Page 109 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Come on over and meet Andrea and Carla,’ he drawls loudly over the hum of small talk and clink of cappuccino cups.

I weave through the massage chairs towards him, carrying my briefcase and handbag, and making sure to hide my nails. I’m in desperate need of a manicure myself.

‘This is Charlene, my PR guru,’ says Larry Thompson, gesturing towards me.

The two manicurists glance up briefly and smile, before turning back to his cuticles and feet.

‘Actually, it’s Charlotte,’ I correct him, smiling.

‘Whatever,’ he laughs. ‘It’s all the same.’

Actually, no, it’s not all the same. How would you like to be called Leslie, or Lenny, or Leo? I feel like asking, but of course I don’t. I remain perfectly calm, a professional smile pinned on to my face. This is an important meeting. Larry Thompson is a valued client. And this is going to be a good week, remember?

‘So, you’ve decided on the location for the new clinic?’ I say brightly, moving straight on to business and the reason I’m here.

‘Andrea, honey, can you just press a little harder on my left foot? Yep, that’s great.’ Satisfied, he glances over at me. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s quite all right.’ I smile evenly. ‘Now, about the new space …’

‘Did you know we have these pressure points on the soles of our feet? It’s to do with the meridian lines. Like acupuncture. It’s a way of rebalancing the chi.’

‘Actually, yes, I did know that,’ I say briskly. ‘It’s one of the basic principles of reflexology.’

‘See, she’s not just a pretty face, is she?’ he quips to his therapists, who glance at me and laugh politely.

‘But anyway, back to the new space …’ For the third time.

‘Clear varnish or just buffed?’ interrupts Carla.

I curl my fingers into little balls.

‘I don’t know. What do you think, Charlene?’ Larry stops peering at his fingers and looks up at me, eyebrows raised questioningly. ‘Clear or buffed?’

OK, that’s it – I give up. Trying to conduct a business meeting here is impossible. ‘Buffed,’ I reply shortly.

He screws up his forehead. ‘You think so?’ he asks, staring at his nails.

‘Clear, then,’ I deadpan.

‘No, I think you’re right. I’ll go with buffed,’ he says after a moment’s deep thought. ‘See, I always take my PR guru’s advice. She knows best.’ He passes his hand to Carla, who’s waiting patiently. She reaches for her buffer. ‘Actually, before you do that, can we change the setting on this massage chair to “pulse” rather than “vibrate”?’

I watch as Carla starts fiddling with the controls.

‘You know, they do great herbal teas here,’ he says, casually glancing over at me, as if I’m not actually sitting here waiting for him, but simply passing the time of day. ‘You should have one.’

Settling back in his chair, he wriggles a little to get comfortable, then closes his eyes. ‘I’ll be right with you.’

Right with you.

Now, in my language that means soon, as in a few minutes, as in no more than five. Ten at a push. In Larry Thompson’s language it means just over an hour of having his feet rubbed, his heels pumiced and his hands wrapped in steaming cloths – apparently, it’s the special bank-holiday pampering package – while the whole time attempting to flirt with Andrea and Carla, offering them discount veneers and tooth-bleaching, and handing out business cards with instructions to give him a call.

It’s past one when we finally leave the salon.

‘Everything OK?’ As we step on to the street, he turns to me, looking very pleased with himself.

‘Absolutely.’ I smile back breezily, trying not to think about the hour I’ve just wasted, drinking four cups of herbal tea, because as long as the client’s happy, everything is OK. That’s the basic rule of PR.

‘So are you excited to see the new space?’