Page 2 of The Pleasure of Panic

This new game I’m playing is risky, no doubt.

Never done anything like this before.

Probably won’t ever do it again.

So I better make it count.

CHAPTER ONE - ISSY

“Say it with me!” I’m yelling that to the ladies in my women’s empowerment masterclass.

“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” they all yell back.

“One more time!” I urge.

“GO FUCK YOURSELF!”

“What are you gonna do from now on?”

“BE IN CONTROL!”

“And how ya gonna do that?”

“TAKE NAMES!”

“And what are you gonna do with those names?”

“KICK SOME FUCKIN’ ASS!”

I smile, fold my hands in front of me, and admire my clients one at a time. I always do this at the end of my masterclass. I acknowledge every one of them, hold their gaze for exactly two seconds as I picture how much stronger they are now than when they came here, and then repeat that until I’ve given everyone in the room their due.

“You,” I say, walking the circle, pointing to them one at a time as I pass, “are not the woman you were when you first came here, are you?”

“No,” they say. This time they don’t yell. Two of them are crying, one is holding it in, but doing a horrible job, and the other three are taking deep breaths as they look skyward with their eyes closed. Just the way I taught them.

“You are brave,” I say, touching each of them on the shoulder as I continue to walk around the circle. “You are strong,” I say. “And your past does not define you.”

They stare at me. All of them are crying now. But it’s not a sad cry. It’s not desperate and confused. That was who they were when they came through my doors two months ago on day one.

Who they are now, at the end of day sixty, bears no resemblance to who they were then.

“Ladies,” I say, stopping to smile. “I pronounce you graduates of Issy Grey’s Go Fuck Yourself Masterclass.” My assistant, Suzanne, hands out their certificates and I shake their hands, keeping the affirmations going.

I am proud of each and every one of them. All of them are changed.

I did that.

Well, they did that. But I definitely helped.

It’s a fulfilling feeling. To help. To make others your priority. To take them in all broken and sad and give them the tools they need to succeed.

This job isn’t a job. It’s a calling. And when I’m doing it, I am complete. I need nothing else.

Thirty minutes later the office has cleared out, Suzanne is cleaning up after our final exam—which started with kickboxing and ended with wine—and I’m peeking out the window in the door, watching Chella Baldwin as she looks both ways, crosses the street, and then bustles into my storefront, bringing the cold and snow with her.

“Whew!” she exclaims. “Stupid cold out there tonight. I saw your grads leave, congrats!” She holds out one of her cute pale yellow takeaway teacups that say Chella’s Tea Room on them in swirly black calligraphy. She also has a pale yellow box tied with black string which I know contains one or two of her delicious lemon tarts.

“Thanks,” I say. To all of it. The tea, the tarts, and the praise. “What’s going on over there?” I nod my head to her shop. “You’re so busy tonight.”