‘I’d definitely like the whole package. One session a week starting tomorrow.’
‘Er … let me check my diary.’ I tap into an empty schedule on my phone. How available should I sound and what can I get away with charging? I kick myself for not having nailed down my fees in the endless debate about what my product is and what it’s worth. I had been thinking fifty pounds a session, but Joe suggested doubling that. Meanwhile, Eva said I should triple it. ‘People pay thousands of euro for china teeth. Why not pay for veneer of mind?’
‘Oh, and the fee …’ Vince jumps in, as though reading my thoughts. ‘It says here your rate is £500.’ I cough in shock. I’m sure I put fifty quid on the leaflet. Did I accidentally add a zero? ‘I’m sure you’re very busy, but can I insist on tomorrow?’ he continues. ‘I’m worried I’m having a breakdown.’
Red flag! While I have some qualifications on paper, I’m not a therapist and have no plans for a physical counselling practice. After my degree I dithered so much about what route I wanted to go down I didn’t go anywhere at all. I don’t want to present myself as a super-qualified coach and have him end up thinking I’m a charlatan.
‘Mr Marino, I think maybe you need a qualified therapist.’
‘No. I went there briefly after my wife died. It’s not for me. And neither is grief counselling, or creating sparkly pictures in adult colouring books. I am an actor and completely in touch with my emotions. It’s just my emotions are rock bottom. I see you as the bridge to moving on. You say in this leaflet you have the skills and techniques to transform a disaster of a guy into something resembling a normal human being … well, that’s what I’d like you to do for me.’ I didn’t exactly say that, but I let it go as his voice cracks slightly, taking him further from the soul-sucking Canceller by the minute. With some reluctance, I agree to meet him in twenty-four hours, which gives me just about enough time to do some emergency planning and shave my legs. I tell him we can chat and take it from there.
‘Can you come to me? I’m afraid I have to hide away here until I’m brave enough to face the world again,’ he says, and I take down his address.
I’ve walked so far during the conversation I’ve ended up on Uxbridge Road. With a smile, I do what I never do and call into a coffee chain. When the man at the counter asks my name for the cup I smile and give him my new nickname for Joe. ‘And how are you at latte art?’
As I leave the shop, my phone rings. ‘Er, me again. Sorry to bother you but I’ve just noticed my autograph on the back of your leaflet. Its value has possibly taken a bit of a nosedive due to circumstances beyond my control …’ Vince’s voice catches again ‘… but I think if we can all ride out this particular moment in time, it could be of some worth in the future. Remind me to give the flyer back to you during our session.’
Hurrying down my street, I find Joe sitting in the front seat of his van. I knock on the window but pull back when I notice he’s on the phone. As I walk away, he shouts my name. Returning to the vehicle, I apologise for interrupting.
‘You didn’t. I was waiting for you. So?’
‘So … I got my first client!’
‘Yay! Big congrats.’
‘I’ve bought you this to say thanks for helping spur me on with the business plan and leaflets. Yep, I know you can make your own and are probably sick to death of caffeine, but I wanted to treat you. Food is always nicer when you don’t have to make it yourself isn’t it?’ I pass him the coffee. A grin floods his face as he reads the scrawl on the side of the coffee. ‘“Extra Hot Americano”?’ My name or the order?’
I brief him to look inside the cup. The barista was worth his fee, creating a swirl of interconnected hearts. Joe smiles again and pleasure pushes through my body. I say goodbye and pretty much sprint home.
I text Eva with my news. She asks if Vince is sexy and instructs me to send a picture. I pull up an image and send it across as I let myself back into the house. When she texts again asking for a video, I send a link to a YouTube clip of him playing a private detective in his biggest TV role a few years ago.
I pick up a pan with the remains of Eva’s purple porridge in it as she phones, launching straight into her critique of the actor. ‘Tall and bendy. Large hands and feet. Good teeth by professional dentist.’
‘You’re obsessed.’
‘Doodle need toothbrush for terrible breath. Can you have him tomorrow? Kai doing hotel inspection.’
‘Inspection? Is that what he’s calling his shifts now? Unbelievable.’ Doodle could teach the lazy DJ a thing or two about close supervision. He watched me putting his food in his bowl so intently this morning I rechristened him Sherlock Bones. ‘So did you chase up Doodle’s owner?’
‘Out of office email now say on holiday.’
‘Told you so.’
She tells me she’s thought some more about my business. ‘You are #BeHappy guru. Own it. Own the hashtag. But do not rely on Twitter platform to feel special as do not own platform. Twitter kick you off tomorrow for wrong move and not special anymore. Build newsletter. Make website. Get more clients. “Daisy Blane. Personal Happiness Coach to stars!”’
Chapter 7
Over the next twenty-four hours I prepare for my new life as a happiness coach. Updating myself on the latest thinking about mindfulness, I flick through books written by experts ranging from TV doctors to academics, all of them offering a route map to those who have lost their way. Googling developments in the field of positive psychology, I listen to podcasts about being authentic and making small changes that could lead to bigger changes. Then I check out my contemporaries on Twitter, mostly peddling the kind of advice I’ve consistently shared with my own followers, like setting an intention each day. I pick up my dissertation on how positive thinking can actively help with depression, reading through my work on the three pillars of hope, gratitude and joy. Using all the knowledge gathered from my research, I work up some plans for Vince for the next four weeks, including diagnostic tools to work out what makes him happy.
I hold out the blanket I’ve been knitting as an anxiety buster, congratulating myself on the neatness of the stitches. I set up my mini tripod on the coffee table, click into video mode and record a quick message for my followers. ‘Welcome to operation knit and mend. For Saturday’s #BePositive hashtag I’m knitting myself a comfort blanket.’
I hear paws on the floor and hold the knitting to my chest. ‘No, no, no no no noooooooo …’ Doodle bowls me down like a skittle as his teeth sink into the neat stitches and drag them off the needle. Grabbing the phone and tripod, I follow him into the kitchen. He has forced himself through the legs of a wooden chair and I crouch in front of him, still holding the camera. Insta gold.
I hold out my hand, keeping the camera on his face.
‘Give.’ He looks at me with the kind of puppy dog eyes you see in cartoons. ‘Hand over that knitting, Doodle.’
There’s a stand-off while he whines to test how firm I am. Then, realising I’m serious, he drops the wool and needle at my feet. He rolls over, a brief wiggle of his body inviting me to stroke his matted fur. This dog is starting to paw his way into my heart with his bad breath and unmanicured claws. ‘Right, you tangled mutt. We’re going out for walkies and then you will sit at my feet in silence while I pick up the stitches,’ I say. At the ‘w’ word he rolls over. I stop filming and tickle his tummy. I can edit the video and have it up by lunchtime. From experience, I know a doggy caper with missed stitches will travel far and wide.
