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‘Of course,’ my sister says, grinning at me while she rummages around in that massive tote bag of hers, the one she dropped at the airport that had a salon full of toiletries in it. I also spy a toothbrush.

I stare at her. That is indeed the answer. But I can’t let her near me, never mind ask for her help.

‘Let me at you for five minutes. Nell, I practically do glow ups for a living. What do you say?’ she asks kindly.

I’m caught in a moment of hesitation. I’m not proud but I let vanity get the better of me.

She leaps towards me. ‘Go do your teeth. You’ve a red wine smile.’

I take the toothbrush and mini toothpaste from her and do as she says.

‘Sit here by the light,’ she instructs on my return. She tears open the bag, yanking at my hair with a brush, gets out some straighteners and dusts my cheeks with powder, swishes make-up brushes all over my eyebrows, lips, eyes. She runs the straighteners through my hair super quick, stands me up, gives me her shoes and jacket. She fiddles with the kimono, making it look more like a dress, and says, ‘Ta-dah!’

She turns me to face the mirror.

Oh.

23

I look great. Unbelievable even. She leaves me staring in wonder at myself and heads out of the door with her head hanging down. Well, the joke’s on her because for short bursts of time, I can be quite nice. I begrudgingly say, ‘Thank you. Much appreciated.’

She spins around all hopeful, so I shoot her a warning look not to get too carried away. I’m still majorly furious with her. It’s all I can do to manage a small, grateful smile but only on one side of my mouth.

I see her jaw drop open as the entire doorframe behind her is filled with my man from the International Coaching Federation. This time he is not covered in sandy shorts and a T-shirt. He’s wearing a dashing suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the top and no tie. His hair is still floppy and his arms still beefy, even through the suit jacket he’s wearing. My, but he looks sophisticated. He takes one look at me, and we stand transfixed. Even the sweaty tension of imminent exposure can’t dampen how attracted I am to him. I don’t even notice my sister slide out of the room and more importantly, neither does he! I think I have just fallen madly in love with Mr Beefy Arms, solely based on the fact that he did not pay my sister or her award-winning legs one ounce of attention. He has kept his penetrating gaze fixed on me the whole time.

If it were still okay for women to swoon, I would. My mind is blank from lust, so for want of anything better to do, I just keep gawping.

Oliver speaks first. ‘Can I come in?’ he asks politely from the doorway. He sure fills a doorframe nicely enough.

‘Of course, of course,’ I say, snapping back to my professional self. He closes the door behind him, and I catch a glimpse of two nosy faces leaping up and down to see what is going on before it shuts. I watch, mesmerised at his commanding walk across the room to stop inches before me. I look up at him. I’d forgotten quite how tall he is. It’s very impressive.

‘Sorry to barge in like this,’ he apologises, ‘but I wanted to see you in person. To apologise for upsetting you and adding to the stress. I appreciate this must all be a lot for you to deal with, a new job in a new country and so, if you still want to go ahead with the, erm, plan, then I’m in. I want to help you… if I can.’

My mind flies to the International Coaching Federation. A sudden flashback of when he came into my office to find me rolling around on the floor pings into my brain. Oliver is towering incredibly close to me.

‘You do?’ I whisper uncomfortably, looking away from him. He must feel terribly conflicted. He should be revoking my licence.

‘What about the ICF and the board? Won’t they mind?’

‘What about them? What I do outside of work has nothing to do with them.’

I like his thinking. A lot.

‘And you still want to honour our special arrangement?’

Could I be any more unclear?

‘Very much so.’

And what special arrangement am I talking about exactly? He’s so overpoweringly good-looking that I have lost the thread entirely of whether a session means a session. Or is this sizzling undercurrent of metaphors between us all in my head?

‘And you won’t tell the ICF?’

Oliver shakes his head. ‘Why would I tell the ICF?’

Hello, because you work for them?

‘And you won’t be breaking any codes of conduct? There aren’t going to be any imminent job losses? Namely, mine.’