Intervention Island: Enter the Life Coach

My parents, Bartholomew and Eleanor Sterling, were not the type of people to mince words. They were more the type to have a private jet on standby for when they *did* want to mince words, preferably somewhere with a better view than our slightly-too-small-for-my-liking mansion. So, when they summoned me to the drawing-room, a room so formal it probably had its own butler named Jeeves, I knew I was in for it. The air was thick with the scent of expensive potpourri and thinly veiled disappointment. My father, perched on a velvet armchair like a king surveying his slightly unkempt kingdom, cleared his throat. My mother, radiating an aura of polished concern, smoothed down her already immaculate silk blouse.

“Penelope,” my father began, his voice a low rumble that usually preceded a lecture on fiscal responsibility or the proper way to address a duke. “We’ve been… observing.”

Observing? I’d been living under their roof, a grown woman, for twenty-five years. What exactly were they observing that warranted such a dramatic preamble? Had I accidentally worn socks with sandals to breakfast again? I mentally scanned my recent wardrobe choices. Nope, I was pretty sure I’d managed to avoid any major sartorial faux pas since the charity shop gala incident. Though, to be fair, my definition of ‘major’ might differ from theirs.