possible.” There would be fasting, meditation, yoga, creative “emotional-release exercises.” There would be no alcohol, sugar, caffeine, gluten, or dairy—but as she’d just had the degustation menu at the Four Seasons, she was stuffed full of alcohol, sugar, caffeine, gluten, and dairy, and the thought of giving them up didn’t seem that big a deal. Meals would be “personalized” to her “unique needs.”
Before her booking was “accepted,” she had to answer a very long, rather invasive online questionnaire about her relationship status, diet, medical history, alcohol consumption in the previous week, and so on. She cheerfully lied her way through it. It was really none of their business. She even had to upload a photo taken in the last two weeks. She sent one of herself from her lunch with Ellen at the Four Seasons, holding up a Bellini.
There were boxes to tick for what she hoped to achieve during her ten days: everything from “intensive couples counseling” to “significant weight loss.” Frances ticked only the nice-sounding boxes, like “spiritual nourishment.”
Like so many things in life, it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time.
The TripAdvisor reviews for Tranquillum House, which she’d looked at after she’d paid her nonrefundable fee, had been noticeably mixed. It was either the best, most incredible experience people had ever had, they wished they could give it more than five stars, they were evangelical about the food, the hot springs, the staff, or it was the worst experience of their entire lives, there was talk of legal action, post-traumatic stress, and dire warnings of “enter at your own peril.”
Frances looked again at the dashboard, hoping to catch the clock tick over to three.
Stop it. Focus. Eyes on the road, Frances. You’re the one in charge of this car.
Something flickered in her peripheral vision and she flinched, ready for the massive thud of a kangaroo smashing her windshield.
It was nothing. These imaginary wildlife collisions were all in her head. If it happened, it happened. There probably wouldn’t be time to react.
She remembered a long-ago road trip with a boyfriend. They’d come across a dying emu that had been hit by a car in the middle of a highway. Frances had stayed in the passenger seat, a passive princess, while her boyfriend got out and killed the poor emu with a rock. One sharp blow to the head. When he returned to the driver’s seat he was sweaty and exhilarated, a city boy thrilled with his own humane pragmatism. Frances never quite forgave him for the sweaty exhilaration. He’d liked killing the emu.
Frances wasn’t sure if she could kill a dying animal, even now when she was fifty-two years old, financially secure, and too old to be a princess.
“You could kill the emu,” she said out loud. “Certainly you could.”
Goodness. She’d just remembered that the boyfriend was dead. Wait, was he? Yes, definitely dead. She’d heard it through the grapevine a few years back. Complications from pneumonia, supposedly. Gary always did suffer terribly from colds. Frances had never been especially sympathetic.
At that very moment her nose dripped like a tap. Perfect timing. She held the steering wheel with one hand and wiped her nose with the back of her other hand. Disgusting. It was probably Gary vindictively making her nose drip from the afterlife. Fair enough too. They’d once been on road trips and professed their love and now she couldn’t even be bothered to remember he was dead.
She apologized to Gary, although, really, if he was able to access her thoughts, then he should know that it wasn’t her fault; if he’d made it to this age he’d know how extraordinarily vague and forgetful one became. Not all the time. Just sometimes.
Sometimes I’m as sharp as a tack, Gary.
She sniffed again. It seemed like she’d had this truly horrendous head cold even longer than the back pain. Wasn’t she sniffling the day she delivered her manuscript? Three weeks ago. Her nineteenth novel. She was still waiting to hear what her publisher thought. Once upon a time, back in the late nineties, her “heyday,” her editor would have sent champagne and flowers within two days of delivery, together with a handwritten note. Another masterpiece!
She understood she was no longer in her heyday, but she was still a solid, mid-level performer. An effusive email would be nice.
Or just a friendly one.
Even a brisk one-liner: Sorry, haven’t got to it yet but can’t wait! That would have been polite.
A fear she refused to acknowledge tried to worm its