Chapter Twelve

I returned to the office with fresh resolve: to spend the week preparing to hand over my coaching assignment, and avoid any calls from Jack – until I was ready.

In fact, it was Wednesday morning before I heard from him; and then, rather than the warmth of his voice, it was the impersonality of an email, sidling into my inbox while I was in a meeting.

The subject line ‘Contract Variation’ gave nothing away:

Dear Alicia

I see from the Coaches for Growth contract (section 11) that I can ask for a different coach. I’m sure you’ll agree that bringing our relationship to an end is the best way forward. This decision has nothing to do with your coaching input to date, which has been highly professional and very productive.

Rgds

Jack

I sat in stunned silence. The email bore uncanny similarities to the one I’d been composing in my head, the one I’d planned to send following my meeting next Monday with Stuart and Gary. I should have been delighted that he’d spared me the bother; but it wasn’t like that at all. My email would have prefixed the word ‘relationship’ with ‘working’ or ‘business’, whereas his didn’t. Which somehow made his message all-encompassing and … final. Especially when I recalled his admission from our tense conversation in the car: I’m finding it bloody hard to separate the coach from the girlfriend.

Ironic, wasn’t it? He was breaking off all contact, just as I was terminating the business relationship in order to become available for something else …

‘You okay?’ Celia slouched into view, and I hurriedly clicked the email shut.

‘Of course,’ I said, brightly. Good grief – for her to notice, I must have looked even worse than I felt. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘That conference at the weekend, shall I confirm your room?’

‘Room?’

‘Judy’s got one at the hotel where the conference is, and I’ll need to switch it into your name. She was booked in for the Friday and Saturday nights – what about you?’

I opened my diary and found the details of the conference. An informal drinks party on the Friday evening, which I had no intention of attending, followed by a 9 a.m. start the next morning; staying over on Friday was a no-brainer. Saturday’s programme kicked off with a keynote speech from a surprise guest, then followed a meandering procession of speakers, breakout groups and panel discussions until the wrap-up at 6 o’clock. The conference would be rounded off with a celebratory dinner. My slot – still badged as Judy, for God’s sake! – was towards the end of the day, and I decided that it would be sensible to book the room for a second night; even if I skipped the dinner, the prospect of an evening journey home to an empty flat held little appeal.

‘Same,’ I said, ‘and please make sure there’s a bath.’

She seemed about to say something, but didn’t – much to my relief.

When she’d gone, I clicked on the email again and re-read his words. How dare he – how dare he! The message was clear, and I couldn’t help but take it personally: he’d sampled the goods and found them wanting. Perhaps, despite those assurances to the contrary, he’d even gone back to Karina …

My lips tightened as I stabbed a reply on the keyboard:

Dear Jack,

I note your request for a different coach, in accordance with section 11 (paragraph 2) of our contract with Leo Components, and agree that terminating our relationship is the best way forward. Your new coach will make contact next week. This small delay is due to our internal handover processes and I trust it does not inconvenience you.

With kind regards,

Alicia

That should show him. All I had to do now was finish writing up the deep dive, and plan my meeting with Stuart and Gary. In five days’ time, it would be over – and I’d never have to see Jack Smith again.

I hit ‘send’ and got abruptly to my feet. I needed fresh air, a change of scene, a distraction.

Outside, the fountains danced and sparkled in the sun. I leaned against the warm brick wall of the building, and surveyed the lush green of the lawns and shrubs. Everything looked unbelievably bright and clean and manicured – when what I longed for were darker colours and rougher edges …

One weekend of strange intimacy with Jack Smith – that’s all it took to disrupt the bland routine of my existence. Barely two days, in a place of wildness – and I couldn’t stop reliving every moment, or fantasising about a different ending entirely. Well, his email had put paid to all that.

Later, when I turned the key in the door of my flat, I noted – as if for the first time – the regimented neatness, the sterile atmosphere, the seeming absence of human interaction. Except that, since Sunday night, there’d been a small but important lapse, a surrender to sentiment. On my bedside table stood Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, a symbol of all that had gone right with my weekend in the Lakes – until today. Now she was a reminder of all that had gone wrong.

I went into the bedroom and placed her resolutely in the drawer below; out of sight, out of mind.

If only it was that simple. The next two days were spent with the spectre of Jack Smith as I completed the deep-dive report based on all the information I’d gathered. It was a work of art, crafted from personal as well as professional observation, but carefully worded to cover up any visible cracks in my coaching armour. And yet … every comment was weighed down with memories and double meaning. ‘Jack is quick to take the initiative and responsive to feedback. This was apparent following the senior management meeting and subsequent debrief, when he researched more consultative leadership techniques and implemented them at the union meeting the next day.’ Even more apparent on the Saturday night, when I kissed him and he gave back as good as he got … ‘He can be very persuasive and single-minded in pursuing his own agenda. He volunteered the metaphor of a rifle shot – identify the target, take aim, then fire.’ A metaphor that we started to explore together, in a motorhome called Hermann, until we were interrupted by a phone call … ‘He seems to be widely respected by the workforce because, as one of the union representatives explained, he’s given them hope.’ And that’s exactly what he gave me – hope of finding love again. This time with somebody more capable of returning it. And now that hope’s been well and truly dashed …

Every so often, by way of light relief from the deep-dive report, I reviewed Judy’s notes on the session she’d been going to deliver at the conference. She made transferring the learning from executive coaching to life coaching sound straightforward, a matter of imposing structure and formality. The irony of being her replacement wasn’t lost on me: these notes would be delivered by a woman who’d apparently learnt very little from her career as an executive coach. A woman who’d just allowed a disastrous personal event from her past to screw up a client relationship. Even worse, a woman who’d been on the brink of falling in love with that same client …

Friday evening drifted up on me like a mist. As I intended to go straight into London from the office, I worked late. Not that I had much actual work to do by then; it was more a case of filling in time until I could be sure of avoiding any involvement with the informal drinks party.

To my surprise, Celia was at her most helpful, staying beyond five o’clock and offering to book me a taxi to the station. Bemused, I allowed her to organise my journey and arrived at the hotel around eight. True enough, my room had a bath – and not just an apology for one. I turned on the taps, reckoning that it would take a while to fill the deep tub with enough water for a relaxing soak. In the bedroom I unpacked and undressed, eking out both tasks with the expertise of someone used to long hours of solitude. Then it was on with the sleek white velour robe provided, and on with the kettle.

Good selection of tea – too much choice, in fact. Peppermint? Earl Grey? Or maybe—

A knock at the door. Room service, confusing me with another guest? I let out an exasperated sigh, tightened the belt of my robe and crossed the room. The security chain meant that the door opened no more than a couple of inches – wide enough to send whoever it was away.

‘Yes?’ My tone was designed to give the shadowy figure standing in the corridor no encouragement. Judging by the height, this must be a man; the subdued glow of the corridor lighting hampered any further identification.

‘It’s me, Alicia.’

That unmistakable black-velvet voice – its simple, intimate greeting directed at me. I stared in disbelief, waiting for this weird dream to relax its grip. But no – as my eyes adjusted to the half-gloom, I could make out everything that was now familiar about Jack Smith: the shape of his head, the cut of his shoulders, the angles of his face … The drab remains of the evening took on a new lustre – and this moment was something to savour, rather than rush. ‘What are you doing here?’ I managed, at last.

The ghost of a grin. ‘That very much depends on you.’

‘In what way?’ My gaze lingered on his mouth, while my mind battled those inevitable memories.

‘I thought we could have that talk, the one we didn’t have on Sunday.’ A pause, while he looked me up and down. ‘I was going to suggest we went to the bar—’

‘Let’s stay here,’ I said firmly, undoing the security chain; the last thing I wanted was to be in the company of others when we talked. Yet, as he came through the door, I found myself turning away in confusion. No need for role play any more – but would our script have changed?

I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. ‘I was just making tea – would you like some?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Got anything stronger?’

‘You’ll have to make do with strong tea,’ I said primly, recovering my composure. ‘Sit down.’ I gestured to the easy chair furthest from the bed, and busied myself with taking two teabags out of their sachets.

A low chuckle. ‘I love it when you boss me about.’

An invitation to give him other orders, like ‘Hold me’ and ‘Kiss me’ and ‘Take me to bed’? But I said nothing. Meanwhile, on its little wooden shelf, the kettle grumbled loud and long, erupted into a crescendo of boiling, and came to rest. I poured the water into the chunky china teapot, and set out the two cups and saucers. With the kettle silenced, there was nothing to drown out another sound – the sound of running water …

I dashed into the bathroom and turned off the taps, not a moment too soon. My heart was thumping, and it wasn’t just because of the near-flood. I knew he was behind me, and I knew what would happen next. My fingers fumbled with the belt of my bathrobe, then stopped. Why deprive him of the pleasure?

‘Alicia.’

I turned, as if in slow motion; our eyes met and held. In the end, it was my voice that whispered the question: ‘Do you want to talk now … or later?’ He gave me his answer without uttering a single word, untying my bathrobe, easing it from my shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Then he stepped away, undoing the buttons of his shirt, studying every inch of me through half-lidded eyes. My initial embarrassment at his scrutiny soon gave way to impatience, and I moved nearer to help him off with his clothes. When at last that was done, I could admire – more openly than ever before – the taut, lean beauty of his body.

And so we resumed what had begun in the motorhome – a journey into the known and the unknown, the familiar and the new, the anticipated and the unexpected. With it – for me, at least – came the erosion of old barriers, the healing of secret hurts, the rediscovery of the very essence of living.

We made love slowly, wonderingly, joyfully. The tea cooled in the teapot, the water lay undisturbed in the bath. And, after three long years, the ice that had numbed my heart began to thaw.