Short Story: Unexpected Benefits Of Deep Immersion…

Short Story: Unexpected Benefits Of Deep Immersion Colour Heightening Therapy

Every weekday afternoon at around four o'clock, just as the light was fading, I'd drag myself off the settee, and set off for a short walk around a field near my house. I'd been feeling under the weather of late, having recently undergone a routine but rather unpleasant gynaecological operation, and I hoped that some gentle, routine exercise would help me regain a certain level of fitness.

I was glad of the fading light, as I had also become sensitive about my age, and badly wanted to feel a spring in my step before I returned to work and had to face people in the wider world again. Until recently I'd always taken for granted that I appeared younger than I was but now I was worried that the operation and subsequent weight gain had put years on me. My skin had developed an aged, crepe-like appearance, and to my horror, my hair seemed to have turned grey almost overnight. I'd always coloured it, but had been forced to stop for a few weeks, and I watched with dismay as the colour gradually faded out. I'd hastily dyed it again as soon as physically possible, but the knowledge of the greyness lurking underneath depressed me. I was reluctant to admit even to myself how hard it had become to look in a mirror these days. And at my age, without expending vast amounts of time and energy, not to mention money, I knew it might well be impossible to undo the damage.

Each time I contemplated these tiresome bodily betrayals I compared myself with other women of my age. Since the operation I had slipped down the rating scale of looks and had become a below average, middle aged woman, forced to wear drab, shapeless clothes in order to hide my drab, shapeless body - a state of existence I'd always dreaded. And now a state of existence I could simply not accept. However, I was all too aware of my limitations and although the deterioration in my appearance was a fabulous motivator, I knew that the lure of the settee and the television was too much for me and I was unlikely to stick at anything that required any significant effort. But neither could I allow myself to slip quietly into grey, androgynous invisibility. I needed some serious advice on how to get myself back into line.

I'd kept in touch with a former colleague, Suki, a woman a year or two older than myself. Unlike me she was married, with two teenage sons. She was one of these people who always seemed to look effortlessly great, slim and glowing with health and energy. I didn't know the woman all that well, and wasn't even sure if I liked her. But I'd always admired the well-kept appearance she presented, and knew that she was involved in complementary therapies in some way, in her spare time. I thought perhaps if I booked a session with her some of it, at least, might rub off. So, after some hesitation, I telephoned her. To my surprise she agreed to come round for lunch the next day to discuss things properly.

Suki arrived ten minutes early looking fresh and rested, wearing an expensive-looking leather flying jacket and jeans. Not, of course, the unflattering, elasticated waist jeans that I wore. Hers were well-cut, and showed off her perfectly toned figure.

"I just dropped the boys off at their fencing lesson. J'adore l'escrime."

I looked puzzled. Suki laughed in a worldly way, which I immediately envied. She mimed a quick parry and lunge as she brushed her feet politely on the doormat before entering the house and placing herself elegantly on a shabby fireside chair. She seemed like a ray of light in my dingy cottage. I hoped she wouldn't notice a very large spider racing for cover under a loose bit of skirting as she put her bag on the floor, or the thick layer of dust I'd forgotten to remove from the top of the television.

Over chicken salad followed by lo-fat carrot cake I explained how unhappy I felt about my appearance.

"I really can't live with myself like this. When I see myself in the mirror, I feel I'm looking at someone else."

In truth, I wished I was someone else. Especially after binge-eating four economy packs of crisps at eleven o'clock at night, while watching the shopping channel. But lately I'd cut down on all that. I could feel tears starting and to distract myself I stared hard at the fork I'd been using to eat my cake. There was some sort of residue between the prongs. I hardly ever used the cake forks, so it was possibly the remnants of a mince pie from last Christmas. Oh dear. I'd really have to clean up my act.

Suki gave me a narrow look. Her eyes were a cool blue. There was hardly a line to be seen. Her fair complexion was dotted with light, attractive freckles and her blonde hair was youthfully bouncy and curly. How did she do it? I sighed and looked away. I was so lumpish and grey in comparison.

"First off, the tried and tested. A strict, raw vegetables detox diet, Pilates to tone the muscles and an aerobic work out in the gym three times a week to increase cardiovascular fitness. Have you tried any of that?" She examined her polished nails and spoke in a brisk, disinterested way.

I shook my head. Of course I hadn't. I was far too lazy. I wanted a quick fix.

"I've been doing a little bit of walking." I offered hesitantly.

"Not enough." She paused and finished her cake. "Not nearly enough." She shook her head in disgust and appraised me coldly for a moment or two, then looked me straight in the face. I stared back into her piercing blue eyes and knew what she was thinking. You wreck. You grey, dingy wreck.

Of course I had contemplated going out to a gym, or, even, horrors, to Pilates classes, but I knew I just wasn't the type. And it went without saying that there was no way I would reveal my body, in its current state, in anything less than full attire in any public place whatsoever. Especially not to a gym full of toned, competitive women in their fifties with stretched, leathery faces and desperate eyes.

"Isn't there anything…less demanding?" I asked.

"Of course there isn't," she said curtly, "If you want to look and feel better, you're going to have… to… make… the… effort. Pay your dues. Graft, graft, graft. Like Carol Vorderman does. Like I do. These things don't happen by themselves. I'm afraid all it boils down to is, you've let yourself go. And how! Look at your waistline. For pity's sake! What is it - thirty eight? Forty? And look at your boobs! They're practically on the floor. At LEAST get a decent bra. Remember, if you see an attractive woman your age, you can be sure that behind the appearance is an iron will and relentless discipline. If I didn't do a regular detox and go to the gym at least four times a week, my backside would be a blancmange and I'd have cellulite at least down to my knees." She looked pointedly at my thighs. My eyes widened, and her tone became even more irritable. "I'm not kidding. Nothing's quick and easy once you get past twenty five. Unless you want to go under the knife?"

I shook my head emphatically. That was taking things a bit too far. Aside from which, I couldn't possibly afford it. There had to be another way. But this was looking even grimmer than I'd expected.

"What about…on the complementary side? Aren't there massages, treatments? Mudpacks? Body wraps? That kind of thing?"

She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, revealing neat black boots with a pointed toe and a heel. I tucked my clean but untended bare feet out of sight, and waited.

"Well. I don't think they'd be much help to someone in your condition. But what have you heard?" she asked crisply.

"Nothing much," I mumbled. "I just heard that you were into some sort of complementary therapy. I thought you might know of something sort of energising that I could try."

"I don't work miracles, darling. But I do practise D.I.C.H.T.!" There was a definite gleam in her eye. I wasn't sure if it was evangelical or avaricious, or both.

"Strange acronym. What's that when it's at home?"

"Deep Immersion Colour Heightening Therapy. It's really huge in the States nowadays. Someone, a Doctor Maclean I think, who'd had cancer, or, oh, I don't know, something bad, anyway, cured themselves, all through the use of colour immersion. D.I.C.H.T. Now he's built it up into this massive franchise, and made himself an absolute frigging fortune, to boot. Marvellous, isn't it, what we can achieve when we make the effort to harness good old Mother Nature, instead of letting her run over us like a truck. Haven't you heard of it? It's been featured on Oprah and everything."

"Not really. It sounds good though." Undemanding, I was thinking. Not to mention unlikely. I wasn't that gullible. But I was also trying to curry favour through flattery, fawning in order to head off another onslaught of criticism. Deep Immersion Colour Heightening Therapy. What earthly use could it be? Especially for someone with my apparent problems. Though, if it could cure cancer… "Is it expensive?"

"Depends on how many sessions you have. It's usually sixty five pounds for an first consultation, fifty thereafter and of course discounts can be arranged if you book a block of six or eight." She suddenly sounded very professional. "Want me to book you in?"

She had already opened her bag and removed her diary, and was flicking through it for the correct page. A slim gold bracelet caught the light as she did so. I noted her long, discreetly polished nails, and smooth, lightly tanned hands.

As she was leaving, she turned briefly half way down the garden path and with a disparaging toss of her blonde curls called, "Oh, and do try to do something about your teeth. There's nothing more ageing than yellow teeth."

I stood on the doorstep for a few moments as she drove off in her shiny people carrier, staring at the peeling paint on the shed door, watched by my eighty year old neighbour as she painstakingly took her washing in. She didn't have to worry about yellowing teeth, any more. Hers were false. I almost envied her.

…….

The following week, in some trepidation, I went to Suki's house for my first session, taking a taxi as my car was acting up. I wore loose, comfortable clothing and flat shoes, as I expected that to be most appropriate. It did occur to me that she herself wore tight jeans and high heels, and so perhaps my choice was wrong. However, I had little else to wear these days, so even if it was wrong, it would have to do.

I had not visited her before and was curious to see where and how she lived. I imagined her house to be very modern and clean, with pale carpets and perhaps a white leather suite. And definitely a conservatory. Just the kind of house I aspired to, in fact. My own home was as tidy as I could manage it but somehow the washing up was never finished, spider's webs always managed to appear in every corner and the bathroom tiles never looked properly clean. The vinyl on the kitchen floor badly needed replacing too. And the bedroom didn't bear thinking about. Sometimes I wished I could take a sandblaster to the entire house.

Sure enough, when I approached Suki's part of town I found myself surrounded by newbuild houses, a mixture of detached and semis, with smart gardens and paved driveways leading to double garages. Most people had a conservatory, a patio with decking and an overhead heater. You could tell the gardens had been professionally done. Some had a minimalist look, with gravel and decorative stones and the occasional shrub. I imagined that on a Sunday everyone would be out washing their cars and having barbies. This was clearly a normal place, for normal people. I knew I'd never fit in, in a million years, even with a full body makeover.

I got the taxi to drop me a couple of hundred yards from her house so that I could soak up the atmosphere before my session. I walked slowly up the avenue, looking in all the windows. It was mid afternoon, so most people were out, and no lamps were lit yet, so I could not see much, but there was a general impression of comfort and safety. Through windows dressed with expensive blinds and fully lined curtains I could just perceive well-padded sofas and large TVs. There was a slight autumnal chill in the air, and the sky was a hazy blue with a star or two beginning to show. Soon they'd be getting home from the office, pouring themselves a glass of wine, Marks and Sparks dinner in the oven and that'd be them for the evening, feet up on the overstuffed sofa in front of the living flame fire. A power shower in the morning, an espresso or maybe a smoothie, hop into the people carrier, kids to the minders and another day at the office.

The thing was, I knew that at my age, I was unlikely to have a life like that. I'd been careless, and let the few chances I'd had slip away. I just hadn't put in sufficient effort. But I hadn't entirely lost hope. I wondered if I could manage just one more throw of the dice.

I was close to Suki's house now. Number fifty six. It was one of the older houses on the estate, with a mature garden and a lived in look.

Wind chimes hung from a rose covered arch leading from the driveway to the front door. There was, as I had expected, a conservatory to the side of the house, with a large bay tree in a pot, and cane furniture.

Suddenly the door swung open before I had the chance to ring the bell, and a man appeared. I took him to be Suki's husband, though I was amazed to find him home on a weekday afternoon. A tiny Yorkshire terrier with a greasy coat and notably bad teeth yapped and snapped around his feet as he ushered me inside.

He was very short and stocky, grey-haired and bearded, wearing a crumpled blue shirt with popping buttons emphasising an enormous paunch, and bushy unkempt eyebrows which sloped upwards. The buttons on his shirt were stretched to their limit, revealing a white hairy stomach I did not care to look upon for longer than necessary. His bored hazel eyes were pouchy and he looked as if he had not slept for a week. My astonishment grew. This was not the type of husband I'd expected to find, in this type of house. There should have been somebody neat and dapper, tidy looking, perhaps a bit sporty. A new man, good at cooking, who took care of his body. Not an ugly lump like this. Once inside I could not stop myself from staring round in a state of sheer shock. The place was in an unbelievable state of disarray. There was an open plan living area, furnished with an overstuffed chintz suite, which was covered in old take away containers and cans of beer. The place reeked of garlic, cigar smoke and stale alcohol. A faded green curtain was nailed untidily over the window to the rear, blocking off the view of the back garden, and half of the daylight. The carpet was stained with god knows what. Probably something to do with the dog. At least, it smelled like it. A bowl of fruit rotted on an expensive looking dining table, complete with black banana. Above it all a large pair of men's underpants of indeterminate colour dangled unattractively from the chandelier-style light fitting. They were far from clean. I was aghast, and jumped with fright as the front door slammed shut behind me.

"Sorry about all this", said the man, insincerely, in a loud, carrying voice. “I take it you're here to get ripped off by my wife. I'm Bill, Suki's drab and colourless husband." He belched and curled his lip, revealing brownish, ill-kempt teeth, and spat out a shred of tobacco as he said the word 'husband'. He held out a sticky-looking hand, which I shook with some reluctance, and waved me further into the house with an exaggerated, over-deliberate courtesy which made me wonder if he was slightly, or even very, drunk. He was smoking a cigar with a filthy reek which made my eyes water. I assumed, by the size of them, that the underpants on the chandelier belonged to him, rather than to the teenage sons. I gazed at them in horrified fascination. Evidently, unlike his wife, Bill had given up "making the effort" quite some time ago, and in fact had let himself go with notable aplomb. As the initial shock subsided, I had to admit I was quite impressed. He really didn't give a toss.

I'd expected operating theatre level cleanliness, in Suki's domain, but this place was far, far smellier and grubbier than mine. I almost began to relax and feel at home.

Beside the staircase there was an odd-looking door. It looked like it was made of reinforced metal. I could see that someone had attempted to drill holes in it. Bill hammered on it hard with his fist.

"Someone to see you," he bellowed.

"A word of advice, by the way," he said confidentially, lowering his booming voice a notch, and waving his cigar stub at the door, "for god's sake, don't waste your money falling for her airy fairy garbage. She doesn't even believe in it herself, you know. She just…wants…the dosh, so that she can buy more crap for the house and pump herself full of botox." Bill's voice rose to a shout as he said the word "botox", and he hammered on the door to punctuate the sentence. "Not to mention the FUCKING FENCING FUCKING lessons." He hammered again, each time he said the word "fucking".

I glanced quickly round at the front door, escape on my mind. I really didn't want to waste sixty five quid. But it was too late. The Yorkie yapped excitedly and sniffed and growled around my toes. I was afraid to move in case it made a full-scale attack. Bill picked it up and threw it on to the sofa. "Vile little shit."

Undaunted the Yorkie ran full speed at his ankles and tugged with all its might. I heard a ripping sound as it attacked the bottom of his trousers.

"Fuck OFF!" he shouted, lifting his foot, Yorkie still determinedly hanging on to the trouser leg.

"Get a bloody move on!" He yelled at the door.

Just then, it opened a crack and a chain rattled. There was a shrieked "Leave my dog alone!"

I could barely contain my amazement when I recognised the voice of the elegant and composed woman who had visited me the previous week. "Pablo! Pablo!"

The dog let go of the trouser leg in a trice and tried to squeeze through the two inch gap where I could see the tips of well-manicured fingers pushing open the door. The dog was small but the gap was just too tight. Bill stooped and picked him up.

"You're not getting him," he said stolidly, and turned to walk upstairs, Pablo clearly not happy.

The door opened sufficiently for me to pass through into another area of the house.

"It's OK," she said. "You won't have to leave that way. I should have warned you to go round the back."

This part of the house seemed to consist of the kitchen, the conservatory, and the patio. All of it was immaculate, and the way I'd envisaged the whole house to be. The kitchen area was open plan, with a breakfast bar and a white pine table and chairs. There was an espresso machine and a blender. A vase of lilies stood on the windowsill, below an attractive blind. An empty dog basket and food dish sat forlornly by the patio doors.

"Let's go into the conservatory. That's where I do my work."

She was dressed in lightweight white trousers and a pink cardigan, and now seemed in complete command of herself. She was wearing flat Egyptian style sandals today, with a sparkly pink and gold strap. Her toenails were painted a matching delicate pink.

"Before we start, I'd like to give you this. Carry it with you. Look at it. Absorb the colour. It will help." She held a vial of orange liquid up to the light. Suki spoke in a hushed, honeyed voice, quite different from her usual fairly strident tones. She squeezed my hand shut over the vial, then patted it gently.

I was touched. Perhaps D.I.C.H.T. would be okay, after all. "I hope you get your dog back." I pointed to the empty basket.

"Thanks. There's no chance though, till I give him his cat." She smiled grimly, and gestured towards a white ball of fluff settling itself more deeply into some warm cushions next to a radiator.

"It doesn't look like it wants to go back, to me."

"No. I make sure it doesn't. It gets the best of everything, through here. It'll never want to go back."

Suki was removing some items from a plastic storage box and placing them neatly on the table. A pair of large safety goggles, a sinister looking piece of rubber tubing, and a snorkel.

"Come on. Let's get started." Suki's voice was brisk and snappy again.

"What exactly do I have to do?" I asked, feeling rather alarmed by the look of the items on the table.

"Nothing… whatever… to worry about. You're panicking! Oh dear. Don't be silly. Come along now. Let's get D.I.C.H.T.ing." Suki bustled through to the conservatory, her Egyptian style sandals clip clopping daintily across the laminate flooring, goggles and snorkel in hand.

In the middle of the conservatory floor was a sunken bath. Steam rose from the blue water and the soothing sound of running water came from a dainty miniature waterfall in the centre. But I didn't find it soothing. It reminded me of leaking brake fluid before a car crash. I wanted out of there, and fast.

Suki pressed a button and lights flashed rainbow colours at the sides of the pool. There was a synthetic, sickly, hot smell, like artificial roses.

"Take off your clothes." Now I really was panicking. I looked around, searching for escape and with a shock noticed the cat had mysteriously moved to a comfortable looking spot on a cane chair opposite. It was staring straight at me with a decidedly critical and unsympathetic emerald gleam in its eye, and began to purr loudly, and, I thought, rather sadistically, as the blow heater behind it came on and the evening drew in. I was sure it knew what was about to happen. How many times had it watched this before? What blatant voyeurism. To make things worse I could see lights coming on in the upstairs windows of neighbouring houses, overlooking the conservatory, and there was no doubt that anyone looking out would also be able to see me, if they were interested.

"I'm sorry, Suki. This isn't for me."

"Look. It's still going to cost you sixty five pounds whether you get in or not. You might as well try it."

"Have YOU tried it?"

Suki tutted and bustled over towards me. Clip clop, clip clop. "For heaven's sake. Do try to have some faith. En courage, as they say in France!" That would be a no, then.

"What are the goggles for? Isn't it safe?" I persisted.

"It's perfectly safe. It's been ratified by the A.A.D.I.C.H.T."

"What's that?"

"The American Association of Deep Immersion Colour Heightening Therapists. I'm a certified member, third level. I've done the course. There's no risk whatever, as long as you don't let the water in your eyes or mouth."

"What happens if it DOES get in your eyes or mouth?"

"Well, it can trigger a kind of allergic reaction. Some people react more than others. I'm sure you'll be fine. Just put on the safety goggles and breathe through the tube."

That was definitely it. "I really don't want to take the risk."

"Truly, there's no need for concern. And if something did happen, I am fully insured." Suki had the determined look of a double glazing salesperson on commission.

She took hold of my anorak at the shoulder and attempted to pull it off.

"NO!" I yelled, clutching on to my clothing for dear life and shrugging violently away from her. Suki's sandalled feet slipped on the laminate flooring and with flailing arms and an astonished look she toppled backwards into the sunken bath. The sickly aroma of synthetic roses flooded the place, along with copious amounts of warm water. My feet were squelching. The cat sprang out of its chair with a hiss of outrage as a splash of water landed on its spotless fur.

Suki's hair was plastered over her face, and her eyes were red and streaming. I felt quite sorry for her. "Calm down, Suki. You're panicking."

I got the sixty five pounds from my purse and placed it on the white kitchen table. It was the least I could do. The notes looked grubby and wrong in that pristine room.

"The vial is extra." Suki called, holding her head under the kitchen tap, and rinsing her eyes.

"Oh."

"Another ten pounds, please."

"I'm afraid I don't have any more money with me."

"Don't you have your cheque book?"

"I'm sorry, I don't. Can I put a cheque in the post?"

"That'll have to do." She was irritated, tetchy after her unexpected dip, and strangely I felt quite crestfallen. I was not sure which one of us had let the other down. Her tone was dismissive as she gazed past me towards the metal door. I took a last look round. The lights in the conservatory were out. In the last of the evening light it had the greyish, wintry look of a deserted operating theatre.

I left via the patio and through the back garden to a gate, which had been recently cut in the fence. It took me out into a paved lane leading back towards the avenue. As I walked the few yards I began to mull over the experiences of the past hour. It had been odd, to say the least. I felt the orange energy vial, still in my pocket, and took it out. As I did so, I glanced up at the window which I took to be of the bedroom at the rear of the house. The curtains were partly drawn and the window was open at the bottom, three or four inches. To my astonishment I saw Pablo's eager little face appearing through the gap, clearly about to make a suicidal leap for freedom. I dropped the vial, leaving it cracked and leaking on the tarmac path, and ran back to see what had happened to the little dog. I could not open the gate as it seemed to be locked from the inside. The fence was of solid construction so I could not see through any holes or cracks in the wood. I was frantic to know what had happened to Pablo so I decided to try the front entrance. I ran along the path and out on to the avenue. I was fitter than I'd thought. It took me seconds to get to the front of the house and up the path, through the rose covered arch and past the windchimes. I paused for a second, heart in my mouth, before hammering on the door with my clenched fist. There was no reply. I tried shouting through the letter box. I could hear a commotion going on.

By then a neighbour had come out.

"We'll have to get the police I'm afraid. Not for the first time, either."

……..

Some weeks later I was still persevering, albeit unenthusiastically, with my routine four o'clock health and fitness walks. I'd lost a few pounds through the exercise, but my stomach, in fact my entire body, was still pretty out of shape. I had decided, however, that life was too short to worry about a bit of flab, and I was in the process of deciding to well and truly let myself go. I'd even let my hair go grey again. I didn't think it looked too bad. And now that I'd had my teeth filled, I could eat all the sweets I liked without getting toothache.

After all the fuss with the police had died down - I'd had to give a statement, which was a real palaver - Suki had arrived at my door one day with Pablo in her arms. It was a flying visit, so she could not come in. She had left her job, and just wanted to let me know that she had sold the house and was moving away with the boys. The dreadful Bill had moved out at last, and was living with another woman. Goodness knows what long-suffering kind of fool would put up with him, said Suki, though in a funny kind of way she did miss him. I did not need to ask for details.

Pablo was transformed from the greasy little yapper I first encountered. His coat was neat and well groomed under a smart tartan jacket. His teeth had even been cleaned. But all the same there was a slight droop to his ears, and a discouraged look in his eye, which had not been there before. I wondered if his bid for freedom had really paid off.

I was relieved that she did not want to come in, and I was careful to draw my front door to, glancing quickly over my shoulder, ensure that nothing of the untidy inside was visible to her. She did not need to see the living-room, with my newly fitted chandelier-style light fitting, adorned with a large pair of less than clean men's underpants, the takeaway cartons littering the floor, or the overweight man reclining on the settee, belching and casually flicking cigar ash into a beer can, while he stroked a fluffy white cat and watched daytime TV.