I spent the next two hours sweating. The first hour it was caused by trying painfully to force some flexibility back into my screaming muscles. The second it was brought on by the eucalyptus-scented wet heat from the sauna.
As I sat, wrapped in a towel and dripping, I had time to consider what had occurred with Marc. I've always been attracted to bad boys, and he definitely had that air about him. Physically, we were certainly compatible.
The only thing that bothered me was that I'd thought he would be more aloof with his one-night stands. The last response I'd expected from him was to cling. He was good company, but that didn't mean I wanted commitment from him. Did it?
I shook my head, feeling the sweat drop from my hair. There was no way I was going to open up on an emotional level. Not to Marc. Not to anyone. Not again.
I comforted myself with the thought that his base of operations was Manchester. He'd soon be itching to get back there. I was never going to be more than a mildly interesting diversion for him.
Which was OK, because that's all he was to me.
Afterwards, I stood in the shower, letting the water run as hot as I could stand it. I didn't think I was kidding myself by claiming I definitely felt easier. I dressed again and walked – OK, hobbled – out to say goodbye to Attila.
“You want to go and get yourself a decent massage,” he told me, eyeing my stiff movements critically, like a vet watching a horse trot up that's severely lame all round.
A picture of Tris and his array of soothing essential oils popped into my mind so suddenly I'm amazed a lightbulb didn't blink on over the top of my head.
I borrowed Attila's phone and called Shelseley. Tris, bless him, said he could slot me into his schedule right away, if I could get there inside a quarter of an hour.
“No problem,” I said gratefully. As I put the phone down I silently blessed the bike's ability to slide through town traffic.
***
In fact, it took me less than ten minutes to get to the Lodge. Tris was already in the drawing room, sitting reading a faded little book. When I stuck my head round the door he closed its fragile covers with great care and went to return it to its place on the shelves.
The ceilings are high in all the downstairs rooms at Shelseley, and two huge bookcases in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace took full advantage of the fact. Tris even had one of those short wheeled ladders so he could reach the ones at the top.
“What were you reading?” I asked, unwinding my scarf and dumping my helmet and gloves on the rattan sofa.
“W.H. Auden,” he said, eyes still roaming the shelves with the affection of any collector. “It was my father's. A first edition. He—”
Whatever else he was going to say was lost as the door burst open and three small boys came tussling into the room. They were bound up in some violent game of tag, the rules of which seemed to demand the forcible removal of a quantity of the taggee's hair.
Whatever, the two taggers had the smaller of the trio in a pretty effective headlock and were attempting to comply with enthusiasm. They danced further into the room, clanging off items of furniture as they went. Tris only reacted when they came perilously close to his collection of essential oils.
“Now, now lads,” he said nervously, trying to intercept them. “Calm it down a bit, hey?”
One of the taggers raised his head enough to give him a single stare that said clearly, “You have to be kidding.” Then they carried on with their game as if he hadn't spoken.
Tris jumped in front of his oils with his hands out, jigging from one foot to the other like the smallest school team goalkeeper, faced with the other side's biggest striker. Eventually, inevitably, the ball was going to come smashing into the back of the net. It was just a matter of time.
I sighed, moving over to the boys. It only took a moment to visually unravel them enough to identify the taggers. I dived into the scrimmage, and came out with a hard grip on the back of a pair of grubby necks.
The two boys wriggled briefly, then went limp in my hands like cats. The taggee took the opportunity to bolt, letting the door swing wide on his way out.
I bent down enough to be able to look straight into two sullen faces. They must have been about eight. “That's a great game you're playing,” I said conversationally. “Now go and play it somewhere else.”
I let go and watched them disappear rapidly into the hallway with the heavy footsteps of someone twice their size. It would have been too much to expect them to close the door behind them. Tris did it instead, taking a key out of his pocket and locking it firmly behind them.
“Thanks,” he said, relief in his voice. “I wish I could deal with them so easily.”
“They just need a firm hand,” I said. “Well, strong fingers, anyway.”
“I have to be so careful, you see,” he explained, anxiety underwritten by just a thread of annoyance. “With half this lot you only have to raise your voice and they threaten legal action.”
I briefly considered telling Tris he ought to call their bluff, but thought of Ailsa's reaction, and re-considered again.
He turned as I shrugged my way out of my jacket. “Now then, what have you been up to?” He looked at me properly, and frowned. “What happened to your face?”
“I lost an argument,” I said.
He looked about to push it further, but changed his mind. “Do I take it that's why you're here?” he said instead. I grimaced. “I've felt better,” I agreed.
He asked where the problem areas were, and I listed them. It would probably have been quicker to tell him which bits didn't hurt.
He nodded a couple of times, moved over to the shelves, and took down several of his little bottles without seeming to hesitate over the choice. It was strange to see the normally abstracted Tris so focused.
“I'll just go behind there and mix these up for you,” he said, indicating the old-fashioned concertina screen that stood in front of the bay window. “If you'd like to slip out of your things and lie face down on the couch. There are warm towels on the heater. Help yourself.”
In fact, the couch in the centre of the room was surrounded by four small free-standing electric radiators like a heated corral. I left my clothes draped over the arm of the sofa and struggled into a prone position as instructed.
Tris seemed to know when I was ready, and he popped out from behind the screen rubbing his hands together briskly to take the chill off them. He covered me in another couple of hot towels, then placed his hands quietly on my back for a few moments, rocking me gently.
I hadn't had a massage for years, but even so I could remember enough to tell that Tris had a real talent for it. After the first five minutes I felt my muscles begin to unlock themselves and I allowed myself to fully relax.
“I'm using frankincense for calming, and eucalyptus and rosemary for the aches and pains,” he said, sliding his hands long and slow up the nape of my neck and into my hairline.
He worked his way down my spine slowly, easing the loops out of my trapezius, sensitive to my nervous twitches when he went in too keenly. “You've got good muscle bulk,” he told me, “but you probably need to stretch more.”
He hesitated altogether when he reached the badly discoloured hip I'd landed on. “Are you sure you want me to work on this?” he asked.
I gritted my teeth. “Keep going. I'll let you know when I can't stand it any more.”
“Well, if you're sure,” he said doubtfully. I heard him lift another bottle down from the shelf and unscrew the lid. “I'll add in some lemongrass, then. It should help with the bruising.”
He started in, tentatively at first, while I bit back the odd groan. I searched my mind for a subject to take my mind off it. “Any more sign of your prowler?” I asked, almost on a gasp as Tris's fingers plunged unexpectedly deep into torn and knotted muscle.