Chapter Fourteen

‘Troy – I love your mantra, and what a fabulous session you did this morning. In case anyone here missed it, could you remind us what your style of life coaching involves?’

Was it Wanda or Di who’d simpered the question at the man now sitting to my right? And how in God’s name had I reached my seat without passing out? Maybe I had passed out, and this was merely a nightmare from which I could awake at any time.

‘Hey, Wanda, I’m truly touched – thank you.’ He spread his hands – elegant, compelling hands that had once been as familiar to me as the sun and the moon. ‘Okay, so whenever I coach someone, I like to be a big part of their life, I call it total immersion. And together we push their boundaries, right? That leads to some amazing experiences – for me as well as the coachee. There’s always a confidentiality agreement involved, so I can’t be too specific – but let me tell you about a time when …’

As he spoke, I forced myself to stop trembling and look at him. He was still, to the unjaundiced eye, powerfully attractive with his flawless tan, youthful face, perfect smile. All testament to the scale of his disposable income; or rather that of Maria, his long-term partner – the woman I hadn’t even known about until she returned unexpectedly early from her two-month trip to Europe, tracked him down, and gave him an ultimatum …

I’d been haunted by that chapter of my life for three years – until last night. What I’d found with Jack had helped me towards closure. Except now, it seemed, there was one final page to be written – with the man beside me. I drank in every detail, observing the changes: his ever-so-slightly sagging jaw, the puckered skin of his neck – hints of an old age that could no longer be held at bay. Then my gaze lurched to his hands, and the trembling started all over again.

As if still attuned to my every thought, he paused in the middle of whatever he was saying and said, ‘But maybe you should ask Aleesha. As a former coachee of mine, she has first-hand knowledge.’

Somebody laughed; it was a harsh laugh and I realised that it came from me. Because this suggestion was nothing more than a test: as he’d already indicated, the Troy Randall Travers style of life coaching required the coachee to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

And all the time Jack must be watching, and thinking – what was he thinking?

Try to breathe … swallow … take control.

‘Alicia?’ This was Lionel, concern battling with curiosity in his voice.

I took a gulp of air and dragged my eyes towards Troy’s. ‘That’s correct. It was a very … formative experience that ultimately helped me to decide on a career in executive coaching—’

He pounced. ‘Odd decision, when you responded so well to total immersion. Care to elaborate?’

I shook my head. ‘As you know, I’m legally bound not to divulge any details.’

A flash of excessively white teeth. ‘So am I. All I’ll say is – what a waste!’ He dismissed me with an exaggerated shrug, and turned to the audience. ‘Hey, guys – even if you haven’t any direct experience of executive coaching, I’m sure you can imagine how it goes: you sit in an office talking to a manager in a suit about how they’re gonna achieve their performance targets, with all the really interesting stuff strictly off limits. What does life coaching need to learn from that?’

A crescendo of laughter from the audience and, on the stage, from Wanda and Di – all seduced by his charisma. Only Lionel and I, it seemed, saw nothing funny in his remarks. Oh, and Jack too; I glimpsed him at the back of the room – arms crossed, face like stone. If it hadn’t been for a need to prove myself to him, I would have given up there and then.

But actually, it wasn’t just for Jack. There was also something inside of me that rebelled at being written off by Troy Randall Travers in such a cavalier fashion; a welling of professional and personal pride that needed to find release.

‘That’s exactly what I’m here to explain,’ I said coolly, once the laughter had died down. ‘First, let’s look at some similarities. Executive coaching has the same purpose as life coaching – it’s just that the life in question is that of an organisation, rather than an individual. And I’m sure you can all appreciate that an organisation still has aims, still needs to deal with change. Which means that, yes, I often sit in an office talking to a manager in a suit.’

I shifted into a more comfortable position on my chair, then went on, ‘But that can involve “really interesting stuff” too. Because, with every coaching assignment, there’s an element of unpredictability.’ My voice faltered as I recalled that first meeting with Jack at Leo Components; I dragged myself together. ‘As for being in an office – well, increasingly, executive coaches are varying the environment in which they work. In fact, this time last weekend I was in the Lake District with my coachee – which helped us both to see things differently.’ A quick smile in Jack’s direction – seeking a response, but not lingering for one; I needed to focus on Troy.

I turned my head and met his gaze full on. His eyes were blue, like Jack’s, but without the green flecks; in fact, there was nothing to disturb their uniformity. How many times had I teasingly compared them to the Pacific Ocean … I bit my lip, rousing myself from an old spell. ‘To answer your question, however, there is something that the less’ – I was tempted to say ‘scrupulous’, but I resisted – ‘less structured forms of life coaching could learn from executive coaching.’

He addressed the audience, mouth sketching an incredulous grin. ‘Boy, this is gonna be worth hearing.’ Then he switched back to me, almost casual in his confidence. ‘Well, Aleesha, what could I learn from you?’

‘Professional ethics.’

The grin flickered. ‘Meaning?’

‘As we all know, some elements – accreditation, certification, compliance with data protection laws – are relatively straightforward to acquire. But what about the values-based ethics, the principles of honesty, integrity, transparency? What about the duty of care that every coach has – or should have – for their coachee? Talking purely hypothetically, let’s suppose that what starts out as a coaching relationship becomes far more personal. Is that professional? Is that ethical? Where are the boundaries?’

The grin widened again, as if he was comfortable with the challenge. ‘In my style of life coaching, it’s the particular needs of the coachee that determine the boundaries. And then we push them, overcome them. That’s the whole freaking idea, Aleesha.’

Titters from the audience, but not the same wholehearted laughter as before; I pressed my point. ‘But where does morality come into it?’

‘Morality?’

‘Suppose your coachee wants to commit a crime – rob a bank, say, or murder their partner. Do you help to remove the boundaries so that the coachee can achieve their goal?’

‘That’s a ridiculous scenario, I would never take on anyone like that. If you remember, I arrange an initial interview to talk through the coaching assignment, and it goes ahead only if we both agree.’

Oh yes, I remembered. The charismatic coach invited the starstruck student to dinner; a Peruvian restaurant, the conversation as spicily seductive as the food. By the end of the meal, the student believed she needed life coaching to ‘find herself’; for an unexpectedly affordable fee, she would have the Troy Randall Travers total immersion experience, his undivided attention for the next two months. Naturally, she ‘found herself’ – and a lot more besides.

Maybe I was the exception … but, based on my recollection of Maria’s shrill accusations, I doubted it.

Deep breath. ‘Let’s take a less ridiculous scenario, then. Suppose your coachee falls in love with you and a different relationship becomes possible. Would you take advantage?’

He reached out and rested his fingers lightly on my bare arm. Only he and I knew that, underneath, his thumbnail was digging into my flesh. I held his gaze, daring him to lie.

‘Honey, if I had to count the number of girls who’ve thrown themselves at me over the years, I’d be here all week.’ He addressed the audience with a self-deprecating grimace. ‘As I always say to a female coachee – when it comes to coaching, does it matter whether I’m a man and you’re a woman? Unfortunately, to some of them, it does.’ Back to me, releasing my arm with an affectionate-looking squeeze. ‘With me, people buy the whole package, risks and all, right? The whole point of my total immersion approach is that no one knows how it’ll play out.’ A laugh devoid of any amusement. ‘Not even me.’

It was tempting to reveal the red mark on the underside of my arm, and gain some sympathy votes. But I wanted to win the conversational jousting on level terms.

I forced some lightness into my voice. ‘That’s no excuse, though, surely? Yes, this girl – these girls should have known better. But it’s not an equal relationship, is it? You’re the one in charge of the situation, and your role carries some responsibility for their welfare.’

He flung his hands wide, simulating incomprehension. ‘Role? Responsibility? Welfare? Typical corporate crap.’ A winning smile at the audience. ‘Okay, so let me tell you all about a really interesting guy I coached, movie actor – no names, no pack-drill. You’d think this guy would have everything he ever wanted, but …’

And on he went, skillfully weaving into his celebrity success story the suggestion that he coached males as frequently as females. Oh, and implying that my reference to professional ethics was an insult to the intelligence.

It was Lionel who hauled him back to my earlier question. ‘That’s all well and good for a famous film actor, Troy – they probably involve a team of people in everything they do, a ready-made support network. But what safeguards do you have in place for everyone else? I suppose with executive coaching, Alicia, the coachee can always refer back to the HR department – is that right?’ I nodded. He hesitated, then went on, ‘But with life coaching the coachee’s on their own.’

Troy’s eyes were slits of steel in a bronze mask. ‘So’s the coach.’

‘Don’t you have supervision?’ This from Di, leaning forward. Not to criticise, of course; more with barely suppressed eagerness – eagerness to learn from the master …

He turned to her with a suave laugh. ‘I’ve never found it that effective, but maybe I just haven’t found the right person. I’m open to offers, though.’ His voice dropped to a husky, intimate tone for these last words, as if there was no one else in the room. I could imagine how it made Di feel – I’d have felt the same. I had felt the same, once.

I stared over at Jack, willing him to meet my gaze; but he was looking down at the floor. I switched my attention reluctantly back to Wanda, who was entering the discussion for the first time.

‘I don’t understand the issue here,’ she was saying, her wide forehead creased in a frown. ‘We have contracts in life coaching just like you do in executive coaching. It’s just common sense to have something in writing explaining each party’s responsibilities.’

‘Except that the map is not the territory.’ The words came automatically to mind, and I spoke them as loudly and distinctly as I could.

Instantly, Troy’s head swiveled in my direction. ‘What are you talking about?’ His tone, to one who knew him well, was subtly threatening; but for me there was no turning back.

Deep breath. ‘In the Los Angeles County Museum of Art on Wilshire Boulevard, there’s a painting by Magritte, “The Treachery of Images”. You know it very well, you introduced me to it. A picture of a pipe, with the caption “This is not a pipe”—’

‘In French, of course,’ he put in, smoothly. ‘“Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” And the painting is actually called “La Trahison des images”.’ I suppressed a shiver. His accent was still impeccable; back then, it had added to his allure – as I was sure it did now, for women like Di. His mouth twisted in a smile, falsely encouraging. ‘Your point, Aleesha?’

‘A contract, or a non-disclosure agreement, is simply a piece of paper signed without any real understanding of what the coaching experience will involve. The map is not the territory.’ I looked carefully past Troy, at Wanda. ‘We all know that coaching is an unregulated industry – the executive side just as much as the life side. But a corporate contract is more comprehensive, the coaching is overseen by HR and the coach has their own independent supervisor – which at least gives everyone some protection.’ I paused, before allowing my gaze to drift back to Troy. ‘Whereas life coaching can take the coachee into treacherous waters, without any obvious way back to safety.’

He manufactured a weary sigh. ‘Any coachee can get out of their depth, especially if they’re young and deluded. And the skill of the coach is often about communicating the stuff they don’t wanna hear. But hey, Aleesha, as an executive coach – and presumably one of the less experienced ones, given your age – have you never found yourself in an inappropriate situation with a client?’

I should have seen the question coming. A few weeks ago, my answer would have been an unthinking ‘No’ – but now …

Caught off guard, I fumbled for the right words, painfully aware that Jack would be listening. ‘If there’s a – a problem between coach and coachee, then it’s usually resolved via a substitution clause in the contract.’ I swallowed, and hurried on. ‘As I’ve already said, with executive coaching the focus is more on the organisation’s needs, and less on those of the individual being coached. But there is overlap, naturally.’ I clutched wildly at an illustration. ‘Take a company acquisition: what if the director I’m coaching has personal baggage with the acquired company – something that could cloud their judgement, become a barrier to their performance? As an executive coach, I would want to explore that, up to a point. Unless it requires a different skill set, of course, such as counselling.’

I had Jack in mind, of course – his father’s tragic end at Sphinx Industries – but I wasn’t referring to him specifically. And yet a sixth sense told me I’d overstepped the mark and handled a delicate subject unprofessionally. I glanced over at him, apologetic smile at the ready; to my dismay, he was halfway out of the room.

I fought the urge to follow him, and stumbled on. ‘As I’ve said, the scope of executive coaching means that problems between coach and coachee are relatively rare and more easily addressed—’

‘But, as I’ve said, that same scope means that the really interesting stuff is off limits.’ Troy turned to the audience, spreading his hands – an expansive, clever gesture conveying a potent blend of sincerity, humility and passion. ‘Remember the mantra? To be better at life coaching, you have to be better at life. My total immersion approach offers the widest possible scope – the limits are decided by the coachee’s individual needs. As a result, I’ve experienced life in its widest variety.’ He brought his hands together in a parody of prayer. ‘Give me life coaching any day … the freedom to help another human being identify and overcome their most crippling issues … the privilege of knowing that I’m making a real difference to someone’s future.’ A soft, disarming sigh, as he rested his hands on his knees. ‘Okay, so maybe it’s because I’m just a simple guy from California, but all that really matters to me. The person is more important than the task – every time.’

Impressive performance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the announcer glance at her watch and get to her feet. I had one last opportunity to make an impact.

Another deep breath; then, weighing my words carefully, ‘I still think that some of the structure and rigour of executive coaching would be beneficial for your approach, Troy.’ A minor achievement, saying his name out loud. ‘After all, total immersion without a lifeline can end in drowning.’

He said, staring straight ahead, ‘Thanks for your concern, Aleesha, but I’m an expert swimmer.’

‘I was thinking more about the people you coach.’

A murmur rippled through the audience – condemnation, or approval? Not that I cared – my work here was over. Now I needed to find Jack.

‘… very stimulating debate,’ the announcer was saying. ‘Let’s have a comfort break before our final session – back here in ten minutes.’

I jumped up instantly. I would go straight to the room, where Jack would be waiting—

‘Alicia!’ This was Lionel – to my relief; I’d been half-expecting, ‘Aleesha!’

I stopped and turned to him. ‘Yes?’

‘Good discussion back there. Not easy to argue against God’s gift.’

A faint smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you staying for the dinner later?’

‘I’ve got other plans.’

‘Oh.’ His voice flattened. ‘Nice meeting you.’

‘And you.’

I spun round, and found myself face to face with Troy; I managed a hasty step back to avoid cannoning into him.

‘Be careful, Aleesha.’ His hands gripped my upper arms, as if to steady me.

‘Oh, I am, believe me,’ I said, sweetly. ‘I’ve had three long years of practice at being careful.’ Until last night, of course. Last night, I had abandoned my carefulness and discovered something beautiful, and right, and shared.

I jerked my arms free, banking on the fact that Troy wouldn’t cause a scene in public. As I marched away, I was vaguely aware of Di moving in, preventing him from following. I felt a surge of gratitude, mingled with pity.

‘Alicia, wait!’ Wanda’s voice, just as I was nearing Reception.

I stopped and turned, covering my frustration with a polite smile. ‘Yes?’

She herded me to one side. ‘I just wanted to thank you.’

‘Oh – what for?’

‘Put it this way – when I listened to Troy this morning, I was a convert. Now I’ve changed my mind. It was when you said “the map is not the territory” … I thought, yes – how can the coachee know what they’re letting themselves in for? I mean, that’s true of any sort of coaching, but especially this total immersion of his. And if he doesn’t feel any responsibility …’ She shuddered.

‘I appreciate you telling me this, Wanda.’

‘Aren’t you coming to the next session?’

‘Sorry, I’ve got to make an urgent call.’

‘Okay, maybe we can catch up later.’

I nodded brightly and edged towards the staircase – better than waiting for the lift and risking another interruption. Up I went, two stairs at a time, and reached the room at last, a breathless apology on my lips. But there was no answer to my knock. No Jack – not even a stone-faced one – coming to let me in. Maybe he was having that nap he’d mentioned. I would need to get another key card …

Back down the stairs to Reception, rehearsing my request: Have you a spare key card for room 109? My boyfriend’s fallen asleep.

When at last I blurted this out to the man behind the desk, he looked at me in surprise. ‘Your key card’s here, your boyfriend handed it in when he left.’

Stay calm … deep breath. ‘Did he say how long he’d be?’

The man pursed his lips. ‘Sorry, no message.’

‘When did he go out?’

‘Five minutes ago, maybe ten. No more than that.’

If I hadn’t been delayed, I’d have seen him … I blinked several times to clear the sudden mist from my eyes. ‘The key card, please.’

‘Certainly, here it is.’

This time I climbed the stairs at a more measured pace, willing myself to believe – oh, all sorts of things. That he’d gone out on a last-minute errand – the razor that I’d teased him about, perhaps … That there’d been a misunderstanding about meeting in the room, and he was waiting for me in the bar … Or, most likely, the man at Reception was an incompetent fool and had confused Jack with someone else – which meant that this was a spare key card after all, and Jack simply hadn’t heard my knock.

And then … as soon as I opened the door of room 109, I knew that he wasn’t there. I stood on the threshold and let the emptiness sink in. He’d made the bed before he left – not very proficiently, as though in a hurry. But was it a hurry to get his errand over and done with, or a hurry to be away before I returned? I would know soon enough. No sign of his clothes, the ones he’d been wearing before he went shopping. In fact, I couldn’t see any trace of him … Except for a piece of paper next to the kettle, starkly white against the dark wood of the shelf; folded in on itself, betraying nothing of its contents.

With a shiver of inevitability, I entered the room and let the door click shut behind me. My fingers shook as I picked up the piece of paper. I held it at arm’s length and walked stiffly to the bed. Then I sat down, unfolded it, and took a lungful of air.

So you think I’ve got personal baggage that’s clouding my judgement and becoming a barrier to my performance? As for counselling, I’ll be the one to decide if I need to see a shrink – no one else. Anyway, looks like I was just the warm-up act for the American. I can’t stand watching you with him, and I’m not going to hang around while you turn me into your latest case study – so I’m going home. Don’t bother trying to call me – I’ve already blocked your number.

Dry-mouthed, I read it again and again – as if the words might change, a different meaning emerge … He’d got it completely wrong, of course – he was no warm-up act for anyone, least of all Troy. I had to find him, talk to him ... Euston station, that was where he’d be; and trains to Manchester ran frequently – there was no time to lose.

Just as I reached the door, someone knocked – a loud knock, confident of an answer. My heart started to pound – he’d come back! I flung the door open, ready with a rueful smile.

But it wasn’t Jack at all.

It was Troy, with a rueful smile of his own, arms spread in a gesture of reconciliation – even as his gaze sidestepped mine to survey the room behind me. I had no doubt that he was checking whether anyone else was there, and my lips set in a grim line.

I said coldly, ‘How did you know where I was?’

‘I got rid of Di and followed you.’ His voice was soft and mild-mannered, recalling his first words to me earlier: What an unexpected pleasure! At least, it’s a pleasure for me. Let’s hope you can say the same. But I wasn’t deceived: this was a surface civility, from a man brimming with negative emotion – and I represented the ideal outlet.

He went on, ‘Can I come in, honey?’

‘No.’ I braced my body across the threshold, one hand gripping the door handle, the other clutching the security chain, still on its hook; too late to use it now. ‘What do you want?’

‘A chance to explain.’

A bitter little laugh. ‘You had your chance three years ago, in another hotel bedroom – remember?’

‘Oh, Aleesha.’ The way he said my name – half sigh, half groan – spun like a stone into a pool of memories …

Get a grip, get a grip. ‘Over here it’s “Alicia”, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course … Aleesha.’ Before I could protest, he cupped my face in his hands; I tried to pull back, but he was too strong. ‘In that other hotel bedroom, did you really think it was that simple?’

‘Yes, until then I thought it was very simple. I was unattached, you acted like you were. We were in love – at least, I was – and I believed we had a future together. You said so yourself, many times.’ I bit my lip, as if to stem the flow of recriminations. ‘Now let go of me.’

‘By the way,’ he said, in a light, almost conversational tone, ‘that was a great performance back there in the panel discussion. You took me by surprise, I was expecting to wipe the floor with you.’ A low chuckle. ‘You’re blushing. I forgot, you never could cope with compliments. Remember what I said after our first night together?’

‘No.’

‘I said—’

‘I don’t want to hear it!’

‘Okay, so you don’t wanna hear it – but you can’t take away the memories.’ His thumbs shifted to either side of my mouth, mimicking their old tenderness. Once, this had been a cue to kiss. I swallowed – and immediately realised that his fingers would sense the movement of my throat; he would know that I remembered and, if I gave him the opportunity, he would use that knowledge …

I forced the coldness back into my voice. ‘I’m working on that, believe me.’

His thumbs began their barely perceptible stroking. ‘It might do you good to revisit them, one way or another.’

‘No thanks, I’ve moved on.’

He smiled thinly. ‘The big guy at the back of the room in the blue check shirt, right? I noticed how he couldn’t take his eyes off you – or me. Wonder if he guessed who I was.’

‘Why would he? You’re hardly our number one topic of conversation.’

‘But something rattled him.’ His gaze strayed briefly along the corridor, as if distracted by a noise or movement, then returned. He said, almost casually, ‘Where is he now?’

An air of bravado. ‘In the bathroom. You’ve got three seconds to get your hands off me before I call him.’

‘Long enough for this?’ Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head and kissed me. Not that I co-operated; I was too busy flexing my knee, preparing to deliver a short, sharp blow to his groin.

Then, out of nowhere, Jack’s voice, icily clear: ‘I thought I’d left something behind. But I haven’t. I can see that now.’

The blood drained from my face. I tore myself away from guarding the door and pushed at Troy with both hands. A brief struggle as he resisted – but it was more for balance than control.

Because the damage was done. The timing of his kiss had been perfect: he’d seen Jack coming, he’d known I was bluffing, and he’d delivered one last malevolent blow.

I wrenched myself free, only to see Jack walking away. ‘Jack! It’s not what you think!’ It was little more than a croak, but he would have heard me. He must have heard me. Whereas seconds earlier I hadn’t heard him at all, not even the pad of his footsteps on the deep, duplicitous carpet.

I made to go after him, but Troy grabbed my arm. I jerked round. ‘Get off!’

His eyes bored into me. ‘I don’t recall you fighting like that for me.’ His face, his tone – everything about him radiated resentment. Strange, wasn’t it, when he’d just scored one final victory?

‘Don’t you remember?’ A brittle smile. ‘There wasn’t anything to fight for, you’d already made your choice. I’ll never forget the look on your face when Maria walked in.’

‘I’ve told you – it wasn’t as simple as that. Why won’t you let me explain?’ His shoulders slumped, as if in defeat; he said, with a mournful sigh, ‘If it’s any consolation, there are still places in California I can’t bring myself to visit, thanks to you.’

A twinge of compassion for the man from the Golden State, with his mantra of self-indulgence. I said, more gently than I’d intended, ‘This is goodbye, Troy.’ When I pulled away, he made no move to stop me. Not even when I swept past him into the room and slammed the door shut.

No point in going after Jack now; he’s had too much of a head start. And I need some time alone. Time to recover from the events of the last few hours. Time to reflect on the future.

I leaned back against the door, drained; yet, at heart, calmer than I’d felt for years.

Only then did it hit me. I’d closed down this long-running chapter of my life – but at what cost to the next?