I recognised her as soon as she walked into my treatment room. Tammy Allen, visiting the spa where I worked and coming to me for a massage. All through the last two years of school she'd lived in my dreams and made my life a nightmare. She was the one who gave me the nickname Lezzica. From Jessica.
And from that one time I kissed her, and she kissed me back, and we giggled, and then did it some more, and it felt right and thrilling and it confirmed to me that this was what I wanted. And then the next day she told everyone I'd assaulted her and that wonderful moment became all twisted up in the horror of teenage bullying and teenage shame and years of loneliness and anxiety and... Well, all of it.
I turned out alright in the end. When you've been stripped back to nothing, to absolutely nothing but your darkest thoughts and fears, and that little core of strength that's you in your purest form, then you get to build yourself into the person you really want to be. You toss out all the toxic stuff that so many people carry around inside themselves: the denial and masking, tolerance and submission to society's expectations and demands. The burdens of not being your true self.
So here I was, in my early thirties, well-adjusted at last and with a job I loved. People in my life who respected me and loved me. Healthy and, if not pretty, at least beautiful in the way that comes from being in excellent physical condition.
And here Tammy Allen was, hands at the belt of her spa gown, curly hair caught in a scrunchy on top of her head. That slight hesitation about her that people get when it's their first visit to a new massage therapist. Even though the procedure is generally the same -- undress and lie on the table -- it always feels new. Like visiting a stranger's house.
She didn't recognise me, of course. Why should she? She probably forgot about me as soon as she went off to uni, except perhaps to gloat once or twice. And I knew I didn't look much like the hollow-eyed girl staring sullenly at the camera on the school photos. Standing slightly apart from everyone else, shoulders stooping, ratty hair hanging like a shroud over her face.
And I wasn't Jessica here, much less Lezzica. I was another massage therapist in the spa's cream-coloured uniform of sandals, trousers and short-sleeved jacket. I was Yuliya, complete with a fake Eastern European accent. It was a cheap trick, of course, but clients tend to be dismissive if you don't fit their preconceptions. And Yuliya got more tips that Jessica did.
"Good afternoon," I said, laying on the accent to hide the sudden trembling in my body. Tammy was my last client before the dinner break. "Please, remove the gown. Then onto the table."
She did it without hesitation or embarrassment. A client preparing for her treatment. As Yuliya, I ran my gaze over her body, noting her physical characteristics. Deeper down, Jessica feasted her eyes on the near-nakedness, covered only by a black bikini thong.
Both of us were pleased with what we saw.
Tammy had always been pretty. Now she'd matured into a beautiful woman. A body that told of regular hours in the gym and control of her diet. The dark curls were glossy and full of bounce. Professionally done nails and feet. An even tan that came from natural sunlight, not a solarium.
She knew the ritual. Lying face down, she placed her arms by her sides, not under her head. Jessica was a little disappointed that she couldn't even glimpse the sides of the full breasts, but she took in the sight of the shapely arse in the miniscule bikini. Until I draped a warm towel over Tammy's body, that is.
I'd studied the preference sheet she'd completed when she booked the massage. Full body, rosemary and sage oil, and particular attention for scalp and shoulders. All the signs of an overworked professional.
Those years at school that were a nightmare for me were very kind to Tammy. As my tormentor-in-chief she became popular. Because teenagers are awful, and the other kids would rather stay on her good side than risk becoming victims themselves. I realise that now, but at the time it hurt me all the more that everyone -- all my friends -- chose her side.
She rode this wave of popularity and confidence all the way to a plump scholarship and a fancy career. Yes, I'd kept track of her for years after school. Like I said, she lived in my dreams and my nightmares.
I rubbed her through the towel, then folded it back. Taking the bowl of warm oil, I dribbled it over her back. She shifted slightly as it touched her skin, then settled down. The scent of rosemary and sage filled the small room.
Jessica reared up inside me when my fingers touched her naked back, and I pushed her down. No matter who the client was, or what history lay between us, I was a professional with a job to do.
"Is your first time at spa?" Speaking helped me remind that I was Yuliya.
"Here? Yes." Tammy's voice was a little deeper than I remembered. The maturity of half a lifetime. "I'm here on a company do."
"Nice company. Must be very rich." The spa wasn't cheap. We often got work groups, but only from high-end firms.
"We do alright. It's hard work though." She shrugged her shoulders. "That's why I book as many massages as I can get."
"I feel in your shoulders." Her knots had knots. "Very tense."
"Your hands feel good."
Jessica gave a squeal of delight. I admit I took more than professional pride in the compliment.
"I do my best to make you relax."
So I did. I worked the muscles along her spine, along her ribs, in her shoulders. I rubbed her arms and hands -- no ring, of course, but no sign either that she'd removed a wedding ring for the treatment -- and dug my fingers hard into her thighs and calves. I pressed my thumbs into the soles of her feet and stretched her legs.
I kept a firm grip on Jessica and didn't look at what might be revealed beneath the shifting towel on her arse.
We hadn't spoken since that first exchange. Now I leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Please, turn over." This close, I could smell her hair and skin over the scent of the oil. Jessica gave a little moan. I knew I'd be recalling the memory of it later when I was alone.
"I asked for you to do my head as well."
"Head comes last. First I do rest of full body." Jessica was screaming a question inside me, and I decided to humour her. "You want I do chest and stomach also? Is good for stress." That was a lie, of course, or at least an exaggeration of the truth.
"Sure." It was clear from her tone that Tammy didn't care much. She probably thought it would mean less time for her scalp.
The truth was there wasn't much to do with her arms and legs. She was in good shape, and it was clear she exercised. So I teased her fingers and pulled her arms. Jessica took glee in Tammy's winces, and I suppose I pulled a little harder than was strictly professional.
Then I turned my attention to her legs, folding the towel away to reveal each bronzed thigh in turn and giving in to the temptation to expose just a bit more than was necessary of the area around her bikini.
It was smooth, of course. No stubble, not even any sore spots. A few short dark curls had escaped from the nylon material, probably from when I was stretching her legs before. They matched the curls on her head, and the curls I'd imagined so often in my guilt-ridden, confused fantasies.
