Chapter Two

On Monday I was in the office for eight o’clock. It had been a weekend of self-distraction – with only limited success. A trip to the gym, the first in a while, to punish my mind through my body. An evening with a couple of friends, both first-time mothers whose babies dominated the conversation even when tucked up in bed. A long Skype call with my parents, including an inch-by-inch survey of their new retirement villa in Spain. Cleaning the flat, which turned into a physical workout on a par with the gym.

In the end, it was a relief to go to work. As I drove through the business park on the grassy outskirts of Helsingham, I couldn’t help contrasting its flowering shrubs and fountains with the concrete wastes of Grimshaw. What chance did people have of functioning effectively when they were surrounded by ugliness? Not that this excused Jack Smith’s behaviour in the slightest, but the view from his office window must be a lot more depressing than mine.

I knew that my director, Stuart Carson, would already be at his desk. It was usually worth gauging the depth of his Monday gloom and checking whether it had been sweetened by his morning latte. But the need to exorcise Jack Smith from my life had been gnawing at me all weekend, and I wanted to get this interview over.

The door of Stuart’s room was closed; always a bad sign. Either he’d been landed with entertaining the kids on Sunday, or he’d overdone the nineteenth hole at the golf club. I gave a firm knock and entered without waiting for an answer. As I clicked the door shut behind me, he looked up from his iPad. Grey face, bloodshot eyes – a nineteenth-hole extravaganza, obviously; and I suspected he’d barely touched his latte.

‘Just a quick update on Leo Components,’ I said brightly.

‘Is the contract signed?’

‘Not yet, but—’

‘That’s not like you. It was the on-boarding meeting on Friday, wasn’t it? Is there a problem?’

‘Possibly.’

He sighed and folded his arms above the rounded summit of his stomach. ‘You’d better sit down and tell me what’s going on.’

Which I did, more or less. As I had no intention of jeopardising my career prospects, I gave him an abridged version of my meeting and omitted certain facts entirely. Like how Jack Smith had succeeded in reintroducing me to the darkest moments from my past and prompted my first anxiety attack in at least two years.

Stuart reached for his latte. ‘So he eyed you up and said things that had a double meaning? Are you telling me that’s never happened to you in a coaching situation?’

‘Never.’ An automatic response that consigned the past to a sealed container, gathering dust; until my meeting last Friday, it wouldn’t even have registered as a lie.

‘Perhaps with older clients you don’t tend to notice—’

‘I’ve never had a problem with any of our clients.’ That much was true; the … incident had happened before I joined Coaches for Growth.

‘I should hope not.’ Then, peering into his coffee cup, ‘But does that mean they never think about you in that way? What I’m trying to say is, if you’re not expecting to see something then you won’t necessarily see it.’ As he shifted his gaze to my face, I quickly masked my astonishment. What the hell was he implying? He continued, ‘Whereas you were gunning for this Smith guy before you’d even met him. What was it you said last week? He can’t appear in public without a semi-naked woman draped over him, or words to that effect.’

Two challenges here, both unanticipated. I took refuge in a dismissive laugh and tackled the first one head on. ‘Why would Gerald Foster ever think about me in that way? Or Adam Chesterfield? Or Tom Rigg? They’re happily married, as far as I can tell.’

‘Jeez, Alicia! Happily married men still look at other women, especially young and very attractive ones. It’s just that most of them do nothing more than look.’

I frowned at the gleaming oak floor. Even if I didn’t believe him, the damage had been done; the memory of those pleasant, fatherly clients had now acquired a sinister quality. As for Stuart himself, who would pass for happily married on a good day and who’d just implied that he thought I was very attractive … I risked a glance at him, fearing a Jack Smith moment. Instead of catching him in mid-leer, I found him slurping at his latte; the relief was overwhelming.

He drained his cup and threw it in the bin beside him. ‘How did you leave things at Leo Components?’

At last we were approaching decision time. ‘I said I’d consult my colleagues to agree who would be the most appropriate coach, and that I’d email him with the outcome today.’

He fingered his iPad, as if bored with our conversation. ‘And when does he want the coaching to start?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Really?’ That claimed his full attention; I could almost hear the cogs in his brain whirring. He went on, ‘The initial payment would certainly help our cash flow, get us out of a temporary hole.’ He paused, and mustered an expression of sympathetic concern. ‘Look – if you’ve really got a problem with him, I can find someone else. Just not immediately. If, on the other hand, you could start him off, do the deep-dive stage … Not ideal to switch coaches part way, but the contract covers a certain amount of flexibility. Of course, you’ll have supervision available to you – Judy’s the one you prefer, isn’t she? – and I’ll get a replacement coach lined up – probably Gary when he’s back from holiday in July. But remember it’s your choice.’

And, at Coaches for Growth, that meant taking full responsibility for the consequences. I closed my eyes, visualising the decision as a fork in an unfamiliar road. My instinctive preference was for the wide, smooth path that snaked confidently into the distance; in other words, refuse the assignment, hope that the company would still secure the business after a few weeks’ delay and focus on coaching within my self-appointed boundaries.

Except that the boundaries were no longer as clear-cut as I’d believed; Stuart’s feedback suggested I’d been unobservant and naïve about my previous clients. Which meant that this was building into a professional issue as well as a personal one. If I took this path, I suspected that it would ultimately bring me back to where I was now.

My other option was a thicket of bramble bushes with no obvious way through, and I had no idea where I would end up: high risk for an uncertain reward. On the other hand, I reasoned, the risk was for a limited time only, with an external supervisor to provide professional guidance. I could even ask her to observe the coaching sessions in person; that should keep Jack Smith in his place.

But I needed to cover off every eventuality. ‘I’ll take the assignment,’ I said slowly, ‘on one condition – that I can opt out at any stage, if I feel it’s necessary.’

For the first time since I’d entered his room, Stuart smiled. ‘Agreed, but only because you’re not usually this high-maintenance. Thanks, Alicia, and keep me posted.’

I went out of his room before I said something I’d regret. High-maintenance? A knee-jerk reaction to the fact that – for once – I wouldn’t be bringing the business home at minimum cost and disruption. Operating within my client comfort zone – with a low level of supervision – produced the biggest profit for Coaches for Growth, time after time. But that didn’t mean it should be taken for granted. In fact, nothing in coaching should be taken for granted, as I knew only too well.

When I returned to my desk, I decided to ‘keep Stuart posted’ by sending him a very detailed record of our conversation, with a request for a definition of ‘high-maintenance’ that I could share with HR; that should keep him on his toes. Next, I looked up the most expensive hotel within twenty miles of Grimshaw, and found a superior de luxe room, whatever that entailed, at a gratifyingly high price. Finally, I turned my attention to the paperwork for Leo Components, a straightforward matter of inserting the client details in the designated places and, as always, checking the small print.

Just as I was saving the files, an email pinged into my inbox. From Jack Smith, with ‘Change of Heart’ as the subject line. I had to read the short message several times before it sank in.

Dear Alicia

Thank you for coming to Grimshaw last Friday. I have thought about our meeting and decided not to take the executive coaching any further.

Rgds

Jack

Oh, really? We’d see about that.

I dialled the mobile number in his email signature. One ring, two rings …

A curt, ‘Yes?’ Did he actually know who was calling, or was he always this abrupt on the phone?

‘Good morning, it’s Alicia Marlowe.’

The smallest of pauses. ‘You got my email?’

‘I did, but—’

‘I was going to ring you, actually – to apologise for Friday.’ No black-velvet voice today; he obviously didn’t like apologising.

And I didn’t like being wrong-footed. ‘Apologise for what exactly?’ I couldn’t help sounding belligerent; after all, there were so many moments to choose from.

He gave a humourless laugh. ‘From what Adam said … well, I got the impression you were an old battleaxe. I wasn’t expecting you to be so …’ A tantalising pause; then, ‘Look, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. Don’t know what got into me.’

‘Thank you for that, at least.’ I wrote ‘Games?’ on the pad in front of me. ‘On to other matters – I was rather surprised by your email.’

‘I only did what you said and thought about it carefully. Why would you find that surprising?’

I crossed out the question mark after ‘Games?’ again and again, until it was obliterated. Then I said, with far more composure than I felt, ‘What specifically is preventing you from going ahead?’

Silence. At last he came out with, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to put in the hours. And the money’s a bit steep.’

Even he didn’t sound convinced by such lame excuses, and I took full advantage. ‘Don’t you think you’ll recoup the hours and the money several times over, in terms of increased effectiveness and improved business performance? I can provide you with well-researched evidence that good coaching yields a return of six to ten times the initial investment.’

‘I’m sure you can. But I don’t need good coaching – I need the best, which according to Adam is you. And you more or less told me on Friday that you wouldn’t coach me.’

‘What if I told you that I’d had a change of heart too?’

More silence.

‘Of course,’ I continued, ‘we’ll need to agree some ground rules about what is and isn’t appropriate, in relation to behaviour or subjects for discussion. And I may invite a third person to our sessions.’ I tried not to make it sound like a threat.

‘A translator? Or a referee?’ Oh, now the black velvet was back, swathes of it.

‘The latter – someone to remind you of the rules,’ I said coldly. ‘I’ll email you this morning with a contract and confidentiality agreement to sign and return, as well as our initial invoice – to be paid within the stated terms, please. There’ll also be some questionnaires to complete and send back before our first session. Talking of which, have you got your diary to hand? We’ll need a couple of days so that I can observe you in your working environment. They should include a formal meeting with your management team and a visit to an external stakeholder, preferably a key customer.’

A series of muffled taps and curses from the other end of the phone; then, ‘The next management team meeting’s a week on Thursday at ten o’clock, and I can set up a customer visit for the Friday.’

I checked my diary. ‘That’s fine, I’ll come to your office for nine o’clock a week on Thursday.’

‘It’s a date. Do you need me to book a hotel?’

An unfortunate juxtaposition, as though – in his sordid little mind, at any rate – one thing would inevitably lead to the other. Deliberately done, of course, to undermine my professional approach. ‘Yes, the twenty-first of June is certainly a date according to my calendar. And no thanks, I’ll make my own hotel arrangements—’

He cut in with, ‘Is Thursday the twenty-first? How the hell—?’ A moment’s hesitation before he rushed on, his voice low and charged with anger, as if reprimanding himself. ‘I was going to have the day off and get Betsy to move the meeting to the following week … Serves me right for not checking … Too bloody late now!’

I tried to make sense of this sudden confession – and failed. ‘Is there a problem with that date?’

A distinctly audible release of breath. ‘Only that it’s my father’s sixty-fifth birthday – at least, it would have been if he was still here. He should have been celebrating his retirement, but instead …’ He stopped, as if lost in his own thoughts.

‘Instead?’ I prompted. Nothing more than professional curiosity: if whatever had happened to his father was affecting his work performance, we would need to deal with it.

‘Forget it,’ he said, brusquely.

I waited, but he obviously felt he’d shared enough. We ended the call with a tentative agreement to talk again – once he’d had a chance to look at the documents and fix up the customer visit. Then I sent him our standard email with the Leo Components files attached, and stored his number in my phone contacts. Not because I envisaged dialling it frequently, if at all; more so that I could identify when he was ringing me – and let it go to voicemail. Here was a man who’d perfected point scoring to the level of an Olympic sport, and I’d need time to prepare for even the simplest conversation.

In fact, for our first session I decided I’d travel to Lancashire by train on the Wednesday and have an extra night at High Stone Hall, the luxury hotel and spa I’d located. That way, I’d be physically and mentally fresh for whatever games he decided to play next.

As I walked to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, something from my earlier conversation with Stuart niggled. ‘You were gunning for the guy before you even met him.’

If that was true, I had my reasons. The brooding good looks, the maverick style, the playboy reputation – Jack Smith could have been Troy Randall Travers’ younger brother.

Troy Randall Travers: a chapter of my life I thought I’d ripped out of the book and thrown away. But then … wasn’t this going to be a coaching journey for me, too?