Honestly, if she’s told us once, she’s told us fourteen million feckin times.
‘Regional,’ Ava looks to me then to Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen. ‘Tenregionaloffices,’ she repeats.
Instead of taking offence at her sulky tone, I smile brightly. ‘Of course, tenregionaloffices, how could I forget?’ It has the desired effect of making my sister look petty. Which she is. But it no longer bothers me. ‘It must have been so demanding.’
Twelve days she was in charge. Twelve. That’s all.
Ava brightens at this and sits up straight, puffing out her chest. She reminds me of our mother.
‘This coach trip,’ I say. ‘So far, we’ve been like the blind leading the blind. What are we going to do with the people once we have them on board?The future of the company depends on it being a success.’
Ava rolls her eyes and gives Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen a conspiring look. ‘Honey, success is my middle name.’
It isn’t.
Nidi warned me I’d need the patience of a monk. She also advised me to see through my sister’s ignorance, and to embrace it as a chance for me to enlighten her.
After ten minutes of gritting my teeth at all of their wildly inappropriate suggestions, my phone buzzes.
It says, ‘I’m here.’
Immediately, I am all a fluster. A heat rises in my cheeks and I pray that I am not outwardly blushing. I look up into two pairs of inquisitive eyes.
‘YES! NO! NOTHING!’ I bark. ‘I will leave you two to it,’ I instruct. ‘I have a meeting to go to. I’ll be back in an hour. See if you can put some solid ideas together,’ I add, noticing that Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen is delighted to have been given a proper grown-up task to do that is unrelated to three telephone buttons.
I can hear Ava bossily taking charge, because of course she’s the world’s expert on all things marketing and being single, as I quickly race down the corridor to my own office, to check my face, my hair and my teeth.
All fine.
I have an air of excitement about me. I have not seen my face look so young and carefree for a long time. It won’t be long, I hope, before I have the tranquil manner of one who does regular yoga (now we know Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen can teach us for free!) and one who drinks wheatgrass for a living (Endless Cloud was right!). My hair seems to want to show off today too. It’s looking thick and glossy. I’ve not even had any itching scalp today. I give my lashes a quick flick of mascara to thicken them just in case they are called upon to waft slowly up and down throughout the afternoon.
In the same vein, I apply a thick coat of gloss to my lips which, I am also led to believe, will part involuntarily when looked at by the object of one’s desire. I still have much to learn about Oliver Reynolds.
Just as I am about to step out onto the street an alarming thought occurs.
Now normally, at the start of the working day, I would immediately leap onto Twitter to see what Ryan Reynolds has made of the previous day’s tweets and his opinions on the world and the idiot behaviour of some people. And yet, I have not checked up to see what Ryan thinks about any of it.
The thought did not even occur to me. Not once.
Chapter 36
‘Youlookdifferent,’saysOliver turning to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy and glowing.’
I have to stop myself preening at the compliment. Oliver is standing outside the entrance to my office block under the shade of an umbrella-shaped tree. ‘Is it me?’ he asks cheekily, while I avert my gaze from his penetrating stare.
I mean of course it is, but he’s a man, therefore he can never, ever know. He is quite ridiculously attractive. I take the opportunity to sneak a surreptitious glance at his toned arms, only to see that he flexes them into perfect round melons for my viewing pleasure.
I remain poised and keep my eyes looking to the middle distance, as if something important, beyond his understanding, is occupying my mind. I am, of course, imagining him flinging me over his shoulder like a Persian rug and rolling me out onto his bed.
‘What’s the number of the landlord?’ he says, getting straight down to business. He rings the number, introduces himself in fluent Spanish as my lawyer, which is a massive turn on, and swiftly takes the landlord to town, like he’s negotiating a Middle East ceasefire. Oliver is essentially telling him off for harassing me for something that is likely to be a banking error.
I am hugely turned on by his professionalism. We trade lustful glances. I imagine Oliver is struggling to keep from sweeping me up into his beefy arms and carrying me back to my office, for a mammoth sexual marathon on the chaise longue.
I can barely think straight.
‘Would you like to do our coaching session first, in exchange for your help sorting out my finances?’
Oliver tears his wandering eyes away from my legs. An unspoken understanding hangs in the air between us. It clearly screams that if we are left alone for any length of time then life coaching, whilst meaningful and full of merit, is the last thing that we will be doing.
