Page 30 of ReTreat Yourself

‘Um, Mees Weston,’ she tries to interrupt, but I’ve got her over a barrel. We’ve had numerous bizarre emails corroborating the facts. Why Nidi also posted it on the Facebook page will forever be a mystery to me. She is a little like my over-sharing sister in that respect. I didn’t even want to go for the bloody thing, but she insisted because she is thinking of doing a deal where if we recommend them to clients, they will get a discount. And something about vaginal steams being very detoxifying and spiritual.

‘You know I clearly said steam, not cream. I was out getting a vaginal steam with Nidi. Huge difference,’ I spit crossly, my patience with her wearing thin. I know I shouldn’t snipe at her, but it’s difficult not to, especially since she’s quite useless, and I’m borderline psychotic at the moment.

‘And for your information, it is highly unprofessional to disclose what a person, especially your employers, do with their vaginas. Is that clear?’

A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Unless you are Gwyneth Paltrow. She seems to make a good living out of it but still… You are not to mention my vagina to anyone.’

I must stop panic-talking. Verbal diarrhoea is a delaying tactic. I must stop it at once.

At least Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen sounds contrite. ‘No, Mees Weston… I will no longer mention your new and fresh vagina… So, which button to turn off the loudspeaker did you say?’

Oh Christ.

Slamming the phone down, I take a few rapid breaths and tap my wrists in equal bursts, as per the Emergency Quick Fix instructions, and stare frantically at the door handle, waiting for it to turn. I’m a disgrace. An absolute fucking disgrace. I can feel my colossal meltdown bubbling dangerously close to the surface as I break into a torrential sweat.

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

I tear at my scalp, which is suddenly ridiculously itchy, and scratch until it is sore. If only I’d come clean and confessed to Nidi, none of this would be happening. But then I’d be out of a job, desperate and a laughing stock. My eyes flick to a brightly coloured feather duster lying on the coffee table. It’s a constant reminder that I’d have to take that naked cleaning job. I am not sure if there are rules against openly discussing the health of your vagina, commenting on a client’s looks and questioning the freshness of his breath, but if there were, I have broken quite a few.

Nidi will be mortified if she finds out. I need to calm down and act professionally.

Hopefully, I think to myself, my first-ever client will have some sort of fatal heart attack between Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen’s reception desk and the three feet to my door.

No such luck.

There is a gentle knock on my door. Instinctively, I rush over. I am going to have serious words with our assistant after this. I take a deep calming breath in and swing open the door, a wide, manic smile plastered onto my face.

As soon as he smiles back, mine instantly withers.

Christ Almighty. My heart leaps to my throat.

It is Oliver, and he has a questioning look on his face.

13

We take a beat to stare at one another as Oliver unwraps an extra-large mint and pops it casually into his mouth, without breaking eye contact.

‘I heard the radio interview yesterday and was passing by,’ he says, chewing the mint and swallowing it. ‘I thought I’d check to see how things were going.’

Badly, of course.

I continue to stare at him. Even perplexed, he is managing to have quite the effect on me.

His dark navy eyes bore holes into mine. ‘Especially after the last time we saw each other. We kind of left things a bit awkwardly.’

Awkwardly? Which awkward situation could he be referring to? The one where I whined on like a broken record before rubbing myself against his manhood as though I had a bad case of the clap? Or me breaking into his room and screaming at him while he frantically tried to hide his one-eyed snake with a bag of Monster Munch? Or the one where he invited me in to bounce up and down on him and I disappeared without a trace?

I yank him by the arm into my office, slamming the door firmly behind me before Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen can hear any more.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say, fear gripping me like a vice. ‘Are you my eleven o’clock appointment?’ I quickly make a mental list of all the lies that he overheard me tell last week.

I am a qualified life coach.

I am an orphan.

I speak Spanish like a native.