I must stop panic-talking. Verbal diarrhoea is a delaying tactic. I must stop it at once.
At least Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen sounds contrite. ‘No, Miss Weston… I will no longer mention your new and fresh vagina… so, which button to turn off the loud speaker did you say?’
Oh Christ.
Slamming the phone down, I take a few rapid breaths and tap my wrists in equal bursts, as per the Emergency Quick Fix instructions and stare frantically at the door handle, waiting for it to turn. I’m a disgrace. An absolute fucking disgrace. I can feel my colossal meltdown bubbling dangerously close to the surface as I break into a torrential sweat.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
I tear at my itchy scalp and scratch until it is sore. If only I’d come clean and confessed to Nidi. None of this would be happening. But then I’d be out of a job, desperate and a laughingstock. My eyes flick to a brightly coloured feather duster lying on the coffee table. It’s a constant reminder that I’d have to take that naked cleaning job. I am not sure if there are rules against openly discussing the health of your vagina, commenting on a client’s looks and questioning the freshness of his breath, but if there was, I have broken quite a few.
Nidi will be mortified if she finds out. I need to calm down and act professionally.
Hopefully, I think to myself, my first-ever client will have some sort of fatal heart attack between Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s reception desk and the three feet to my door.
No such luck.
There is a gentle knock on my door. Instinctively, I rush over. I am going to have serious words with our assistant after this. I take a deep calming breath in and swing open the door, a wide, manic smile plastered onto my face.
As soon as he smiles back, mine instantly withers.
Christ almighty, my heart leaps to my throat.
It is Oliver, and he has a questioning look on his face.
Chapter 13
Wetakeabeatto stare at one another as Oliver unwraps an extra-large mint and pops it casually into his mouth, without breaking eye contact.
‘I heard the radio interview yesterday and was passing by,’ he says, chewing the mint and swallowing it. ‘I thought I’d check to see how things were going.’
Badly of course.
I continue to stare at him. Even perplexed, he is managing to have quite the effect on me.
His dark brown eyes bore holes into mine. ‘Especially after the last time we saw each other. We kind of left things a bitawkwardly.’
Akwardly?Which awkward situation could he be referring to? The one where I whined on like a broken record before rubbing myself against his manhood as though I had a bad case of the clap? Or me breaking into his room and screaming at him while he frantically tried to hide his one-eyed snake with a bag of Monster Munch? Or the one where he invited me in to bounce up and down on him and I disappeared without trace?
I yank him by the arm into my office, slamming the door firmly behind me before Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen can hear any more.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, fear gripping me like a vice. ‘Are you my eleven o’clock appointment?’ I quickly make a mental list of all the lies that he overheard me tell last week.
I am a qualified life coach.
I am an orphan.
I speak Spanish like a native.
And the worst one; I am a people person.
I take in his giant physique. There’s a whole chapter in the Life Coach Handbook on body language and physical attributes. He is extremely tall. With a thick head of short dark brown hair. He has one of those Roman noses that could mean he’s very authoritative. A square jawline which could mean he’s decisive, a good forehead meaning he’s intelligent and not easily fobbed off. With kind, honest eyes. And a nice, friendly smile with a row of filmstar teeth.
He could ruin everything.
‘No. I didn’t book an appointment, but I see that you didn’t take any of my advice,’ he says. ‘How is it going?’
