‘Seriously, though,’ he says, ‘are you okay?’
I am pleased to see he has the decency to look me in the eye, but then to my absolute annoyance, he says, ‘I feel like you’re having a bit of a meltdown, and maybeyoushould see someone? Someonequalified?’
Of all the cheek.
‘Okay, I’m sorry!’ he yells, catching my thoughts. ‘Honestly, I would not have come in if the vampire on reception hadn’t told me to.’
I suppose it is her fault.
Oliver half-smiles at me. He looks genuinely concerned.
All of a sudden, the fight leaves me and I wilt down onto the sofa.
Oliver gingerly crosses the room to join me. ‘Look. How can I help?’
His eyes are drawing me in. He slings an arm casually across the back of the sofa, settling in for the long haul. He is insanely good-looking and my stomach immediately flips at his close proximity.
‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
It feels like an invitation I can’t refuse. I raise my eyes slowly in the most seductive way that any eyelids have ever risen before, weighed down with desire, and prepare to blow him away with just how fascinating my harrowing backstory can be.
‘Well, as you know, it all started when my sister stole my promotion and made me redundant,’ I snivel, glad to have someone to talk to. I tell him about how unfair it all was, whole departments done away with in the lean, austerity measures and how I had to run away from my great life and position of high authority (not strictly true, but makes for a more effective narrative) and start this lonely one, here in Spain, where no one knows me, but at least I don’t have to face the everyday embarrassment of being unemployed while my sister steals my promotion and my boyfriend.
‘It should have been me as Senior Buzz and Brand Warrior, managing over two hundred people across ten regional offices, not her.’
‘Brand Warrior? Sounds important.’
He totally gets it.
I tell him of how I struggled to get the social media job in the first place, sending off thousands of applications, interview after interview and just when all my hard work paid off, my mother practically forced me to make sure my sister was able to slide into the same company having not had to lift a finger. ‘Ava always has it so easy. She’s always been the favourite. I could be drowning in the pool and my mother would step on my head to give Ava a gold medal for best wet hair.’
Oliver moves an inch closer, rivetted.
I’m trying not to sound like a whining five-year old. I tell him that I am in way over my head with Nidi's business because I exaggerated my way into the job. I have lied on my grid, making out that I run the company, which he could point out that he warned me against but doesn’t, which earns him a multitude of brownie points.
Christ Almighty, I nearly forgot!‘And my sister is coming here tomorrow! To steal my job. Again.’ I whimper pathetically, wishing he might comfort me and tell me that everything will be alright and that things will get better and that my sister will get everything that’s coming to her.
Oliver remains quiet for a long time. He lets out a slow sigh. ‘It seems I have met you at a very interesting time in your journey,’ he says, sounding very, very emotionally aware. ‘And just how long are you going to feel sorry for yourself? Sounds to me like you are wallowing in self-pity instead of dusting yourself off and getting on with your life. If you’re not careful, it will pass you by.’
What??
‘I mean,’ he carries on quietly. ‘Who lets a job title define them? You’re still you with or without that job. Any decent friend would respect that. And yes, some of us have to work bloody hard for what we achieve, while others seem to get handed everything on a plate, but that’s life.’
Excuse me?
‘Seems to me that you need to take a long hard look at yourself, and appreciate everything youhavegot, instead of dwelling on the things youhaven’t.’
Two things happen at once that alarm me to my core. The main one being how terribly uninformed Oliver is –how friggin dare he quote me back to me- and secondly, he’s googling one-handed and showing me a list of Emotional Freedom Techniques.
A prickly silence descends on us. A huge part of me wants to slap his face. It’s almost as thoughheis trying to life coachme.
Cheeky, cheeky fecker.
‘How can you say I’m wallowing in self-pity? You don’t even know me.’
‘I do know you. I know that you are kind and caring. You are compassionate and fun. You are clever and funny.’
I can feel my heart of ice instantly thaw at his lovely words. I’m outraged at him, but looking forward to hearing more.
