Page 36 of ReTreat Yourself

My back is immediately up. An actual client is on his way up the feckin’ stairs, and I have no clue who it is.

‘Quick. Notes! Notes!’

‘No notes,’ she mutters at me without even looking up.

Gaaah!

‘No notes? What do you mean no notes?’

‘Ees off the website. Meester Max.’

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

She strolls to the window and looks down onto our little carpark. ‘He arrive now. He is no Ryan Reynolds, I must say.’ Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen emits a familiar but strange hissing sound. I’ve never before heard her laugh, but I think this might be it.

I follow her over and peer down to see him getting out of his car. ‘Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen, it doesn’t matter how ugly the clients are, as long as they pay us to help them,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, Ryan Reynolds is an exceptionally good-looking man. A freak genetic phenomenon. We shouldn’t be comparing other human men to him. It wouldn’t be fair.’

My new client looks up at us with a frown, almost as though he has heard every word we’ve just said.

Shitting hell.

* * *

‘Please, take a seat, Mr Max.’ I smile sweetly at my new client as I usher him in and pretend to know what I’m doing. He nods politely, unable to talk for sucking on a colossal mint. I could hear Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen asking him if he had the breath of Satan – at least, that’s what it sounded like in Spanish. I can only imagine what he thought of that little exchange.

I wait patiently for him to chew and swallow, before introducing myself.

‘Mr Max, what are you hoping to achieve from our sessions together?’ I ask, just as I saw Nidi do many times last week. I flick my eyes over him to note he’s dressed very much in the style of no style. He’s a man in his thirties wearing that awful combo of torn jeans (designed for males under twenty) smartened up with a blazer (designed for those over forty) over a huge rugby shirt (designed for those who actually play rugby). A clear indication of indecision. And because I’m the sort to not judge and always look for the positives, I see immediately that he has well-kept nails and even though he has a jumpy manner about him, he is extremely polite and well-spoken. He is also very, very single-looking.

‘It’s just Max.’

‘Of course it is. Sorry about that.’ I look down at my imaginary notes as though there’s been an administrative error and not a Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen-related error.

Max shyly explains that he has only recently arrived in Spain and works for a UK-based company nearby. I’ve met his sort before. Back when I was a workaholic (just over a week ago) for an uncaring, gigantic corporation of selfish twats. I’m certain I can guess what his deal is.

‘You devote long hard hours to the job and, while it pays well,’ I continue speedily, flicking my eyes to my pretend notes, ‘you never seem to find the time to devote any of it to yourself, or your social life, because you are always under pressure to pursue a promotion.’

He tilts his head and crosses his legs.

‘You probably can’t remember the last time you hung out with friends or family, never mind went on a date, and this bit is extremely important.’ I pause to take a breath and watch him lean in. ‘You’ve never found yourself a good hairdresser or a sense of style that you can really commit to.’ I watch his mouth fall open as I continue helpfully. ‘You would like some coaching to bring balance to your life and help you perhaps open the door to love? You feel yourself yearning for someone to share a glass of wine and a take-away with, some romance and maybe a little drama?’ I’ll invite him to the singles night. He’ll love that.

I tilt my head slightly to the right like his and fix him with my most professional look. ‘Am I right?’

I feel like I’m nailing this. I wish Nidi was here observing.

He shakes his head. ‘No, not really. No.’

Shite.

‘I’d like to lose some weight and get fit,’ he explains. ‘Everything is centred around the beach here, and I’m having trouble meeting people. I feel too shy to join in.’

He looks absolutely fine to me. Some people wouldn’t know a real problem if it came up and poked them in the eye.

‘Have you tried a beetroot cleanse?’ I take out the Wheel of Life diagram and we plough through the motions of life coaching. As I perceive them, aka from a charlatan’s point of view.

* * *