Best Friends & Other Liars Read online

  Suddenly the room is flooded with light. I look up and see Vi beaming triumphantly, the keycard dangling from her neck, attached to the wall.

  “You have to put the keycard in the slot to turn on the light,” she tells me. “Probably some energy efficiency thing or another.” She untangles herself from the lanyard around her neck and saunters over to the bed. “What does it say?” she asks as she dumps her own suitcase on the bed.

  “Leah, what does it say?” she asks impatiently.

  I glance nervously out the porthole. We’re still docked and not scheduled to leave until we do the emergency lifeboat drill. I don’t want to take the chance that Vi gets pissed and tries to leave. At least when we’re out to sea, she has no place to go.

  “Oh nothing,” I say, folding up the paper into tiny squares and tucking it into my back pocket. “Just an apology that they had no more double beds and that we’re getting refunded some of our money for the inconvenience.” I shrug off my coat and add it to the pile on the bed.

  “Well, you’re getting refunded,” Vi points out. “You’re the one who insisted on paying for this trip.” She makes her mom face at me and sinks onto the bed, pushing my coat out of the way. “I’m still not happy about that, Leah.”

  “It’s a gift,” I say dismissively. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Probably a million,” she says, unzipping her suitcase. “It’s a rather extravagant gift for a friend.”

  “Not just a friend, Vi. You’re my best friend. And it’s your fortieth birthday. You only turn forty once.”

  She’s not looking at me as she pulls her T-shirts and shorts from her bag, and gazes around the room, searching for a place to put them. “Uh, huh,” she mumbles and stands, shoving the clothes into the cubbyhole on the wall. The boat rocks unexpectedly and the T-shirts flop out of the cubbyhole.

  “I hope you’re not expecting such a lavish gift for your birthday next year,” she tells me as she shoves the shirts back in the cubby.

  “Of course not,” I say. “You don’t give a gift to get something in return! Besides, remember the Bon Jovi tickets you got me for my twenty-ninth birthday? With the backstage passes? Those were insane. I’ve been trying to make it up to you since then. Consider us even.”

  “I won those, remember?” She looks me sternly in the eye as she returns to the suitcase for more clothing. “I’m serious, Leah. I hardly have the money to do something like this and with Richard—” She looks away, her voice breaking off as she once again busies herself in the suitcase.

  I feel a sudden surge of anger, furious with Richard for ruining Vi’s birthday and her vacation. He’s not even here and he’s still managed to screw everything up. I’m not a fan of Richard to begin with, but now I hate him with the intensity of Madeline Kahn’s character in Clue (when she’s talking about her husband’s mistress). There are definitely flames coming off the side of my head. And I know I’m going to start raging about him—I need to get out of the room before I blow a gasket and upset Vi even more than she already is.

  I pull the square of paper out of my back pocket and wave it in the air. “I’m just gonna head on down to the customer service desk and see if there isn’t anything they can do about getting us two beds,” I tell Vi while holding the square up in the air. “Don’t unpack too much.”

  “I thought it said there wasn’t,” she says, wrinkling up her nose. “That’s why they credited your account.”

  “I know, but sometimes things change and they miraculously accommodate you if you complain enough,” I explain like the well-seasoned traveler that I am.

  Okay, maybe I’m not exactly well-seasoned. I barely get enough time off to go visit my mom in Florida once a year. (Darn, what a shame.) I have gone to Bermuda with one of my old boyfriends (we’re NOT getting into that story), and my cousin Gerry has a house in Hilton Head that I’ve been to a couple of times in the past few years. Sometimes I go on a trip to Vegas with Maria from accounting—okay once Maria and I went on a trip—it was such a disaster, with Maria losing all her money on the first day, and us getting kicked out of our hotel room because of the guy at the bar setting the curtains on fire.

  Point is, I’ve traveled more than Vi has in the last fifteen years—her being saddled with a husband and a gaggle of rugrats and all. She would argue otherwise, though, because she thinks Disney World counts as a vacation. Plus, I’ve gotten some advice from friends and co-workers who travel, and I know if you voice your opinions loudly enough, you usually get your way. Thus, why I am storming off to customer service. Well, not really…I don’t want to start bitching about Richard…and also, I want to read the itinerary.

  “It’s fine,” Vi says as she spins around the room looking for a place to stash her shoes. “I was just joking about the one bed. As long as you don’t flop around that much in your sleep, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I ignore her and open the door.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I rush out the door before she can protest any further. Slipping down the hall, I duck into the first corridor that I come to. After unfolding the paper, I quickly skim over the welcome on the top and begin to read.

  Two o’clock—Mandatory Emergency Drill in your designated Quadrant—5C.

  Okay, emergency drill. I knew this. That’s normal cruise procedure.

  Three o’clock—Anchors Away! (DJ and cocktails in the Main Lobby)

  Four o’clock—Games (with prizes!) and cocktails in the Main Lobby

  Blah, blah, blah…

  Five o’clock to seven o’clock—On your own

  Seven o’clock—Meet and Greet cocktails and appetizers in the Main Ballroom. Come meet your fellow cruise mates.

  “Excuse me!” An exasperated looking woman is standing in front of me, trying to get to the door that I’m blocking.

  “Oops, sorry,” I apologize while stepping out of the way. She just grumbles and sticks her keycard in the door. Her door opens right away. I guess she sees her eye doctor regularly.

  I refold the paper and tuck it in my pocket. This “Meet and Greet” doesn’t seem like a “Normal cruise procedure”. I bet they’re going to talk about the “Divorce Cruise”.

  I wander down the hall aimlessly as I try to think. I don’t want Vi to find out about the Divorce Cruise at the Meet and Greet. She’ll kill me if someone else tells her about it. I know I was planning to tell her today, but honestly, she’s not in the best spirits right now, despite that cheerful attitude she adapted earlier. I’ve got to wait until the time is right—when she’s having too much fun to care.

  But in the meantime, I’ve got to prevent her from going to the Meet and Greet. But how?

  I stop in my tracks, the answer to my conundrum staring me right in the face.

  The Spa.

  VIOLET

  “Wow, this is really swanky,” I gasp as we step through the frosted glass doors and into the plush reception area of the spa. “It seems really expensive,” I add with a whisper.

  “It’s not,” Leah assures me. “And we’re in the twenty-first century, Vi. We don’t use words like swanky anymore.” She smirks at me before approaching the reception desk and giving the woman behind the counter our names.

  I don’t know if Leah is lying to me about that—the expense, not the word swanky—but honestly, at this point, I really don’t care. It’s been a horrible start to my vacation and I can definitely use a little pampering in the form of a pedicure.

  The receptionist smiles brightly at Leah, unnaturally white teeth sparkling. She hands us both plush robes that are even brighter than her teeth are.

  “What can I get you for your refreshment pleasure?” Another woman in crisp white scrubs appears out of nowhere. “Would you like tea? Cucumber water?”

  “I’d kill for a gin and tonic,” Leah answers.

  Without a break from her plastic smile, the receptionist butts in and informs Leah that The Spa is an alcohol free zone due to the focus on one’s health. However, if she
would really like a cocktail, her spa visit can be rescheduled.

  Leah rolls her eyes. Health is only a priority for Leah if it involves shedding unwanted belly weight. Other than that, she doesn’t give a flying fart about being healthy. Richard insists that she is a bad influence on me and wishes I would dump her as a friend solely for this reason.

  I accept a cup of cucumber water from the woman’s outstretched hand. Richard drinks it at home—there’s a pitcher in the fridge at all times. I try not to spill, sipping the water as the woman in scrubs leads us down the hallway to change into our robes. I don’t know why I need a robe for a pedicure, but it feels so soft and warm and cozy in my arms that I’m not going to argue. I almost want to lie down on it and take a nap.

  “In here, ladies,” the woman says, unlocking a small room with dim lighting and calming flute music piped in through speakers somewhere. Two elevated cots take up most of the small room, but it’s still bigger than our cabin.

  Leah and I step inside, and the woman instructs us to strip completely, but to keep our underwear on. She then closes the door, leaving us in the darkened space.

  “I don’t understand,” I say to Leah who immediately begins pulling her clothes off. “I thought we were getting pedicures.”

  “We are.”

  “Then why do we have to be half naked? And what are the robes for?”

  “You put the robe on until the aesthetician comes in. She’ll cover us with the sheets.” She sweeps her hand toward the cots and I squint—the room is so shadowy that it’s difficult to see. There are indeed sheets on the cots.

  “What the heck is an aesthetician? And that’s not how I usually get a pedicure,” I complain as I follow Leah’s lead and strip down. With anyone else I would feel extremely self-conscious, but unfortunately, Leah has seen me in various stages of undress. She was even with me when Samantha was born. Richard couldn’t make it— he had a personal training seminar that weekend and Samantha was two weeks early. He did manage to show up before we were discharged from the hospital, though. He had to take three different planes to accomplish that feat, so I kind of felt bad for him. Not that it was anything like pushing Samantha out. She was much bigger than both of her brothers—her head alone was half the size of her body.

  “No, it’s not the way you get pedicures.” Leah wraps the robe around her body and ties it. “We’re getting massages first.”

  I pause, my bra half unhooked. “Oh, no way, Leah. You didn’t tell me that. You know how I feel about massages.”

  “Exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Leah replies.

  Fifteen years ago, before I had Samantha or Matthew, I got a massage at a nearby salon. I had never gotten a massage before, so I had no idea what to expect. I had an infant at home, and even though he was a very good baby, I was still exhausted. I had fallen asleep on the massage table, which wasn’t the bad part. When I woke up, I was horrified to discover that my breasts had leaked milk everywhere. The massage therapist had assured me that it was fine and there was no reason to be embarrassed, but I was still mortified and swore that I’d never get a massage again. A promise I have managed to keep up until today, that is.

  “You know I can’t get a massage!”

  Leah rolls her eyes. “Vi, you haven’t breastfed anyone in over twelve years. Your boobs are not going to leak. Will you relax already?”

  I scowl at her. She has not one clue how stressful, not to mention, humiliating, it is to be talking to someone and have your boob start pumping like a human cow. Or falling asleep and waking up in a puddle of milk on a massage table.

  “Put the robe on,” she orders. I comply, albeit grumpily, and she grabs my arm and drags me over to the massage table. “Sit,” she says, pointing to the massage table. I plop down on the table. She puts her hands on both sides of my face and tilts her head down so that her nose is practically touching mine.

  “Repeat after me. I, Violet Anderson—”

  I say nothing, I just continue to scowl at her.

  “Come on, Vi,” she pleads.

  “I, Violet Anderson,” I mutter, knowing that she won’t leave me alone until I repeat after her. She’s like a hemorrhoid that won’t respond to hemorrhoid treatment cream when she gets something in her head.

  “Do solemnly swear to enjoy this experience...”

  “Do solemnly swear to...enjoy this experience.”

  “That my best friend has so graciously provided for me.”

  “That my best friend has...provided for me.”

  “And she is the most wonderful human being on the planet.”

  “No way. Not saying that.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  Leah shoots me a wolfish grin. “It’s fine. I know that you know it deep down inside.” She pokes at my shoulder. I swat at her, just as a quiet rapping comes from the other side of the room.

  “Come in,” Leah calls out. The door opens and a man and woman wearing identical white scrubs, step into the room.

  “Hello,” the woman says with a thick accent that I can’t quite place. French, maybe? “I am Marguerite and this is Francois,” she continues, sweeping her hand toward the man at her side.

  “Um, hi,” I reply while Leah stares googly-eyed at Francois. He is quite handsome, even I’ll admit that. But what is he doing here?

  “I will be performing your massage,” Marguerite tells Leah, gesturing toward the empty massage table. Leah nods and climbs on top of it. “And Francois will performing your massage,” she tells me.

  Wait, what?

  “Um, he’s going to massage me?” My eyes widen and my voice squeaks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “It is fine. Francois is a professional.”

  Francois nods. He hasn’t uttered a single word, but he dims the lights even more and then stands with his beefy hands clasped in front of his body. I think that he’s waiting for me to do something.

  I glance over at Leah and discover she has already slipped off her robe and is lying face down on the massage table, completely naked except for her underwear.

  I have to take my robe off in front of this guy? Are they nuts?

  Trembling, I lower my body to the massage table and scoot my feet under the top sheet. I then attempt to shake off my robe…nonchalantly. I do not succeed in the nonchalant part—I appear like I am having a seizure. The left sleeve of the robe seems to be stuck somewhere near my elbow area. In order to wrestle out of it, I’d have to sit up. And I definitely do not want to do that. My non-breastfeeding breasts are completely exposed in all their droopy, squashed up glory. I do not want Francois to see them.

  “Let me help you with that,” he says in an accent that is similar to Marguerite’s. I briefly wonder if the cruise ship pulled up in the harbor of their hometown and invited all the masseuses aboard. I shake off that idea so I can protest his assistance, but Francois has effortlessly removed my robe and is covering my lower back with the top sheet. My smushy boobs have not been exposed. I sigh with relief and drop my head onto the headrest with a hole in it.

  “Please let me know if the pressure is okay,” Francois whispers as the flute music begins to intensify. Of course, I am nervous that I am going to get so relaxed that I will fall asleep.

  Maybe my breasts won’t leak, but what if I do something equally embarrassing, like fart? Oh gosh, I would never be able to live that down! And Leah would never let me forget it either!

  I lie rigid on the massage table, despite Francois’s best efforts to knead my tense muscles.

  “Relax,” he whispers repeatedly in my ear, but my body refuses to comply with his command. The lack of flaccidity in my muscles makes Francois apply more pressure and I fight the urge to cry. It’s quite painful. Instead of crying, I squeeze my eyes shut and count each second, wishing that the massage was over already.

  After an agonizing fifty minutes or so, Francois announces that he is leaving and I can get dressed.

  Leah’s massage is over as well, and she pops up as soon a
s the door is closed, grinning happily and stretching out her arms. She yawns loudly and then says to me, “Wasn’t that glorious? I haven’t felt that refreshed in forever.”

  “Um, huh,” I mutter as I snatch my clothes from the chair in the corner. I quickly put on my bra and pull on my pants, my skin feeling slippery and slimy—probably from all the massage oil that was used on my resisting body. I think Francois dumped half a vat of the stuff on me. It’s even in my hair.

  Great, I’m going to have to go wash my hair now.

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?” Leah asks me again as she pulls up her own jeans and zips them.

  “Sure.” I flash her a fake smile—it hurts my body to smile. “Just fantastic. I have to shower to get all this oil out of my hair, though.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I think there’s something going on in the ballroom in about an hour. I don’t know if you want to go to that? I don’t think you’d have time to shower after you pedicure if you do want to go.” Leah cocks her head curiously to the side.

  “What kind of something?” I ask suspiciously, pulling my hoodie over my head. Leah knows I hate social events. I have no desire to socialize on this cruise. I just want to relax. And by relax, I don’t mean having a sexy man with giant paws lube me up with butter. That may be Leah’s idea of a good time, but it certainly isn’t mine.

  Leah waves her hand nonchalantly in the air. “Oh, a meet and greet, I think.”

  “Yikes. No thank you,” I tell her. “I think I should just go get that pedicure, shower, and then go to bed. I’m really beat, actually.”

  “Are you sure?” Leah asks.