Now I’m in trouble.
‘How doyouthink it went?’ I say tightly, mirroring her actions. After a solid week of observing her, I know some of her tricks.
‘I didn’t manage to catch any of it.’ She tilts her head back upright. ‘But I’m sure you were great, and we’ll have plenty of interest.’
I daren’t tell her that there’s fuck all chance of that happening. And even worse, I’m feeling quite relieved about it.
‘Ready for the performance review tomorrow?’ she asks. ‘I can’t wait to see you in action. I’ve booked a new client for 11am to give you time to prep.’
Shitting hell.
‘See you tomorrow!’ Nidi waves, skipping off down the corridor, leaving Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen and me to lock up the office.
When I reach the villa, I flick open the manual Nidi gave me and search the contents. There’s nothing to cover being caught in one’s own web of lies but there is a section called Emergency Quick Fixes. I scan the pages to see heavy panting will get rid of negative toxins and hopefully take the clients mind off their immediate problems, in my case, the need for wine and a certificate saying I’m a qualified life coach. And I could always use this time wisely to do somepropermarketing and advertising. After I check Twitter to see what’s going on in the world, and what Ryan Reynolds’ opinions are on it all.
As my head hits the pillow, I vow to get up the following morning and go for a jog. And maybe drink some green tea with a shot of cleansing apple cider vinegar containing The Mother like Nidi does. These goals, to lead a super healthy, meaningful life, are extremely important to me. EXTREMELY.
After what seems the blink of an eye, my alarm goes off. I’ll have a mere two minutes to lie with my eyes closed and visualise exactly which jogging route I will take, before I get up and run like a cheetah along the promenade. Visualising the action gives me a ninety percent chance of actually doing it.
‘Decide what you want to do. VISUALISE it. Do it!’ Nidi often chants to motivate and spur the clients into action. I imagine myself powering along, arms and legs like pistons, pumping me full of adrenalin. Brain cells multiplying. Fat simply melting away with each stride. Visions of me floating serenely through the office, smiling and helping people as I go. Social media saying wonderful things about me. Selfies of me looking fabulous. Hair shining. Cheeks glowing with joy. Clients queuing round the block for me to sort their lives out for them.
Shitting hell.
I must have dropped off!Gaaaah!I am seriously late for work now. How did three hours just disappear? Just like that.How? How?
I yank on yesterday’s clothes, dash to my car and fly through reception to my office, without so much as a good morning, yelling at Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen.
‘I’M LATE! LATE! GET ME THE NOTES! QUICK THE NOTES!’
I slam my door shut. Within minutes, any chance to take a moment of calm evaporates, as my phone rings loudly interrupting the silence, and along with it the chance to remind myself that I am happy in my own skin and have everything, and by that, I mean NOTHING to look bloody forward to except faking at being a bloody Life Coach today with my first ever client,poor sod, while being WATCHED like a hawk by Nidi who has said she will be popping in to do a performance review. I need a few minutes to compose myself. I will ignore it.
I am looking forward to my first client like you’d look forward to a smear test.
When it rings again thirty seconds later, my whole body clenches. I grab the phone and draw a huge breath in. ‘Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, I’m right in the middle of an early-morning meditation about me having an affair with Ryan Reynolds.’
‘So sorry Miss Weston but your eleven o’clock, he has arrived too early.’
‘Well, tell him he can wait until I’m finished,’ I sigh impatiently, unable to help myself. I am in no hurry to do this session knowing that Nidi is going to observe me. ‘Unless he actuallyisRyan Reynolds. And I can tell by your tone that he’s not. If Mr eleven o’clock was even MILDLY attractive, you’d be using your fake I-can-barely-speak-the-language Spanish accent.’
I hear her flounder. She knows I’m right. I picked up on this very quickly last week.
‘Um... Miss Weston, you’re on loudspeaker and I think it is very possible the client can hear you, yes, he is nodding his head, so let me just press….’
I hear the distinct sound of a man coughing with embarrassment in the background, while I wait a split second to give her time to find the massive button with the unmistakable loudspeaker icon on it. Honestly, a blind child of two could operate the telephone system.
‘For God’s sake, why would you do that? Just don’t press that button. DO NOT press it.’
‘Sorry, Miss Weston, I will definitely remember the next time.’
‘But that’s the fourth time this week you’ve said that! Never-bloody-mind, check his breath for garlic, no actually, just give him one of those extra-large mints, in case, and send him in. And by the way, I DID NOT appreciate you telling anybody and everybody who rang up yesterday, that I was out getting vaginal cream with Nidi.’
‘Um Miss Weston,’ she tries to interrupt, but I’ve got her over a barrel. We’ve had numerous bizarre emails corroborating the facts. Why Nidi also posted it on the Facebook page will forever be a mystery to me. She is a little like my over-sharing sister in that respect. I didn’t even want to go for the bloody thing, but she insisted because she is thinking of doing a deal where if we recommend them to clients, they will get a discount. And something about vaginal steams being very detoxifying and spiritual.
‘You know I clearly said STEAM, not CREAM. I was out getting a vaginal STEAM with Nidi. Huge difference,’ I spit crossly, my patience with her wearing thin. I know I shouldn’t snipe at her, but it’s difficult not to, especially since she’s quite useless, and I’m borderline psychotic at the present moment.
‘And for your information, it is highly UNPROFESSIONAL to disclose what a person, especially your EMPLOYERS, do with their vaginas. Is that CLEAR?’
A thought suddenly occurs to me, ‘Unless you are Gwyneth Paltrow. She seems to make a good living out of it but still… you are NOT to mention my vagina to anyone.’
