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Oliver is a very good influence on my crackpot mood swings. Just looking at him makes me feel lighter and upbeat.

‘We’ll be in here for hours. What do you want to know about me?’

‘Erm, well, erm, just, you know,’ I say shyly, suddenly caught on the hop, ‘just things.’

Are you the romantic type to tell a girl you love her every day? Would you be willing to surprise her and make sure she feels adored? In short, could you see yourself being in love with someone like me? Forever.

‘Things?’ he enquires innocently. Poor fool.

‘Oh just, you know, where you grew up. That kind of thing.’

‘I have three older sisters,’ he says. ‘Which means that I fully understand the subtext in what you are asking.’

He has no idea. Menfellas simply have no idea what we clever women really mean. No idea at all.

His eyes are dancing with merriment.

Surely not. He’d be the first man in the history of men to ever figure⁠—

‘I’ve been single for just over a year,’ he adds, giving me a look. ‘I’ve never been in love because until now, I’ve not managed to find a funny, clever, entertaining woman who makes standing in a bank queue for hours even remotely worthwhile.’ He squeezes my hand and fixes me an intense sort of look. ‘Anything else?’

‘No,’ I whisper. I have to avert my gaze from his burning stare because my heart is going like the clappers.

Suddenly, he starts rubbing his thumb seductively across my palm. It is a loaded action. The electricity between us is building.

Then a miracle happens. Our number is called. I fly over to the desk to find the new clerk speaks English, and rapidly beg, beg, beg her to activate the direct debit for the rent. I nod towards Oliver, who is standing across the waiting area in a splendid display of handsomeness. The girl gives me an appreciative nod and an unnecessary pantomime wink, immediately getting my drift.

‘And while you’re at it,’ I plead, ‘why isn’t any money going into my account from the business or the money I transferred two bloody weeks ago from the UK?’

She taps away and looks up questioningly to say nobody (me) has bothered to authorise the online transfers or the PayPal.

‘Do it! Do it!’ I hiss, nodding frantically. We both take a beat to admire Oliver, who is looking at us from afar with a bemused grin. He straightens up so that his pecs strain against his shirt buttons. The girl lets out an appreciative slow breath.

Two minutes later and we are out of there.

35

‘So, you have one of those fancy whitewashed townhouses, do you?’ I breathe huskily when we break out onto the sunny street. No sooner are the words out of my mouth than he has grabbed my hand, and we are almost halfway to his house.

We scurry past the marina and its bobbing yachts, past Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s family’s restaurant and over to the start of the cobbled lanes that wind their way up to the church. All the houses are centuries old, whitewashed stone with hanging baskets outside spilling over with bright pink and purple flowers. The picture-perfect scene would have any normal person oohing and aahing but the beauty is lost on me, because I am a person blinded by carnal lustings.

We stop abruptly outside a grand-looking terraced house covered in colourful flowered vines and, as we rush through a giant blue wooden door that Oliver deftly kicks shut behind us with one foot, we start kissing the lips off each other.

Somehow, we manage to kiss our way upstairs to a giant soft bed in a room with enormous patio doors overlooking terracotta roof tiles down to the twinkling blue sea. The view is breath-taking. It feels wrong not to mention it at least.

Oliver allows me two seconds of polite small talk – ‘Ooh, what a simply stunning view of the—’ – before he launches me onto the bed, and straight into heaven.

My floaty floral dress practically disintegrates under his touch. My bra needs even less encouragement and, unusually, instead of preferring to be wrestled off, it pings off with just one smouldering look. Oliver yanks his clothes off and lies next to me naked. I can barely look at him. He is unbelievably well-maintained. I run my hand across his chest and slowly down towards his stomach. And when he takes a sharp breath in, I am suddenly overcome with longing. My touch is sending him wild.

‘Oh my God,’ Oliver mumbles, his mouth unable to decide which nipple tastes best. He breaks off to kiss my face, my lips and then my neck. His hands roam down to my knickers, slipping inside to cup my bare bottom and haul me on top of him.

‘You are so gorgeous!’ he groans huskily, holding me tightly to him. I can feel his erection throbbing against my nethers. After some frenzied, passionate kissing and rubbing up against each other, the mood shifts, and he kisses me slowly. I feel his hands gently roam across my body, snaking down my spine, peeling down my knickers. It is unbelievably sensual. He rolls me onto my back and lies on top of me.

‘I am going to kiss every single inch of you,’ he says, looking into my eyes, sending shoots of desire through my whole body. Now is definitely not the time to mention that we are breaking several rules in the Life Coaching Code of Conduct.

My mind is immediately cleared of all things regulatory, because Oliver, it turns out, is a man of his word.

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