The Education of Mrs. Jones (Part 1)

The Education of Mrs. Jones

(Part 1)

Lydia Jones stepped out of her beige Camry, tucked a loose strand of her sensibly cut brown hair behind one ear, and hitched her purse onto one perfectly straight shoulder blade. Inside aforementioned purse (which was a very similar shade of beige to her car) was the gift certificate her husband Mark had given her for her birthday. Four hour-long massage sessions at “Le Spa Sérénité,” which was supposed to be the best spa not just in town, or the state of Colorado, but practically the whole country. Looking at the graceful lines of the building, the perfectly manicured front garden, and the neatly dressed footman standing patiently to open the door, Lydia had to admit it made a very good first impression.

The trouble was, she didn’t particularly want to be there. She had better ways of spending her Saturday afternoon than being man-handled by some stranger while wind-chime music played in the background. For example, she could be re-balancing the books for one of her main clients. Forty-two cents might not seem like a large discrepancy to most people, but it was irregularities like that that set Lydia’s teeth on edge.

This, her husband insisted, was the exact reason he had given her the gift certificate. She needed to “loosen up and forget her cares for a little while.” It was well-intentioned, but Lydia didn’t think an hour of massage was going to exactly change her outlook on life. Still, Mark had been so proud of himself when he gave her the gift, and judging by customer comments and the looks of the place, she was sure the cost had been extravagant. Maybe too extravagant? Setting aside her unease that her husband had dipped into their savings account to afford her birthday gift, thereby disrupting her careful investment plans, she checked her watch and with a start walked briskly toward the entrance. Whether she wanted to be there or not, the appointment had been made, and she was not one to be late.

The footman opened the door with a graceful flourish borne from years of practice in the high-end service industry and ushered her into an opulent front lobby which she imagined would more likely be found in the Plaza than a spa. The immaculately dressed receptionist looked up from behind her desk and smiled warmly. “You must be Mrs. Lydia Jones. Olivia has told me your room is being prepared and will be ready shortly. Please have a seat and I will have John escort you in just a moment. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, tea, sparkling water, champagne-“

“Champagne, please,” Lydia heard herself interrupting.

“Of course, Mrs. Jones, “ the receptionist smiled again and scurried off to a back room. Bemused, Lydia found a couch and sat down. She didn’t drink very often, and had intended to just ask for an iced water with lemon, but when she heard the word “champagne” it had just sounded too good to pass up. Well, today was obviously going to be one of firsts for her. The receptionist brought her a glass of the chilled bubbly and Lydia took a sip. It was delicious, but really, had she expected any different?

It was less than two minutes later that a hunky blonde came up to her. “Mrs. Jones? I’m John. Your room is ready for you.“

Is this my masseur? Lydia wondered as she followed John down the hall past several closed doors. The thought of this Ken-like god rubbing her body with oil had an appeal that made her blush in spite of herself. Lydia! She shook herself mentally. What had gotten into her today? Thoughts like that never crossed her mind. Ever. It must be the decadent atmosphere of the spa that was messing with her head.

Luckily John stopped at a door bearing the words “Suite 23” and said “this is your room Mrs. Jones. Olivia is waiting to begin your massage. Enjoy.” With a stunning smile he turned and strode back down the hall. Lydia gave a small sigh, of relief or regret she couldn’t say, and opened the door. Stepping inside she reluctantly closed it behind her and looked around. The room was softly lit both with overhead lights and an array of candles. Dominating the small space was a massage table draped in white linens. It smelled strongly of lavender and patchouli, and soft piano music piped from hidden speakers. In short, it was basically an upscale version of what Lydia had always supposed a massage room would look like.

Just then a door in the far wall opened and a woman, presumably Olivia, entered the room. She smiled at Lydia and held out her hand.