There’s one picture after another of drunken cross-eyed rugby players cavorting with the Hen ladies. Several photos of a scantily clad Ava, with a pondering look, hashtag life, what’s it all about? And many, many memes of kittens with sad eyes. KITTENS!!!
How am I supposed to work like this? How?
The bookings are a shambles. I have no idea who is coming in or when. Half of the bookings are for the wrong time anyway. There are no notes. NO NOTES! No payment records. NOTHING!!
Nidi has been gone barely a week and I have single-handedly RUINED her business. I wonder if Ryan has these same worries when he is running his production company or his Welsh football team? Probably. I wonder if I should message him. I decide not to. Even I can see that this fantasy escapism of mine is a mere disguise for procrastination and truth avoidance.
The singles event, my missing redundancy payout, the client payments must be dealt with today. I will start by laying out and rubbing my green crystals. It should help me visualise my financial goals.
I reach for the biggest crystal and wave it about in front of my face and upper body. I have no idea what it is doing, but the rhythmic motion is instantly soothing.
My phone pings.
It’s Oliver! My heart skips a beat at the sight of his name. I quickly scan the message.
Shite.
He’s asking if I can take down ALL of the photos of him from ALL of our social media. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE PLEASE if I wouldn’t mind. He has been bombarded with DMs and thinks it is very unprofessional. He is flying back to Madrid because his board have also called for him to be suspended from work.
Oh God. It’s started already. The repercussions. The backlash. Another career down the drain.
For my own sanity, I switch off my phone and turn my attention to some deep nostril breathing and some active relaxation involving me imagining that I’m somewhere nice and doing something calming, like kneading bread or stroking horses or better still, unwinding in Ryan Reynold’s sauna.
I’m so wound up, I have to force myself to relax into the dream, lowering my shoulders and placing my hand on my stomach to feel the gentle rise and fall of each breath. Just as Ryan is asking me all about my worries, before suggesting we take off our towels like Scandinavians, so we can sit there looking at each other naked, two things happen.
One is that there is an almighty racket from outside my office and the other is that the reception phone shrills.
I dash outside to the reception to witness Ava tutting and making throaty annoyed noises at a shrieking Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen who is gesticulating wildly with arms and hands waving about.
I calmly walk past them and round to the other side of the reception desk to pick up the phone.
‘Hello, you are through to The Life Coach. How can I help?’ I say politely, taking in this bizarre scene. They haven’t had the common decency to stop arguing. It’s like I am invisible to them.
Last night they were swearing to be BFFs and soulmates.
I also stare in wonderment at the three big buttons in front of me. One has a large green telephone on (to accept a call), the middle one has a large red telephone on (to hang up a call) and the other a black telephone with emanating sound (to place call on loudspeaker) and marvel at how on earth Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen manages to always, always, fucking ALWAYS press the loudspeaker by mistake.
An official-sounding woman tells me that she is calling from the ICF to arrange a talk with Nidi, an observation with me, which is routine practice, and other important checks.
I mouth to the girls to be quiet.
Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen slips onto her seat at reception with last night’s clothes on, her hair wild and she is positively stinking of drink. I am delighted to see that she is incredibly late for work, and her face has a sickly green hue to it, as though she has very recently recovered from the plague.
Ava is chewing on a nail, looking very dishevelled and dark around the eyes.
‘I will ask her to ring you as soon as she returns from the funeral,’ I say, relieved she’s not ringing to fire me or close the business down. ‘Although, I am surprised Oliver hasn’t told you that she is away.’
‘Oliver who?’
‘Your inspector. You know the really handsome one?’ I simply can’t help myself. Even if he is very annoyed with me at the moment. ‘The tall one with lovely kind eyes and a sort of attractive bossiness to him. Oliver Reynolds. And by the way, those social media photos were not his fault. You should not be suspending him from work. If anything, it is all my fault.’
Least I can do under the circumstances.
‘I’ve never heard of him and we never value our staff by their outward appearance,’ she snaps. ‘As far as I’m aware, we have no operatives, handsome or otherwise, in your area. And now you’ve mentioned it, please do take down those awful photos you have posted on your socials immediately. They are not in keeping with the ICF values.’
Maybe I’ve misheard, or maybe it is because Oliver is working undercover like a mystery diner.
‘Oliver Reynolds,’ I repeat. ‘He works for you. Your Madrid branch unfairly suspended him.’
