Page 72

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 the photos of him from all our social media accounts. 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 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 Reynolds’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 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 end a call) and the other a black telephone with emanating sound (to place call on loudspeaker). I 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. She is positively stinking of drink and incredibly late for work. 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 Nidi to ring you as soon as she returns from the funeral,’ I say, relieved this woman is 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. ‘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.’

Ava and Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen lean in to hear what is going on. I press the loudspeaker button. They may as well hear first-hand the consequences of their drunk social media posting.

Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen looks at me as though I’ve just pressed the button for DEFCON 1.

It’s a teaching moment. An ironic teaching moment.

‘Miss Weston, I assure you, no one of that name works here at the ICF. We do not have a Madrid branch and we certainly haven’t suspended anyone.’ She sounds annoyed. ‘I’m going to push for your monitoring visit to take place as soon as possible. Goodbye.’

We take a beat to stare at each other.