Page 41 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

I’m, broadly speaking, pretty liberal. I go on marches against things like war and poverty. I like quinoa and avocados. I live in North London and I worked for the BBC. But even I have my limits, and it turns out that limit is pretending to be excited about a Sunday evening where I eat a vegan grain bowl served with a cup of kombucha and then have a local hippy tell me how to rub Jessica’s body so that her chakras open. But I want to fix my marriage and I want to stay married to my amazing wife.

Obviously all my internalised objections are pointless, and I find myself wrapped in a towelling robe and swimming trunks, standing in the ‘spa’ area of the house. It’s not actually a spa, it’s a sort of conservatory where they hold the drinks reception if they’re having a wedding, but they’ve put a load of massage tables in the room and cranked the heating up to an unbearable level. There are branded towels on every bed, candles burning, spa music playing and pots of oil all over the place.

‘Welcome, everyone, very happy to be with you today,’ says the woman leading the workshop, in a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘I’m Hibiscus, and I’m going to teach you how to explore each other’s bodies.’

There is no way that woman was named Hibiscus.

‘First of all, I’d like you and your partners to each find a massage bench,’ she says. We all do as instructed. ‘Then I would like one person from each couple to take off their robe and lie on the bed.’

There’s lots of faffing about which makes me feel more awkward. ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’ I turn to Jessica.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Not super helpful,’ I mumble.

She gives me a look, like I’ve just said I want to kick a puppy in the face. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just, you know me. This really isn’t my thing.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ she says. ‘And it’s probably not Ken’s thing, or Ben’s thing, or any of the blokes’ thing, but they’re doing it with good grace.’

Her criticism cuts me to my core. She’s probably right, but I don’t honestly care at the moment – I’m in a roomfull of strangers, expected to take my clothes off and then lie around in swimwear being oiled; I’m allowed to feel a bit stressed. I look around the room and immediately feel worse when I’m confronted with Grant’s madly toned torso, befitting of a man half his age. Noah’s bizarrely well built for a man of God, presumably from doing woodwork or whatever Jesus-esque activity he’s been cracking on with in lieu of spending time with Verity, and obviously Ben, who used to play rugby professionally until he got injured in his twenties, has the kind of muscles they use to sell steroids on the internet. Ken, the only man whose body might make me feel better about myself, has opted to go second and therefore is still wrapped in towelling.

I shrug my robe off and lie down as quickly as possible, hoping no one’s looking at me, noticing that I somehow manage to be both skinny and a bit fat at the same time. Obviously I’ve always felt a bit ashamed of my body – I’m a moderately uncool man who sunburns easily and is one quarter of an inch below six foot. I can’t dance, I wear the clothes Jessica picks, which I think are probably designed to hide the less appealing parts of my physique, and in conclusion, yes, I am pathetic about anything which involves getting my kit off, especially in public and in front of people I don’t know. I lie down on the table and then do an undignified sort of wiggle as I try to cover myself with the towels. I hear Jessica snigger and consider getting up and walking out, but the more reasonable side of my brain says that since we’ve been throwing ourselves into the activities, sniggering aside, we have been getting on better, so I resolve to entertain the idea that, like Jessicasaid, everyone else is doing it with good grace. Hibiscus dims the lights and turns up the spa music.

She gives directions on how to massage, starting with legs and arms, then shoulders and back. And I admit, it’s nice. The oils smell sweet and comforting, and it’s nice to have a lie-down. I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths.

‘We have to swap,’ Jessica whispers.

‘What?’ I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. ‘Huh?’

‘You fell asleep, it’s been twenty minutes. We have to swap.’

Blearily I get up and pull my robe back on. Jessica takes hers off, lying down in her bikini, which is bright pink and made of almost no fabric at all. Her body is utterly beautiful, just as it always was, when we were in our twenties and she’d go out to clubs in black jeans and a cropped black T-shirt with a tiny band of puppy fat above the waistband, cold to the touch when we’d queued for a bar she wanted to go to and I wanted to skip completely. Through those years – when our McDonald’s and box-set habit saw us both put on weight, and her face was a little rounder, then later into our twenties when she fell in love with cooking; when she grew her hair out, when she chopped it off; when she developed little lines around her eyes; when she shrank, grew, dressed provocatively, covered up; in her gym leggings, her linen pyjamas, her bridesmaid dress at dozens of weddings, the Primark bikini on our honeymoon – at every single juncture, she has just been a different kind of perfect. I’ve never, not once, taken for granted that I’m allowed to touch her.

Hibiscus comes around and refills the pots of oil, telling us how to start with the feet and ankles. She keeps upa running commentary. ‘This pressure point is good for releasing any stress in the lower spine; this pressure point helps support immunity.’ Obviously everything she’s saying is total bollocks, there is not some mystery point in your wrist which is connected to your liver function any more than there’s a muscle in your arse which can make you better at playing the guitar.

‘Now,’ instructs Hibiscus, ‘the same as last time, we’re going to use a pressure point for emotional release, under the scapula. This can be done lying down or sitting up, depending on the intensity you would like to experience.’

‘Lying down or sitting up?’ I ask Jessica. ‘I went for lying down, obviously.’

‘You went for being completely unconscious. Actually.’ Her tone is a bit strained. Surely she’s not cross that I had a sleep during a massage? It was supposed to be relaxing?

She turns and sits up, making her decision clear. Hibiscus comes and guides my hand into the right position. ‘When you’re ready, take three deep breaths, and then, Jack, apply firm and direct pressure. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say, trying not to roll my eyes. ‘Three deep breaths.’

Jessica takes the three deep breaths, really takes them, slowly and deliberately, holding the breath in at the middle point. And then I press. And to my absolute horror, she starts to cry. Jesus. Did I do something? Did I hurt her?

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, panicking. She doesn’t reply, because she’s crying. It’s not one little tear on her cheek, either – it’s crying, the kind of crying you spend your entire life as a man trying to avoid making a woman do, especially in public. Huge, deep, shuddering sobs. I look around tosee if anyone else is having this reaction, but of course they’re not and now everyone is looking at us, which is my worst fear when I’m stood half-naked, covered only by a robe which makes my legs look like matchsticks. Jessica is so good at everything that she’s overachieved at having an emotionally manipulative massage. This is fucking awful and I can’t find a way to make it stop.

‘Jess?’ I say, gently trying to put my arm around her. She pulls away, and I’m surprised, and hurt, and honestly pretty confused. But then, fuck me, she must be really hurting to let it all out publicly. ‘Jess, are you okay?’ What the hell has happened and how have I got this so wrong?

She’s still really, really crying and she’s got snot running down her face which she definitely wouldn’t do on purpose.

‘It’s very normal.’ Hibiscus comes over. ‘It’s all part of the process. Jessica, would you like some privacy?’

She manages to nod.

‘I think that’s a good idea. Well done for today, duck, you did so well,’ Hibiscus adds, patting her on the shoulder.

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