The Day We Disappeared Read Online Free PDF

said.
     ‘I was ordered to get some massages by one of the wellbeing coaches we have at
     work. Fearsome woman. I can’t say no to her, even though I pay her.’
    I started to take notes. Stephen Flint
     was a founding director of FlintSpark, a massive global media agency. Whatever that
     was. As he rocketed on I remembered that one of their employees had visited me for
     some massages last year, a sweet Australian girl who’d been so distressed
     about her line manager that she’d ended up going back Down Under.
    Stephen Flint
     looked like the sort of man who’d be devastated to learn that something like
     that had gone on in his company. ‘The happiness of my workforce is an
     embarrassing obsession,’ he explained eagerly. He had supplemented his
     award-winning workspace with every imaginable employee benefit, including – more
     recently – a wellbeing team. ‘Everyone has to see a wellbeing coach once a
     month, whether they want to or not. If someone’s not happy, the coach will
     find out. They’ll send them for counselling, business coaching, a
     nutritionist, whatever, and we pay the first six sessions. All totally confidential,
     we never know who’s been referred where. You’re my coach’s latest
     attempt at reducing my stress levels.’ He giggled like a naughty schoolboy.
     ‘She says my body is in peril. She wants me to eat kale, get massages and
     start yoga. Yoga!’
    Stephen had founded FlintSpark in 2001
     and now his company was one of the most successful in the industry, with offices
     popping up around the world. He worked a crazy schedule, under a great deal of
     pressure (‘Entirely self-imposed,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But God
     never takes a day off so neither do I. I’m the Leader of the People, you
     see.’) Nonetheless he had agreed to an occasional massage, given that this
     clinic was only a few doors down from his company’s state-of-the-art glass
     headquarters in Farringdon.
    ‘I’m only here to get the
     coach off my back,’ he admitted. ‘And that’s no slight on you and
     your work – but, let’s be honest, people like me are a total waste of your
     talents. I arrived with a double espresso, for starters.’
    In spite of myself, I smiled. I felt
     little connection with
men like Stephen
     Flint but at least he was honest. ‘Massage is wasted on nobody,’ I said.
     ‘Even if your investment in self-care only extends to one massage a week,
     it’s a start. There’s all sorts of research papers about the benefits of
     just thirty minutes.’
    ‘Really?’ Stephen rested his
     chin on his hands, watching me intently. He wore a fashionable narrow tie. ‘Do
     you agree with that? Do you think massage really makes a difference?’
    ‘Of course! I wouldn’t do
     this job otherwise. Helping people feel good … relax … find a bit of peace …
     it’s …’ I blushed for no reason. ‘It’s everything to
     me,’ I said, surprised by my honesty. It
was
everything to me. If I
     couldn’t help myself find peace, I could at least help others.
    ‘So.’ Stephen seemed
     fascinated. ‘This is your job simply because you want to help
     people?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He broke into a brilliant smile.
     ‘How refreshing,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘How very
     refreshing to hear something like that. We need generous people like you in the
     world. I knew as soon as I found you that you’d be right.’
    My face was red. I didn’t know
     why. ‘Well, I’m metres away from your office,’ I mumbled.
    ‘There is that too.’ He
     chuckled. ‘Well, Annabel, do your best. Feel free to crack out a mallet when
     you get to the knotty bits.’
    Stephen was full of knots, of course.
     Which was a shame because he had a beautifully put-together body, smooth and brown
     and perfectly proportioned. He fell
asleep
     quite soon into the massage, like so many men of his type, and at the end was like a
     swaddled baby, encased in towels, all drooping eyelids and soft