelings yet. But the feelings were most definitely there.

Nadia couldn’t figure it out. She’d waited all weekend to say something, thinking every time she caught Emma’s mind wandering off halfway through the conversation, or noting how she obsessively checked her phone, that surely it would be the last time. Nadia gave Emma imaginary chance after imaginary chance, but she kept using them up. Nadia had gone from being slightly irked to totally outraged to now genuinely concerned about Emma’s behaviour. It was like she’d had bad news she didn’t want to share, or was waiting for bad news to come. Nadia’s own funk had lifted enough to be aware of the company she was in, and the company she was in was undoubtedly in pain.

‘It’s only because I’m worried,’ Nadia said. ‘I thought I was the broken one this weekend. But I feel like you need some TLC too.’

Emma softened.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, acknowledging the waiter with a smile and muttering thank you as her orange juice was delivered. ‘I don’t mean to snap. I’m obsessed with my phone because of work and I promise I’m not doing anything other than listening to you 100 per cent. I’m enjoying myself! I am!’

Nadia reached out to touch her friend’s hand.

‘Me too,’ she said, not buying what Emma was saying at all. ‘But also I’m here, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Emma nodded, smiling.

Their eggs came, and they ate, observing with a nudge when an Australian pop star from the noughties walked past their table, and smiling broadly when Brooklyn Beckham walked past with Madonna’s son. It was a clear and bright morning, and the place bustled with Sunday morning energy: lots of cashmere sweatpants and Sunday supplements and cappuccinos. Camera phones were against the rules, but Emma still took a photograph of their food.

‘What time is the class?’ said Nadia, eventually.

‘Oh, bugger, yes: we should think about going down there actually. We’ve got about twenty minutes.’

‘Awesome.’

They’d both laughed in serendipitous glee as the Sunday’s social schedule had been slipped under their cabin door the night before while they’d been eating ribs and sweet potato skins. In amongst an organic skincare workshop and a core workout class, there’d been the details for a fascial release session with a world-renowned expert.

‘I can’t believe it!’ said Emma. ‘This is what I was telling you about – the thing Denise at work did! After her divorce!’

Nadia peered over at where she was pointing. The leaflet said,

Myofascial Release is a safe and effective hands-on technique that involves applying gentle sustained pressure into the Myofascial connective tissue restrictions to eliminate both physical and emotional pain and restore motion. Taught by Ivanka Nilsson.

‘I’m still not sure about this …’ Nadia said. ‘But. Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.’

The pair signalled for Emma’s membership card back and she signed for the food, allowing it to be charged to their room, and in their Lycra leggings and Nike trainers – the uniform of any exercise class – headed to the gym.

For the first twenty-five minutes of the hour-long class, Nadia was almost hysterical in her laughter. What they were doing was ridiculous to her. Ivanka Nilsson turned out to be a six-foot-something blonde Swede who had the air of a shot-putter about her, and there were only five people in the class. Her English was flawless, but retained an authoritarian air to it – Nadia often found that about native Nordic speakers: their directness came across in the way they intoned their English. She was slightly afraid to be caught laughing, like she’d be told off. It was made worse by the fact that Emma was totally into it and was mostly listening to the instructions with her eyes closed (‘Intuitive release,’ Ivanka called it), so Nadia felt even more adrift and silly. Basically, the whole point was to find where it hurt to roll your body on a tennis ball, and then gently move back and forth so that whilst yes, it was painful, ultimately (or so said Ivanka), it would eventually cease to hurt.

Well yes, thought Nadia, because I’ve gone bloody numb.

‘There are two ways to treat malaise,’ Ivanka said, walking between the five mats in bare feet, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. ‘Our emotional trauma is stored in the fibres of our body, in between our muscles. Our bodies hold on to sadness, and grief, and it causes physical pain. Sometimes, we bury these emotions so deeply that symptoms do not demonstrate themselves for many, many years. But they are there. And so, by rubbing deeply into this fascia using a simple tennis ball, we access these hidden emotions, and we release them.’

Nadia looked over at Emma again, hoping to roll her eyes in united sympathy. Emma was lying on her back with the tennis ball just above her right bum cheek, making small circular movements so that her body rotated over the ball. Her eyes were closed, and to Nadia, at this angle, it looked like … she was crying?

‘I repeat,’ Ivanka said, most likely in response to Nadia’s insistence at peeking at everyone else. ‘This is more beneficial to you with your eyes closed, so that you may enter communion with your body. Listen to what it is telling you. Listen to the stories it has buried. It wants you to know them. To find them. Seeking out the dark parts of your story allows you to shed light on them, and in shedding light you will cease to be afraid.’ Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe.