The Dead Ex(2)

Both my client and I wear brave smiles which say, ‘I’m fine, really.’ But she’s not, or she wouldn’t be here. And nor would I.

‘I just need something to help me relax,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a lot of stress.’

It’s not my job to be a counsellor. Even so, there are times when I want to interrupt and tell my own story to show these women (I’ve never had a male client) that they aren’t alone. Of course, that wouldn’t be wise, because it might scare them off. And I need them. Not just for my business. But to prove myself.

What happened to the strong, confident woman I used to be? The one who wouldn’t take any nonsense. ‘Vicki’s got breasts and balls,’ they used to say. But that was in my old life.

Time to go over my client’s medical history. ‘Are you pregnant?’

I have to ask this question even though her disclaimer form states that – like me – she is forty-six. It’s still possible. She gives a short laugh. ‘I’ve done all that. Why do you ask, anyway?’

‘There are some aromatherapy oils which aren’t suitable for expectant mothers,’ I say. I move on swiftly. ‘Do you have high blood pressure?’

‘No. Though I feel I should have. Can this stuff affect that too?’

She glances with suspicion at the bottles lined up above us with all the colours of the rainbow trapped inside. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. For a minute I’m aged nine, in the small northern mining town where I grew up, reciting them to the teacher. Some patterns you don’t forget.

‘No, but it’s good for me to know. The oils are like medicine.’ I hear my tutor’s words tripping out of my mouth. ‘Very good for you when used appropriately.’

We run through more details. She’s declared on the disclaimer form that she has no medical issues. Yet, for some reason, I feel apprehensive.

‘Would you like to change?’ I suggest. ‘I’ll leave the room for a few minutes to give you privacy.’

She’s clearly nervous. Then again, so are many of my clients who’ve never had this kind of treatment before. I see her glancing at my certificate on the wall for reassurance.

Vicki Goudman. MIFA. ITEC LEVEL 3.

Member of the International Federation of Aromatherapists. Sometimes I don’t believe it myself. It’s certainly not what I’d planned.

When I go back into the room, my client (or lady, as I was taught to say) is lying face down on the treatment couch as instructed. Her bare shoulders, which reveal a dark mole on the right blade, are thin. Scrawny. Her skin is cold even though I’ve got the heating on high at this time of year.

‘I haven’t felt like eating much recently,’ she says. ‘I’ve lost weight.’

Trauma does that to you. Or it can make you pile on the pounds. I’ve done both. I turn on the CD player. The angel music is soft. Healing. Sleepy.

‘Mmmm,’ she says in a different voice as I massage the oil in deft circular motions down her spine. ‘You’ve got a real touch. I love that smell. What is it again?’

I repeat the ingredients. Lavender. Ylang-ylang. Petitgrain. Grapefruit juice.

‘How do you know what to use?’ she asks, her voice muffled because of her position.

‘It’s a bit like a marriage,’ I say. ‘You match the oil to the client’s needs. And you follow your instinct.’

There’s a snort. I think, for a minute, that it’s laughter, but then I realize she’s crying. ‘If I’d listened to my own instinct,’ she sobs, ‘I might have kept my husband.’

There it is again. That temptation to give away too much about yourself. You think you’re doing it to put them at their ease. But really it’s giving in to your own need. Afterwards, you regret it. The client feels awkward on the next visit. And so do you. This is a business arrangement. Not a friendship.

So I hold back the longing to tell my lady that David and I would have been coming up to our sixth wedding anniversary in a few months. I also resist the temptation to remind myself that it is Valentine’s Day. That on our first – and only – one together he had given me a pair of crystal drop earrings which I can no longer bring myself to wear. Instead, I breathe in the lavender and imagine it’s wrapped around my body like a protective cloak.

‘Sometimes,’ I say, kneading the stress knots, ‘you have to go through the dark to get to the light.’

My client relaxes more then. I’d like to think that it’s my words that have soothed her. But it’s the magic. The lavender is getting into my own skin too. That’s the thing about oils. They’re always the same. A constant.

Unlike love.

‘Is there anything in particular stressing you out?’ I ask gently.

She gives a Where do I start? laugh. ‘The kids are driving me crazy, especially the little one. He’s impossible.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Nearly four. Going on ten.’

Now it’s my skin that goes cold.

‘He’s in trouble at school for biting this new boy in his class, and the teachers think it’s my fault. They’ve actually asked me if there is violence in our family.’

Is there? The question lies unspoken.

She wriggles slightly on the couch. ‘Do you have kids?’