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call for an appointment as soon as I got home from lunch.

Chapter 2
    â€œThank you for calling Rapture Spa,” answered a female voice on the other end with an untraceable snooty accent. “How may I assist you today?”
    â€œHi, I received a gift certificate for a treatment for my birthday,” I informed the faceless voice. “I’d like to go ahead and set up an appointment for next Saturday.”
    â€œNext Saturday?” I could hear her clacking away at a keyboard.
    â€œWe have an opening for 10:00 a.m. Does that time work for you?”
    â€œSure,” I agreed. I could get my massage and get some work done after.
    â€œHave you ever been serviced at Rapture before?” the faceless voice asked. By now, I visualized one of those perfect model-type women with shiny, frizz-free, bouncy blond hair and flawless olive hued skin.
    The Heidi Klum-clone continued as though reading from a script. “I need to ask you a few questions to ensure you are set up with the perfect technician for you. Please be assured all answers are kept strictly confidential. It will take a few minutes. Do you have time now?”
    â€œUm, sure,” I responded, unsure of what would follow. Usually the only question was “male or female?”
    â€œWould you prefer a male or female technician?”
    â€œHmm, men have stronger fingers don’t they? Better to reach my sore muscles. I’ll go with male.”
    â€œDo you have an ethnicity preference?” she asked.
    â€œExcuse me?” I sputtered, what kind of question was that? “Equal Opportunity massaging is my motto,” I told her somewhat indignantly.
    â€œWould you prefer completely manual or is other stimulation desired?”
    â€œUm, manual?” I ventured. I’d only been to a spa a handful of times and was not hip to all the lingo and treatments offered, but I wanted to play it cool with this one. I’d heard about Eastern treatments involving electrical stimulation and cupping, and it sounded a bit intense for a newbie spa-goer like myself.
    â€œOk, last question. For an add-on, would you like a shower treatment following the massage?”
    I thought about it briefly, but turned it down. “No thanks, I’ll just shower at home.”
    â€œWe will see you next Saturday, October 2 at ten in the morning,” she confirmed and hung up.
    My week flew by as it usually does with legal cases piling up on my desk. I’m a real estate attorney, and in New York City that means I know who paid what for multimillion dollar pads. I deal in seven-figure properties only, which means I rub elbows with some of the city’s finest and most notorious residents. Well, strictly speaking, my boss does the talking. I’m the helpful grunt in the corner of the room reading over legalese and highlighting where to sign.
    One of Manhattan’s preeminent CEOs was voted down by his board this week and needed to off-load his apartment, ASAP. That meant I gained tired eyes every night poring over documents and disclosures, but at last it was Saturday: massage day.
    I needed a map or a GPS device to find Rapture. A single wooden door and discreet gold plated sign were the only markers of the supposedly high-end spa in the heart of the Upper East Side. I missed the door at least five times in my quest to find the spa near 60 th and Madison, and I had walked by here a zillion times on my way into the Anya Hindmarch store to satisfy my handbag addiction.
    When I finally found my way into Rapture, I felt soothed by the place’s appearance. Comfort and luxury surrounded me as soon as I stepped off the elevator. Soothing classical music chimed harmoniously with the tinkling of a waterfall that fell in a sheet along one wall from the ceiling into a stone pool on the floor. I made my way across the natural mosaic ceramic tiles to the desk.
    Heidi Klum-clone had the day off, because, rather than a five-ten blonde goddess