not fig , but this is a family health food novel, so I’ll spare you the colorful four letters involved.
“Care for some more pinot grigio, darling?”
“No, I would not care for some more of your girlie white wine,” Clint snarled.
All traces of desperation had vanished from his voice. Now he was the action hero who single-handedly beat up an entire cell of Taliban terrorists, armed only with his bare fists and a Swiss army knife.
“Trust me, Mallory,” he growled, “you don’t want to mess with me.”
“Or what?” She laughed. “You’ll pistol whip me with your mascara wand?”
The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of glass smashing.
“For God’s sake, Clint,” Mallory gasped. “You almost killed me with that wine bottle.”
“Oh, well,” Clint said. “Practice makes perfect.”
Then the door slammed so hard, I wondered if it had come off the hinges.
I stood among the organic veggies, stunned.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but hadn’t Clint Masters just issued a death threat?
If Mallory was upset, she showed absolutely no signs of it at lunch. She sat at the “A” table—chatting with Harvy about an upcoming photo shoot and driving Olga crazy with special requests from the kitchen—seemingly oblivious to Clint, who sat next to her stabbing his lettuce shards much like he’d stabbed those Taliban terrorists.
The hours after lunch passed in a blur of treadmills, tai chi, and aqua-cise—the latter a particularly humiliating experience. The last time I willingly exposed my thighs to the public was at childbirth.
I told Olga I hadn’t brought a bathing suit, but unfortunately the Diet Nazi had a bunch of loaner suits. And soon I was squeezing myself into a black latex Mother Teresa model that made me look like a sausage in mourning.
Mallory took one look at my thighs and snickered.
“Liposuction, anyone?” I heard her whisper to Harvy.
Relief finally came when Olga gave us the rest of the afternoon off—hallelujah!—and it was time for my first massage. Truly, the highlight of my day.
Possibly, my life.
Darling Shawna, who I soon came to think of as The Miracle Worker, ushered me into a spa cubicle and proceeded to coddle me as I have never been coddled before. First she sat me down in a small wicker chair and handed me a cup of The Haven’s muscle-relaxing tea—imported, as Olga had told me on her orientation spiel, all the way from Tibet and brewed in the ornate urn I’d seen out in the corridor.
“It’s been steeped a full twenty minutes,” Shawna explained, “to bring out all its medicinal qualities.”
I shuddered to think what it would taste like.
But alert the media. It was actually quite nice. Naturally sweet and cinnamony. The best thing I’d had since last night’s cheesecake.
As I savored every mouthful, Shawna began giving me the most divine foot rub, first soaking my aching tootsies in warm water, then rubbing them with soothing lavender lotion.
When she had massaged my feet to the consistency of limp linguini, she settled me on the massage table. All the while smiling serenely, showing no signs of the stress I’d seen earlier in the gym.
As tinkly sitar music played in the background, she set to work easing every kink in my knotted muscles with her magic fingers. Before long—aside from the hollow pit formerly known as my stomach—I was feeling almost human again.
Now this was my idea of a spa.
Just when I was wishing the massage could go on forever—with only an occasional Chunky Monkey break—I heard soft moans coming from the next cubicle.
“Oh, Sven!” an unmistakable hush puppy voice crooned. “That feels sooo wonderful!”
It was Mallory, making noises normally heard in a porn flick.
I sneaked a peek at Shawna. Aside from a tiny tic in her temple, she showed no signs of being upset.
“Does Sven usually give massages to women?” I asked.
“All the time,” she replied evenly. “The gals just love him.”
“So I’ve
“Care for some more pinot grigio, darling?”
“No, I would not care for some more of your girlie white wine,” Clint snarled.
All traces of desperation had vanished from his voice. Now he was the action hero who single-handedly beat up an entire cell of Taliban terrorists, armed only with his bare fists and a Swiss army knife.
“Trust me, Mallory,” he growled, “you don’t want to mess with me.”
“Or what?” She laughed. “You’ll pistol whip me with your mascara wand?”
The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of glass smashing.
“For God’s sake, Clint,” Mallory gasped. “You almost killed me with that wine bottle.”
“Oh, well,” Clint said. “Practice makes perfect.”
Then the door slammed so hard, I wondered if it had come off the hinges.
I stood among the organic veggies, stunned.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but hadn’t Clint Masters just issued a death threat?
If Mallory was upset, she showed absolutely no signs of it at lunch. She sat at the “A” table—chatting with Harvy about an upcoming photo shoot and driving Olga crazy with special requests from the kitchen—seemingly oblivious to Clint, who sat next to her stabbing his lettuce shards much like he’d stabbed those Taliban terrorists.
The hours after lunch passed in a blur of treadmills, tai chi, and aqua-cise—the latter a particularly humiliating experience. The last time I willingly exposed my thighs to the public was at childbirth.
I told Olga I hadn’t brought a bathing suit, but unfortunately the Diet Nazi had a bunch of loaner suits. And soon I was squeezing myself into a black latex Mother Teresa model that made me look like a sausage in mourning.
Mallory took one look at my thighs and snickered.
“Liposuction, anyone?” I heard her whisper to Harvy.
Relief finally came when Olga gave us the rest of the afternoon off—hallelujah!—and it was time for my first massage. Truly, the highlight of my day.
Possibly, my life.
Darling Shawna, who I soon came to think of as The Miracle Worker, ushered me into a spa cubicle and proceeded to coddle me as I have never been coddled before. First she sat me down in a small wicker chair and handed me a cup of The Haven’s muscle-relaxing tea—imported, as Olga had told me on her orientation spiel, all the way from Tibet and brewed in the ornate urn I’d seen out in the corridor.
“It’s been steeped a full twenty minutes,” Shawna explained, “to bring out all its medicinal qualities.”
I shuddered to think what it would taste like.
But alert the media. It was actually quite nice. Naturally sweet and cinnamony. The best thing I’d had since last night’s cheesecake.
As I savored every mouthful, Shawna began giving me the most divine foot rub, first soaking my aching tootsies in warm water, then rubbing them with soothing lavender lotion.
When she had massaged my feet to the consistency of limp linguini, she settled me on the massage table. All the while smiling serenely, showing no signs of the stress I’d seen earlier in the gym.
As tinkly sitar music played in the background, she set to work easing every kink in my knotted muscles with her magic fingers. Before long—aside from the hollow pit formerly known as my stomach—I was feeling almost human again.
Now this was my idea of a spa.
Just when I was wishing the massage could go on forever—with only an occasional Chunky Monkey break—I heard soft moans coming from the next cubicle.
“Oh, Sven!” an unmistakable hush puppy voice crooned. “That feels sooo wonderful!”
It was Mallory, making noises normally heard in a porn flick.
I sneaked a peek at Shawna. Aside from a tiny tic in her temple, she showed no signs of being upset.
“Does Sven usually give massages to women?” I asked.
“All the time,” she replied evenly. “The gals just love him.”
“So I’ve
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