Page 47 of The Retreat
But it wasn’t just the way her vagina had reacted that was the problem.
She’d beenintoit. She’d liked waking up with Talia’s warm arms around her and the barest hint of soft snoring in her ear. She couldn’t understand what the hell was happening. She and Talia were enemies of old. How the actualhellhad they gotten here?
She dressed quickly, as if putting on clothes could also put emotional distance between her and the memory of Talia sleep-clinging to her like a koala.
By the time she reached the breakfast buffet, the dining room was buzzing with too-early corporate cheer. She scanned the room and spotted Talia already seated at the long table. She was sandwiched between Daniel and Rebecca.
Talia caught her eye and smiled tightly.
Imogen sat down opposite her with an equally brisk bearing of the teeth. Civil. Normal.
They weresonormal.
‘Sleep well?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Very well,’ Imogen said, arranging her napkin like it was a weapon. ‘You?’
‘Good, except I woke up with a little friend. Spider got into my bed.’
Talia made a startled ‘pffft’ into her coffee, narrowly avoiding a full-on spit take. Imogen turned, eyebrows raised, and they shared a split-second look.
Donot, Imogen told herself,smile like you’re in on some joke only the two of you know.
She decided to keep her mouth shut and listen from then on.
The breakfast conversation from there was as dry as unbuttered toast. Something about a botched clause in a fund prospectus that had apparently ‘triggered a review’ and a junior who’d been ‘quietly moved sideways’ after a conference call went nuclear. Someone made a joke about a trainee not understanding the difference between equity and debt, which earned a round of smug laughter.
Imogen smiled, nodded, and consciously didn’t roll her eyes at any boring bullshit. She was warm and wifely, exactly as advertised.
But things kept cropping up, little reminders of the cuddle incident.
They bumped knees under the table. Brushed fingers reaching for the butter. All tiny, normal things, made weird by how not-normal Imogen felt. Her nerves were vibrating like a struck tuning fork.
Stop it, she told herself.This is fake. You are fake.
Rebecca stood and cleared her throat in a way that Imogen was starting to dread.
‘If you’re finished with breakfast, we’ll be heading out to the conservatory for our next activity!’ Rebecca beamed. ‘This morning, you’ll be stretching yourselves in ourPartners Yogasession! If you brought your life partner, you’ll be with them. For everyone else, find someone to pair off with. Get ready for someseriousbonding!’
Imogen’s stomach dropped. The wordspartnerandyogain close proximity could only mean one thing: enforcedintimacy, public flexibility, and way too many opportunities to fall face-first into someone’s crotch.
‘We’ll be working on communication, balance, and mutual trust,’ Rebecca continued cheerily. ‘So be ready tosupport each other physicallyand maybe learn something new about yourselves in the process!’
Talia made a tiny choking sound. Imogen watched her spit out croissant crumbs.
‘I’m OK,’ Talia said.
‘Sure,’ Imogen said.
Thirty-Three
Talia followed Imogen through the glass doors of the conservatory. Soft, ambient music played, the kind of thing Talia hated to her bones. A long row of mats was laid out in neat little pairs. A woman with a clipboard approached, all floaty linen and forced serenity. Her hair was scraped into a messy bun so artfully chaotic it must have taken twenty minutes and two mirrors.
‘Ah, our final couple!’ she said, beaming. ‘Talia and Alex, yes? Find your mats.’
The woman (Lorna, according to her laminated name badge) ushered them to their mat. There were rolled towels, a tiny bottle of something called “heart-opening mist”, and an instruction card about aligning their auric fields.
They passed everyone else who had rushed in here eagerly while Talia and Imogen had dawdled to a frankly preposterous degree.
