"Have you considered not doing your messengering job?”
“No,” I say shortly. “Does it embarrass you?”
“It worries me.”
That shuts me up. Only my mother worries about me, and the idea that this bothers Ian touches me in a deep way. I blink rapidly to stave off any physical reaction to his concern. Why am I so hormonal lately? “I’m safe.”
“You told me earlier you spend each moment thinking about how to best avoid an accident. That doesn’t sound like a safe job to me. Do you know that there is an actual New York City government study on bicycle fatalities? Between 1996 and 2005, 225 bicyclists died in crashes."
I don’t have anything to say because my thoughts are caught on the idea that he’s concerned enough to look up statistics about bicycle safety. In fact, I’m certain that if I spoke, I’d start crying—so I remain silent. I don’t even point out that those numbers are from ten years ago.
Ian sighs then and says, "I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“Goodbye,” I manage to croak out, but he’s already gone.
The week crawls by without Ian here to hassle me. He does call, though, more than I expected, and the pleasure I feel just listening to him tell me about his day is worrisome. Each day I wait for the call as if I’m a drug addict and he’s my heroin.
When I arrive at the Red Door on Friday, I’m flushed and sweaty from the day of work and I’m wearing at least an inch of city grime all over my body. Steve is leaning against the Bentley, his arms folded and aviators covering his eyes. He looks like a bodyguard rather than a chauffeur.
“Hey Steve,” I say, wondering if Ian is in the car.
“Hello, sheila,” he says in return. “Can you pop off your wheel?” he nods his head toward my bike. “We need to stick it in the trunk.”
“Right.” I bend over to disengage the quick-release mechanism and hold up the front tire. Steve takes it from my hand and then picks up the frame and easily carries both to the now open trunk.
He closes it with a thud and then, with a little wave goodbye, climbs into the driver’s seat and jets off.
Inside, soft music plays and a woman so slender she makes reeds look fat totters over to me on six-inch heels. “Ms. Corielli?” she inquires. For a moment I don’t know who she’s addressing, and I look over my shoulder to see if there is another lady who walked in behind me. But no, she’s addressing me. I nod and try shaking her hand, but she backs away a little unnerved. Who shakes hands with the receptionist? No one, but I’ve never been in one of these swank spas before. The closest I’ve ever been to a spa is one of the nail salons that populate every city block.
She gives me a wan smile and leads me up a circular staircase and into a fairly large room. There is a garment bag with “Barney’s” lettered discreetly on the left side hanging on the back of the door and a shopping bag in the corner. A robe and slippers are laid out on a massage table, and to the left is a hair station. Apparently everything is done in this one room. No mingling with the masses for me.
“Please remove all of your clothing and jewelry and press this when you are ready.” She hands me an iPad with a big red button that says “Attendant.”
Over the next two hours I’m rubbed down and then done up. Inside the garment bag is a top that could be called a sweatshirt. It has a ribbed bottom and cuffs but, except for the front panel, the entire shirt is made of a heavy, deep-red lace in a beautifully modern floral pattern. The neckline is wide, giving it a tendency to slip off my shoulder. As I root around in the bag, I am unsurprised to find that there is no bra—only a pair of sheer red panties with tiny bows all over them. I slip on the delicate panties and then pull on the silk shorts that I also find inside the bag. They are black with tiny pinstripes mimicking a man’s suit pants. I’m relieved that they aren’t booty shorts and actually manage to keep all the private parts of my body fully covered, even if I bend over.
The shoes are black with lace fretwork running around the sides and up the middle. A delicate strap encircles my ankle. There are bangles for my wrists and a pair of red stone earrings. I wait to put those on.
“That’s a gorgeous outfit,” my stylist Robin comments as she winds my hair around a hot curling iron. After my massage, a team of people trooped in. Robin is the hair stylist and Mark is the makeup artist. Robin and Mark take turns holding my chin and nodding to each other about how my eyebrows need help and my hair color has no depth. Limp as a noodle from the rubdown, I endure the inspection without comment.