Free Dream a Little Dream by Sue Moorcroft

alternative medicine. They’re crossing over into beauty treatments and gimmicks.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Frankly, we’re prepared to sacrifice his principles to make a living but it’s in our agreements that he makes the decisions about the centre as a whole. Which is why we’re all wearing those gross green NHS reject tunics.’
    She sipped at the hot, sweet coffee and noticed his gaze fall to her lips as she licked away the froth. Maybe he was regretting ordering water but, too bad, she didn’t allow herself much skin-dulling caffeine and she wasn’t sharing. ‘Also,’ she continued, ‘Nicolas doesn’t bring any money to the party; he just wants to take it out.’
    His gaze shifted to her eyes. ‘Clarify?’
    Rather than being irritated by the way he rapped the word out, she found herself admiring his focus on the conversation. It felt good, to be listened to as if every word was of vital importance, and a stark contrast to the way Nicolas dismissed everything she said. She liked intensity, she decided. She liked this man, brushed by gold under the lights from the bar, his intellect almost a palpable thing, his attention all on her. ‘He’s not a therapist. He doesn’t have clients. What we pay him buys us the use of the general facilities – the building, the electricity, water and the receptionist, Pippa, though I’ve never known another centre with a receptionist to make appointments and show clients into the treatment rooms. It’s a luxury. Most therapists use voicemail and return calls to manage appointments. And Nicolas draws a salary, too. He sits in his office and does the admin but that doesn’t bring in fees. To run Nicolas’s kind of operation would need the clients and prices you see at a top-end spa. I wish the hotel had made the stables a spa, as they planned, and we’d rented the rooms from them. They could have sold spa breaks and attracted the upscale clientele that would expect those kinds of fees. Right now, things are not working out for Nicolas and not working out for us.’ Dominic was so still as he listened that she flushed, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Sorry, I must be boring you to death.’
    ‘No.’ He stirred only to down the last of his water, not removing his gaze from her. ‘It’s not boring. What you’re saying fits in with what I observed. Nicolas seems to have a novel view of business. He’s got nothing to offer and apparently thinks an investor is an angel who’ll swoop by with a briefcase full of money, mysteriously providing the therapists with so many clients that he’ll be raking in the dosh.’
    Liza let out an inelegant snort.
    ‘What do you think will happen to the centre? And to you and the other therapists?’
    For a moment, she let her eyes shut against the spectres of a dwindling client list, dwindling income, her car and house gurgling away down a great economic plughole. ‘I don’t know about Immi and Fenella but I intend to start looking for better premises after Christmas and hope to limp along until they’re found. Unless Nicolas gets to the stage where he can’t make his rent. In which case we all shut down.’
    He nodded. ‘So you’ve got to relocate, whatever? There’s no chance of you making things work with Nicolas?’
    ‘I don’t see one. But at least I can do it at my own pace now Nicolas isn’t giving me notice.’ Liza finished her coffee and smothered a yawn. Many of the locals had drifted off and Janice was washing glasses. Tubb, the landlord, came through from the mysterious area only ever referred to as ‘the back’, assessed the scene through narrowed eyes, checked his watch and said something to Janice. Probably that he was going to watch Sky Sports and she could ring last orders and cash up. ‘Being self-employed has its drawbacks,’ she mused. ‘I sympathise with your medical needs but running your own business seems a long way from the career you’ve been used to, with paid holidays and sick days and never having