‘No, I thought you were doing that one.’
I grab his arm and lead him to the stallholder, a young woman wearing a tie-dyed floaty skirt, a crop top and beaded bracelets galore. A thin piece of braided rope tames her unruly waist-length hair. George shows her his phone and repeats his spiel about hismissinggirlfriend. Mymissingsister.
‘I remember her,’ the woman says.
My heart jumps with hope.
‘She wanted to buy a T-shirt, but I’d run out of the small size, so she bought a cap. She was buzzing. She had an invite to one of the bonus workshops held at the end of the day. I remember thinking it was slightly odd. She didn’t seem the type.’
‘Type?’ I say.
‘Yep. Those workshops are more for people who… how can I say this… who have lost their way. Kind of… young, vulnerable girls.’
‘Who runs these workshops?’ I ask.
‘Marcus Aurelius, the owner, usually, although he’s not running any today. He’s only doing his main talk.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
She shrugs.
‘Was she on her own when you saw her?’ I ask.
The woman pauses for a moment, squinting. ‘Yes. She said she was meant to come with a friend. I remember now. But her friend couldn’t make it.’ She eyes the queue of customers waiting to be served. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’
I tug George’s arm. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Thanks for talking to us.’
‘No problem. I hope you find her.’ She gives a flat smile and turns to her waiting customers.
‘Perhaps Layla was meant to go with her that day, and she was the one who had the ticket for this intimate workshop,’ I say when we walk away.
George nods. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’
‘Layla never mentioned that when I visited her. Maybe I need to go and see her again.’
When we’ve exhausted all the stalls, we stop for a wrap. I only manage half before giving the rest to George. Eating and drinking have become such a chore this past month.
After saying goodbye to George, I wander over to the main tent for the three o’clock Marcus Aurelius talk. It’s packed inside. Large industrial fans at the entrances and open sides create a soft breeze, taking the edge off the stifling heat. Dozens of people are wearing theMOMbaseball caps. The only available seats are at the back. I make my way along the row, passing a girl about my age who is crying. I pick up a leaflet from the chairand wedge myself between a woman in a floaty maxi dress and a guy sitting upright in an untucked, loose linen shirt and wide-leg linen trousers. He appears to be meditating, his legs crossed and his hands resting gently on his knees. The woman is chatting with a friend sitting beside her.
I read the leaflet while I wait, taking in the details of the two-hour session that’s about to start. The lifetime commitment to YOU to regain control of YOUR life and break through barriers to create the future YOU want to live.
I google Marcus Aurelius and blink at the screen. Why did I never notice this before? Marcus Aurelius was the name of a Roman emperor, often known as the philosopher king, who journalled about resilience and inner strength.
A microphone crackles. Heads turn to the stage. Applause breaks out as the man whose photo dominates the header of the event’s website strolls onto the stage dressed in a suit and tie, despite the merciless heat. ‘Welcome to your future,’ he says in a voice that gives me the chills.
I sit listening to him, this philosopher king, along with the five or so hundred, mainly women, sitting in his audience. I glance around. Every attendee is glued to his every word as if he’s a rock star performing at a concert.
He struts across the stage, owning it, talking about rewiring your mindset, empowerment and unleashing the blueprint for the life you want to live. His voice resounds around the tent. ‘It may be a cliché but just think of where you want to be in five years’ time. Visualise yourself in that dream job. Dream house. Dream relationship…’ and on it goes.
I can see why this place is packed. He sure knows his stuff. But there’s something off-putting about him. His arrogance, perhaps, the way he comes across as just a bit too slick. But tons of people are obviously taken by him. He acts like some kind of idol, a demigod.
At the end of the workshop, he takes questions. Hands shoot into the air like launching rockets. ‘I won’t have time to answer all these, but please email me, and I will try my best to get back to you.’ He points to a woman in the front row and gestures for one of his helpers to hand her the microphone. ‘What would you like to ask?’
At exactly five o’clock, he ends his show. People jump to their feet, clapping and cheering, some even whooping. ‘That was powerful,’ the woman beside me says to her friend.
‘Extraordinary,’ the friend replies. ‘What a legend.’
I wish I could agree, but something about the guy has creeped me out. It was like he had everyone hypnotised, under his power.
