The Woman in the Lace Gloves
“Can I help you?” Lara asked the stern-looking woman in the outdated skirt suit as she walked into the salon.
“I’m quite sure you can,” the woman replied in a deep, authoritative voice.
Lara cast an impatient glance toward the kitchen. Where the hell was Mia?
“What name is the appointment under?”
The woman slowly adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t have an appointment.”
Lara gave her an understanding smile.
“Oh, I see, well…”
“But I do have money,” the woman interrupted.
“Yes, but—”
“I know he’s here,” she cut in again impatiently.
Lara blinked.
“Who?”
The woman pointed firmly toward the massage room. Only then did Lara notice the lace glove stretched over her hand, once white but now yellowed with age.
“That tall man with the bony hands. I saw him come in about twenty minutes ago.”
She looked Lara straight in the eye like an interrogator.
“Yes, Gael, our massage therapist, is here. Shall I get him? Would you like to speak to him?”
The woman clutched at her chest as if Lara had said something absurd.
“Are you out of your mind? Don’t call him out here! Just let him know…” She waved her hand nervously in the air. “…however people signal these things, that I’d like to go in.”
Now it was Lara’s turn to stare. Her finely shaped eyebrows shot up before drawing together in confusion.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The woman irritably pulled her wallet from a square, glossy brown patent-leather handbag.
“Name your price.”
Lara stood up carefully.
“Mia,” she called toward the kitchen, then turned back to the guest and lowered her voice. “Look, appointments are required here. Yes, the massage therapist is available at the moment, but his next client arrives in half an hour. Unfortunately, I can’t fit you in even for a shorter treatment. The session itself takes time, and afterward we usually leave clients a few minutes to rest. When would you like me to book you in?”
“Ten minutes is more than enough for me. I’m not some virgin girl who needs to be courted beforehand or lie around afterward. Honestly… if that’s what I wanted, I’d get married or something.”
Lara stared at the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties and looked thoroughly stuck in another era. For a moment, she genuinely couldn’t decide whether to laugh, feel offended, or pull her into a sympathetic hug.
At last, Mia emerged from the kitchen. The smear of chocolate cream at the corner of her mouth made it obvious she’d considered finishing her snack more important than helping her boss with the client. But the moment she saw the woman, she froze.
“Miss Angela! Wow! It’s been forever!” she cried, clapping her hands together.
Lara spread her arms theatrically.
“You know each other?”
“Of course!” Mia beamed. “She failed me in French, bless her heart,” she said brightly, then threw her arms around the strange woman with genuine enthusiasm.
Miss Angela appeared happy to see her too. Once she disentangled herself from Mia’s embrace, she gently patted the receptionist’s cheek.
“What can we do for you, Miss Angela?”
A smug smile slowly spread across Lara’s face. One eyebrow arched. She could hardly wait to see how Miss Angela would explain herself in front of Mia. Standing there with her hands on her hips, she waited for the answer.
“I came in for a quick little session, if you could squeeze me in, because this young lady here…” she nodded toward Lara “…hasn’t been very accommodating. I saw that bony-handed fellow come in, and apparently he still has half an hour before his next client. And for someone as neglected as I am, dear Mia, that’s more than enough. I already said ten minutes would do. I don’t even really want to get undressed, you know…”
Mia’s smile slowly faded, as though she didn’t understand—or didn’t want to understand—what her former teacher was implying. She shot Lara a pleading look.
But her boss’s mocking expression made one thing perfectly clear: she was on her own. She shouldn’t have hidden out in the kitchen. Lara was now teaching her a lesson in her own passive-aggressive way.
“Hm…” Mia stalled for time. “Since Gael specializes in treating chronic pain…” she began slowly, frantically searching for a response, “…and if I understood correctly, you’re in urgent need of pain relief. Well… so… what I mean is…” she stammered, sweat beading on her forehead, “…you can’t really perform a safe and thorough neck or back massage in ten minutes.”
She let out a heavy sigh, wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and looked hopefully at Miss Angela.
“We understand each other, right?”
Angela blinked at her blankly.
“Mia, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t need a neck massage. What I urgently need is an earth-shattering orgasm. Preferably expedited.”
Mia’s face went completely blank.
“And tell him not to touch my neck! That makes me nervous.”