I wake up the next morning with my head teeming. Not with good stuff. Not with forward-looking, mindful thoughts. But work stress. Round and round. It won’t let me alone.
The more I’ve stepped away from Zoose, the more I can see how badly run the marketing department is. Asher is like some child letting off fireworks. He likes short-term, flashy stuff. But where’s the long-term strategy? Where’s the consistency? Where are the values?
And where the hell is Lev? You can’t just keep on sending your apologies and expect your company to flourish. You need to have a vision, you need leadership, you need a presence.…
I’m breathing hard, I realize. My heart is thumping. I’m already imagining going back to the office in three weeks, feeling a curdling mixture of dread and frustration. I’m doing the opposite of relaxing and recuperating.
Honestly.
I grab my bullet journal, turn to the back, and start adding to the notes I made on the train. It’s quite cathartic. It’s like writing down all the reasons you hate your ex-boyfriend and then throwing it in the bin. After I’ve drawn a diagram of the way I think the marketing department should be structured, I find myself adding more and more notes.
The staff are so stretched that nothing works as it should. Departments seem in denial that they are working for the same organization. Support staff do not support. Helplines do not help.
Still breathing hard, I look at my words. OK. I need to calm down. Thank you, brain, for your thoughts. That’s enough now.
But my brain is still whirling. It doesn’t want to stop. I still have about a thousand words I could write. What do I do?
I look up at Wetsuit Girl, trying to find inspiration. Does she have a job? Is she seething because of her boss? Does she have similar struggles? Maybe holding a surfboard on a beach and looking fab is her job. Maybe her only struggle is, Which wetsuit shall I insert my spectacular body into today? Pah, it’s all right for some—
No. Stop. Abruptly, I realize I’m in danger of sitting here all day thinking curmudgeonly, negative thoughts. Bitching about Wetsuit Girl in my head is not going to help anyone. It’s not her fault she’s shiny and happy. Resolutely, I flip the pages of my bullet journal to the front, turning away from all my stressy work notes. The positive part, with the stickers and the resolutions.
I’ll write down five steps for today. Come on. Go.
1. Meditation.
Yes. Good way to start. I’ll sit on the rock and gaze out to sea and let the sound calm my brain.
2. 100-squat challenge.
I’m not giving up on that. I can do some squats.
3. Communing with nature.
Apparently, this boosts the immune system.
4. Dance like no one is watching.
Apparently, this also boosts the immune system. (What doesn’t boost the immune system? Answer: half a bottle of white wine and a tub of cookies ’n’ cream.)
5. Seashore walk.
Strictly speaking, I did a walk yesterday, but I’m not sure Walk to the shop to buy sugar-filled crap is what Wetsuit Girl had in mind. So let’s try that again.
I underline each entry, and I’m just trying to find some stickers to plonk next to each step when my phone rings. It’s Mum.
“Hi, Mum,” I greet her. “Just doing my bullet journal.”
“Well done, darling!” she enthuses. “And are you feeling any better? Less stressed?”
I think back to my frantic scribblings about Zoose, my pounding heart, my feeling that I want to yell at someone. Hmm. Not really.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Definitely.”
“Oh, good! Have you been in the sea? Are you following the app?”
“Kind of.” I cross my fingers. “In my own way.”
“Because I read a piece today in my health magazine,” says Mum in the urgent voice she uses for imparting nuggets of information. “Do you know what the most important thing for your well-being is? Your gut!” She delivers the punchline with aplomb. “They think ninety percent of burnout cases are due to poor gut health!”
I stare at my phone dubiously. What percent? Who did they study? That seems very unlikely. But before I can dispute this statistic, Mum’s off again. “Anyway, don’t worry, it’s all in hand. I’ve phoned reception and told them you urgently need some kefir and fermented cabbage.”
My face drops. Fermented cabbage?
“I spoke to a very helpful girl,” Mum powers on. “Said I was your PA again, and she assured me she’d get right onto it. I mentioned reflexology too, and she’s making inquiries. They do seem good at the Rilston,” she adds approvingly. “Nothing too much trouble. Are they looking after you? Oh, and I didn’t even ask—they did put you on the seafront side, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” I say, glancing at the boarded-up window and away again. “Yes, they did. All good. They even sent me flowers,” I add, looking at the bouquet which arrived last night. The message says, A thousand apologies for your substandard treatment, for which we are deeply mortified.
“Wonderful!” says Mum. “Well, I’d better go, darling. Oh, I spoke to Dinah.”
“Dinah?” I peer at the phone.
Dinah is my friend. My oldest friend. But I haven’t talked to her in what feels like forever. She’s a cheerful, competent lawyer turned doula and I love her to bits, but I guess I’ve been avoiding her. I haven’t had the energy to be “on” and cheerful; nor do I want to dissolve into sobs. I guess this is how people slowly turn into recluses.
“I was wanting to send you a little surprise,” explains Mum, “and I thought she’d know what to get. We settled on lavender bath oil. There now, it’s not a surprise anymore. But, love, Dinah didn’t have any idea! I had to put her in the picture.”
“I know,” I manage. “I was getting round to contacting her.”
“Darling, there’s no need to hide this all away. Your friends want to help!”
“I know,” I say. “Bye, Mum.”
As I ring off, tears prick my eyes. I don’t know why I haven’t reached out to Dinah. Or any of my friends. Because … I’m embarrassed, I guess. They can cope with life. And I can’t.
Anyway. That’s a goal I can work toward. Right now, I need food.
As I reach the dining room door, I tense up at the sight of Finn Birchall sitting at a table.
“Morning,” he says curtly.
“Morning,” I reply, equally shortly.
“Good morning!” Cassidy bustles up to me. “I do hope you slept well! Now, I heard what you said about wanting your own space. So we’ve seated you two right away from each other. Ms. Worth, you’re over here.”
She ushers me to the other end of the dining room and into a chair. To be fair to her, I’m about as far away from Finn Birchall as I could possibly be. In fact, we make quite a ludicrous sight.
“Thanks.” I smile at her. “I appreciate it.”
“I had your PA Erin on the phone this morning,” Cassidy says in tones of slight awe. “She starts early, doesn’t she? You do work her hard!”
“She’s … full of energy,” I manage.
“I’ve noted down all the requests she mentioned.…” Cassidy consults a list, her brow wrinkled anxiously. “Only I wanted to ask, what kind of kefir did you require?”
Oh God. I know Mum means well, but I’m totally embarrassed. I have nothing to say about kefir. Isn’t it just liquidy yogurt?
“Any kind,” I say, trying to appear knowledgeable. “Although preferably organic, obviously. For the organic benefits.”
“Obviously,” says Cassidy reverently. “Now, the fermented cabbage may take a little time. But the good news is, your organic kale’s been delivered! Chef Leslie’s making your smoothie as we speak! It looks so healthy,” she adds encouragingly. “Really green and sludgy.”
“Great!” I try to sound enthusiastic. “Can’t wait!”