Free Nine Perfect Strangers by Liane Moriarty

course when she was younger she was indeed much thinner, but she was generally happy with her body as long as it wasn’t giving her pain, and bored by all the different ways women droned on about the subject of weight, as if it were one of the great mysteries of life. The recent weight-losers, evangelical about whatever method had worked for them, the thin women who called themselves fat, the average women who called themselves obese, the ones desperate for her to join in their lavish self-loathing. “Oh, Frances, isn’t it just so depressing when you see young, thin girls like that!” “Not especially,” Frances would say, adding extra butter to her bread roll.
    Yao wrote something on a form in a cream-colored file marked in black marker block letters with her name, FRANCES WELTY .
    This was starting to feel too much like a visit to the doctor. Frances felt exposed and vulnerable and regretful. She wanted to go home. She wanted a muffin.
    â€œI’d really like to get to my room now,” she said. “It was a long drive.”
    â€œAbsolutely. I’m going to book you into the spa for an urgent massage for that back pain,” said Yao. “Shall I give you half an hour to settle into your room, enjoy your welcome smoothie, and read your welcome pack?”
    â€œThat sounds like heaven,” said Frances.
    They walked back past the dining room, where her darling drug dealers, Jessica and Ben, stood with their own white-uniformed wellness consultant, a dark-haired young woman who, according to her name badge, was called Delilah. Delilah was delivering the same spiel as Yao about the warning bells.
    Jessica’s plastic face was filled with worry, so much so that she was almost, but not quite, pulling off a frown. “But what if you don’t hear the bell?”
    â€œThen off with your head!” said Frances.
    Everyone turned to look at her. Ben, whose cap was now the wrong way around again, raised a single eyebrow.
    â€œJoke,” said Frances weakly.
    Frances saw the two wellness consultants exchange looks she couldn’t quite read. She wondered if they were sleeping together. They’d have such aerobic, flexible sex with all that wellness pumping through their young bodies. It would be just so awesome .
    Yao led her back toward the Titanic stairs. As Frances hurried to keep pace, they passed a man and two women coming down the staircase together, all three in olive-green robes featuring the Tranquillum House emblem.
    The man lagged behind to put on glasses so he could closely examine the wall on the landing. He was so tall the dressing gown was more like a miniskirt, revealing knobbly knees and very white, very hairy legs. They were the sort of male legs that made you feel uncomfortable, as if you were looking at a private part of the body.
    â€œWell, my point is that you just don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore!” he said, as he peered at the wall. “That’s what I just love about houses like this: the attention to detail. I mean, think of those tiles I was showing you earlier. What’s extraordinary is that somebody took the time to individually —hello again, Yao! Another guest, is it? How are you?”
    He took off his glasses, beamed at Frances, and thrust out his hand. “Napoleon!” he cried.
    It took her a terrifying second to realize he was introducing himself, not just yelling out a random historical figure’s name.
    â€œFrances,” she said in the nick of time.
    â€œNice to meet you! Here for the ten-day retreat, I assume?”
    He was on the stair above her, so his height was even more pronounced. It was like tipping her head back to look at a monument.
    â€œI am.” Frances made a tremendous effort not to comment on his height, as she knew from her six-foot friend Jen that tall people were well aware they were tall. “I most certainly am.”
    Napoleon indicated the two women farther down