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CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Lana, Tenerife, 9.30 am

‘What is the first rule of sales?’ asks my manager, Damien, a pathetic, bald-headed, little Scouser who has a surprisingly large forehead and an even larger ego.

‘Well?’ he demands when nobody speaks, a manic grin plastered on his face thanks to the bag of cocaine he’s no doubt just shoved up his hooter. He cracks his knuckles twice, looks around the room for an answer. We stare ahead uninterested, dodging eye contact.

Through the window of the office – a characterless, white, walled box packed to the brim with computers and sweaty bodies – I catch a glimpse of paradise. Tenerife looks especially beautiful this morning: pale-gold sand meets crystal-blue sea, blending effortlessly into a cloudless sky; lazy morning sun beats down on half-naked bodies like warm honey; couples arm in arm, forgetting for at least one week about the damp, cold weather and depressing recession, which are destined to greet them off the plane home. I swivel around in my chair ninety degrees and can just about make out the harbour in the distance: rich people’s yachts bobbing up and down with the fresh morning breeze; excited babies being rocked on their mothers’ knees, their chubby faces covered in bubble-gum ice cream. Damien says I have the best desk in the office, next to this window. He calls it ‘the window of opportunity’. He likes his play on words does Damien – that’s one of the many reasons why I think he’s a prat!

‘Lana!’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job-centre window, instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.

So, anyway, the first rule of sales is to not believe a word the client on the other end of the telephone says. Obviously, I know this but I wouldn’t give Damien the satisfaction by answering. He is right, though: they all lie to you from the second you say, ‘Hello.’ One lady, a Mrs Chilton, aged seventy-two, from Brighton, once told me she couldn’t possibly take up my offer of a beautiful, luxurious holiday because her parrot had separation anxiety. Apparently, he had taken to pulling out his own feathers and hanging upside down while singing Lionel Richie songs whenever she left the house. Perhaps this one was true – either that or Mrs Chilton is an absolute legend!

‘The first rule of sales is to never believe the client,’ declares my colleague Terry, smugly, like Jeremy Kyle revealing his lie-detector results. Damien almost whoops, ecstatic that somebody has actually paid attention. He then screeches a decibel louder than is necessary.

‘Listen up! I’m going to announce the Star of the Week.’

He breathes in deeply, psyching himself up for the grand revelation, as if we were finalists on The X Factor.

I look around to see if anyone’s actually listening. Over in the far corner, next to the fire extinguisher and overflowing bin, I see Louise playing on her iPhone. Next to her, Max is looking intensely at what looks like a piece of chewing gum on the floor, and Holly is giving the wanker sign to Martin. Mel, who is sitting next to me, seems to be concentrating extremely hard on not vomiting all over her new flip-flops.

‘Are you all right?’ I whisper into her ear, careful to keep my voice low so that Damien doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

As she responds with a dry heave, I can’t help but smile at the slightly faded admission stamp on her hand, which advertises ‘a free shot with every drink’.

The people who work with me are all British expats. They’re a harmless mismatch of eighteen-year-old party animals, bored housewives and young suits who fancy themselves as the next Wolf of Wall Street.

Well, I’m definitely no Jordan Belfort! Five months I’ve been working here and I haven’t sold one single holiday. I’m that skint I can’t even afford mayonnaise to mix in with my dry tuna pasta, which is currently sitting in a Tupperware container on my desk, sweating in the sticky morning heat.

But now things have become serious. Damien pulled me to one side yesterday and placed his skinny, moist palm on my arm. I dodged the spittle flying at me as he spoke in his whiny Scouse accent.

‘No sale tomorrow and you gotta go… sorry, girl.’

Speaking of Damien, I see he’s finally sat down. Who won Star of the Week? I half wonder. Oh, well, I suppose it’s time to pick up the telephone and annoy some people. A huge poster looms above me: ‘smile while you dial’.

‘Are you listening to me, Lana? I said, do you want a brew?’ Mel nudges me on my arm, her Katie Price perfume billowing above our heads like a cloud of lemon sherbet.

‘If you can manage it without puking.’ I wink at her, letting her know my banter is well intended. She sticks her fingers up at me in classic Mel fashion, before turning on her heel and sauntering off.

As I fire up my computer, I, unfortunately, catch my reflection in the monitor. God! I desperately need a good night’s sleep and a bit of TLC. I’m twenty-six and I look about forty: dark-brown circles have started to form under my eyes and unruly, coarse eyebrow hair is sprouting out in all directions like the chits on an old potato. My limp, blonde hair is pulled back lazily into a ponytail with Amber’s butterfly clip shoved in as an afterthought. Oh, yeah, I have a daughter, by the way: Amber. She’s six. It’s because of her I had to leave our home in Manchester.

It’s because of her I’m on the run.