‘And you are an extremely good kisser,’ he continues.
I have goosebumps on my arms.
‘And yet, it’s all hidden behind this… this…’ He waves his palm around in a circle in front of me. ‘… this seething ball of bitterness and fury. It’s such a shame.’
Huh?I sag back in my seat as the wind leaves my sails.
He’s changed his tune quick enough!
‘You are the rudest man I’ve ever met!’
I am a life coach. A certified (it should arrive any day now), highly experienced professional person. Eight years in the field as they’d say. And not just any field. The highly stressful field of online social media marketing. I’m the one who helps and advises NOT the other way round.
‘Out,’ I tell him. ‘Out you get.’
He leaps up, trying to apologise but I don’t give him a chance. I watch him dart across the room like he’s fleeing a band of militia rebels.
‘I’ll call you,’ he yells over his shoulder as he yanks open the door.
‘Don’t bother,’ I fire back, watching him scurry through reception and down the stairs.
He’s infuriating.
I turn to see an open-mouthed Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen taking in the show.
‘Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen!’ I screech and proceed to give her a piece of my mind. I mean, how could she let someone just walk in without me saying I was ready?How? How?
‘But Miss Weston, I hear you screaming something. I thought it was signal to let gentleman enter,’ she pleads, all wide innocent eyes. We lock eyes for a second. I’m not so sure. There’s a touch of something demonic about her wilful misunderstanding.
‘Well don’t do it again,’ I say. ‘And make sure you charge him double for his session!’
‘But Miss Weston,’ she whispers, clearly pretending to be upset at me shouting at her. ‘He is from the EEE-THAY-EFFF.’
‘The what?’ I demand. Surely, I heard that wrong.
‘The EEE-THAY-EFFF,’ she repeats carefully.
The ICF? Is she saying the ICF? Where have I heard that recently? It’s sounds very familiar…Shit.My head is swimming. Nidi mentioned the ICF and something about notifying them that I’m about to begin coaching, and she would be my mentor. Could he be from the International Coach Federation, here in Alicante?
She speaks slowly as if testing me. ‘I write it on the post-it note. Is very important for you.’
I stare wildly at her.
‘Very, very important,’ she repeats.
‘Alright!’ I snap at her. ‘I get it!’
Oh my God.I can’t breathe. I need to get this straight in my head. By some bizarre coincidence the nosy giant I shared a taxi with from the airport, got shit-faced with at the retreat where we made out like a pair of randy goats on heat, just happens to work at the Alicante branch of the ICF.
That’s his company?
He works for a global training company?
Fuckedy fuck!!
I reach out to the reception desk for support and think back to whether he told me this, my brain scrambling about to join the dots. Did I ask him anything about himself?
No, why would I? At the retreat, I was far too busy hanging off his bulging biceps and dry humping him senseless. And duringhislife coaching session, I talked about myself.
