Page 35 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘I’m only saying,’ Gabby continues. ‘What happens in here, stays in here. Consider it to have the sanctity of a confessional. And there is no body issue, lump or bump I haven’t seen before and dealt with before. So relax and let me take care of you for a bit.’

I don’t think I have ever wanted to hug a stranger more. Gabby exudes a calmness and I immediately know I can trust her as she gives a small smile and gestures towards the door, indicating she is leaving. I strip off in peace and quiet and climb up on the table which – oh my God – is heated. If they could, I’m sure my boobs would sigh with relief as I rest them on the gently warmed towelling surface, then place my head on the cushioned headrest. I haul the soft blanket Gabby left for me up over my back and then I allow myself to let go, relax and embrace the calming sensations of this dimly lit, fragrant, almost womb-like treatment room.

To some women these spa visits are par for the course but for me it’s a revolutionary act of self-care – something I put to the bottom of a very long and never-ending to-do list. Massages and facials, and even a gel polish, are not something I’ve had the time or money for as I tried to raise my boys and just get through each day. If I had extra money it went to treating the boys. Or my mum. Or paying a little extra off a bill.

The wobbly feeling returns. It dawns on me it’s guilt, even though Niamh is still insisting on covering the cost for this afternoon. Could it be that I feel guilty simply for putting myself first?

I remind myself to breathe through it. It’s okay to put myself first for an afternoon, isn’t it? It’s okay to relax enough to enjoy a massage, and a facial and a gel nail polish. I might even go for slut-red even though I have no one to be a slut for.

There’s a knock on the door and Gabby lets herself back in and asks if I’m comfortable in a voice that is even softer than it was before. I wonder if it would be appropriate to ask her to make me a recording of her reading a bedtime story that I can play to lull myself over to sleep each evening.

Sadly, I’m pretty sure it isn’t, so I say nothing and simply allow myself to relax while she gets to work. ‘I’ll do a light massage first,’ she whispers in her little angelic voice. ‘Just to loosen you up a bit. Then we’ll place the hot stones on acupressure points along your neck and spine. This will help release any further tension and anxiety your body might be holding on to, and it may ease any pain you may be experiencing in that area. Do you suffer from back pain?’

‘I’m forty-six,’ I tell her. ‘I suffer from back pain, knee pain, hip pain and just general all-over pain.’ I say it in a jokey voice even though I’m not joking. Every month a new ailment seems to get added to my list of ongoing ailments. Injuries no longer heal quickly and they leave their mark as you edge closer to your demise.

Gabby gives a little angelic tinkle, which I think is a laugh. ‘Forty-six is hardly old,’ she says. ‘You’ve a lot of living left in you.’

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But sometimes it feels old. You’ll understand in time, probably. What age are you, Gabby?’

‘Oh, I’m twenty-eight – the big three-oh is looming! Eek!’ she says. I want to cry. I can barely remember my own big three-oh these days. I just have scattered images in my mind of a meal out with Simon and friends, drinks and then wishing I’d skipped both when dealing with two boisterous toddlers the following day. Simon, if I remember correctly, had a terrible hangover and had to take to his bed.

‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘By the time you walk out of here today we’ll have you feeling re-invigorated and hopefully minus all those aches and pains.’

‘If you achieve that I’ll be calling the Vatican to have you lined up for a sainthood,’ I joke.

The touch of her hands on my back makes me jump even though I’ve been fully anticipating it.

‘Sorry, is that a little cold for you?’ she asks, but no, it’s not cold. Her hands are perfectly warm and lovely. The feeling of them pressing into my tired muscles and drawing down along my spine just feels so good.

‘’S’fine,’ I say, my words already a little slurred with the blissful sensations flowing through my body right now. I stifle a moan, afraid to let it out in case it sounds a little like a sex moan. Not that I remember too much about sex moans. It has been a long, long time since I moaned about anything other than housework and Donegal drivers.

It’s been ten years since someone touched my bare skin in so tender yet purposeful a way. Of course, the more I try to hold in the moans of pleasure and release, the greater my need to vocalise how I am feeling grows. Never in my life did I think I’d have to start trying to remember the names of all the Walton children to stop my body reacting involuntarily to being caressed by another human. Dear God, is that what Gabby meant when she said someone people find it a form of release?

John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen… who comes after Mary Ellen? It better not be me, that’s for sure. It’s not Jim-Bob. I know that much. Or the youngest girl – Elizabeth. I run through my ‘Goodnights’ to keep my mind focused on not humiliating myself as Gabby’s hands run the length of my spine.

‘Erin!’ I finally gasp out loud, with great relief.

25

BRINGING SEXY BACK

‘How did that feel for you?’ Gabby asks as we finish the massage and she hands me a glass of iced water to drink.

‘Well, it was quite lovely,’ I tell her, my face still flushed with embarrassment at how my body had reacted to her touch. Am I the female equivalent of a dirty old man? I wonder. Then again, there was no inappropriate touching. I didn’t ask her for a happy ending and while I may have called the name ‘Erin’ out loud I think that might just have coincided with her unknotting a muscle in my back. Honest, guv. I haven’t had some kind of lesbian awakening on the massage table, my body has just remembered what it was like to be touched in a tender way. It wasn’t sexual, but it was nice.

And it made me realise that maybe having someone else – someone I’m attracted to – touch me in a tender way might be nice as well. It might be worth taking a chance on the dating apps after all, even if the thought terrifies me. Niamh will no doubt ask me what I have to lose, but I don’t think she’ll be happy when I reply, ‘My last remaining crumbs of self-worth.’

I have generally accepted that no one with an ounce of wit would find me attractive in that way. This was compounded by Simon taking up with another woman while we were still very much married. It reaffirmed that I don’t bring a lot to the table in that regard. That’s been a tough one to shake.

Maybe if I tried a little more – didn’t exist in my hoodies and leggings and hadn’t fallen under the spell of my fur-lined Crocs – I’d feel more confident in myself.

Or if I was the kind of woman who didn’t want to tear acrylic nails from her hands five minutes after spending a fortune to get them done. If I found the notion of a Brazilian wax to be appealing and not my idea of an actual nightmare. Splayed on a hard bed with someone tearing hair from my poor, tattered and Frankensteined-back-together perineum? No thanks!

Maybe if I was a gym-bunny, or a super bendy yoga girl. Daniel gets me out walking with him but he’s such a plodder it hasn’t succeeded in helping me transform my post-twin babies’ pouch into a toned, flat stomach. I didn’t even have a toned and flat stomach before I had the twins, so I suppose it was always going to be a big ask of the universe to expect I could earn one afterwards with minimal effort.

But there’s a little voice inside me that screams at me that I have to stop tearing myself apart. I’ve a body that grew two wonderful human beings and brought them into this world. My hoodies and leggings are comfortable, but I do have other clothes. Or I can get other clothes. Maybe I could get Laura to help me with that. She seems to pull off effortlessly stylish well. She looks trendy but isn’t a living example of mutton dressed as lamb. Or Niamh’s Jodie might be able to help – if I want to push myself completely out of my comfort zone.

And as for intimate hair removal, well that’s a bridge I can cross if I ever get to it but even I know other options exist outside of parboiling your genitals in hot wax.

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