Tempted as I was to give Mervyn the job that very night, I felt a sense of fairness and duty to try the other candidates, whom I’d decided might surprise me yet. Determining when was tricky; the brilliant cleanout I’d had seemed likely to last for some time, at least days but possibly weeks.

This wasn’t a conversation I was excited to have with Chella. Without going into much detail, I mentioned that we’d need to wait to restart the trial interviews and I’d let her know when it was time to contact the next candidate. In the meantime I paid all three candidates a retainer. Chella kept her face neutral for all discussion of colonics and enemas but raised an eyebrow when asked to double the amount for Mervyn.

Two weeks went by of painless nights during which I slept peacefully. Then one evening, reading magazines on the parlor sofa, I felt some twinges, a tightness in my lower abdomen. It was too late to schedule someone same-day, but if I had a bad night, there’d be time to schedule someone for tomorrow night in the morning.

A bit after midnight I stirred. The gnawing sensation was back and didn’t want to be rubbed, stretched, or breathing exercised away. I read a cozy mystery and rotated like a rotisserie chicken, trying to press my belly or back to the bed just so, trying not to think of Mervyn’s efficient, magical hands. 12:58. 1:32. 2:15. The pain didn’t shift but I drifted enough to lose the plot of whatever was happening with the lady sleuth and her case in a charming seaside town. By perhaps 3 AM I fell back asleep.

The next morning after dragging through a session on the elliptical and a short swim in the outdoor pool, I could tell it was not going to be a good IBS day. Slumping in the hot tub, I texted Chella to schedule the next available candidate for tonight. By 10 AM Chella had confirmed Hazel would be on shift and had asked Ryan, my personal chef, to switch lunch to something light and soothing.

I took up residence in the library, the room I went to when I wanted comfort. It had a long amber velvet sofa that two of me could stretch out on. I propped myself in a corner of it, drew the throw blanket over my knees, and read the news.

Ryan appeared. “Honey! Chella tells me you have a tummyache and the mehs.”

I laughed. I adored Ryan.

“There’s a terrible band name if I ever I heard one.”

“Don’t sit up for me, sweetheart. You relax. Lunch in here?”

I nodded. It would be nice to stay put.

Ryan unloaded linens, china, and cutlery from a tray and set the side table. I noticed he’d brought me a vase of flowers from the cutting garden, which he did for dinners with friends or parties but didn’t normally do for everyday. There are small tells when your staff like you as a person, not only a client, and I felt touched by the gesture.

“I’m making you Mateo’s favorite, the soup he wants when he’s sick.”

Mateo was Ryan’s equally adorable boyfriend. Ryan spoke so highly of him it seemed just a matter of time before they’d be engaged.

Ryan returned with lemon water in a pretty goblet and a tureen of something fragrant. “It’s a fish chowder, no cream or milk. Haddock, potatoes, fresh sweet corn, celery, shallots, and a little red bell pepper in a vegetable stock.”

He ladled then garnished the bowl with corn kernels and chives, and I tried a spoonful. My first bite was sweet, tender-crisp corn and comforting potato cubes in a beautifully balanced stock.

“I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat, but this is just right.”

Ryan beamed. “Good. You enjoy. I’m off tonight but will leave you a nibble tray for afternoon in case your appetite comes back.” Another kind, thoughtful thing he didn’t have to do.

“You spoil me, Ryan.”

“Life is so much more fun when you’re spoiled,” he said, winking.

For the afternoon I relocated to the screened tea house at the top of the formal garden. The perennial borders were at peak, and I loved the privacy there. Having staff was a fantastic privilege but you were seldom alone. In the tea house I could be, unobserved, birds singing, fountain splashing. The kitchen and cutting gardens were social spaces where the gardeners and I talked, but they knew to pack up their kneelers and buckets when I headed for the formal garden.

The fieldstone open-air teahouse had a deep overhang to protect it from the weather but the Victorian divan, big oak table, and Chinese rug inside nonetheless smelled slightly musty, like old books. I came to associate the smell with calm and fought my decorator each time she lobbied to replace them. Settling on the divan, I inhaled the familiar odor and propped up a knee to take some tension off my belly.

The pain was getting old, and I pondered options. Hazel could be asked to come early, although making her change her plans seemed unfair. I could take my own enema, yet then I’d need even longer to get through the practical interviews. A few people in my circle would, in this situation, get a questionable prescription for something very, very strong and go to sleep. I imagined a beautiful man in scrubs starting my propofol IV. “You could afford just that!” said some part of my brain, but I knew in my practical heart that’d be a great way to become an addict with a ruptured bowel.

Waiting for Hazel it was.

I wasn’t sure quite how I eluded the ache and nausea to sleep that night, but I must have for at least a few hours: it was dark. The gnaw of the belly pain was still there. 12:43. I texted Hazel.

Two minutes elapsed.

Coming soon, she texted back.

In ten minutes she was at the French doors. I noticed she hadn’t brought hot oil packs or a soft waterproof fleece pad like Mervyn did.

She didn’t seem flustered, just not as attuned to the niceties. Like Mervyn, she snapped on gloves, took a brief history, and palpated my abdomen while watching my face before getting started.

Her touch was gentle enough and she nodded at my responses but didn’t seem particularly empathetic, a change from how I perceived Hazel in the verbal interview. Was she too tired at this hour to care? She’d assembled my kit properly and had me sit on one of my own bath towels. When it was time to insert the nozzle, she lubricated it directly, using room temperature lube that felt cold and picking an uncomfortable first approach, apologizing before trying again.

The water was the right temperature and felt good as it filled me, but I noticed she kept me in Sims for the entire fill. Her massage was perfunctory, and when a cramp hit she encouraged me to breathe through it instead of massaging it away.

“I’ll take it from here,” I said.

“Great, thank you,” said Hazel, lighting out. “Good night!” It was clear she had no plans of making sure the expulsion went okay or cleaning my equipment after.

I waited until the door clicked shut, then rolled to my back and massaged myself. Shifting to my right side, pressing against spasms, I moaned softly. Lying in place, I rubbed the small of my back until something bubbled across my belly and the pain relented. Eventually I was ready to expel, which proved good enough but took repeat trips.

“C minus, Hazel,” I muttered, wrapped in a towel, as I pulled off the nozzle and scrubbed it with hot soapy water. My limbs felt slow and tired, but leaving used equipment for my housekeepers was a bridge too far, so I disassembled, washed, and dried until everything was stowed in the nozzle drawer and ventilated cabinet, ready for its next use.