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‘That’s unrealistic –’

‘Right! I’d better get back to the office.’

‘Surely, you’re not going back to work? Your legs –’

‘I have my cane.’

‘And you also have a temperature. You should rest.’

‘I will rest in my grave.’

‘Yes. You certainly will. Ten years earlier than average, if the data is anything to go by.’ Dr Martin looks rather happy with himself for remembering that statistic.

‘Thank you, Dr Martin.’ I snatch up my medicine. ‘I hope I won’t see you again soon.’

Dr Martin lets out a long, world-weary sigh that smells of cigarettes. ‘You will.’ He lumbers to his feet with some effort and holds the door open for me. ‘It’s inevitable. That’s why they call it relapsing, remitting MS.’

‘They might find a cure for MS before I have another relapse,’ I say. ‘Type 2 diabetes was incurable not so long ago. Now it can be cured with diet.’

‘Nutritional quackery.’ Dr Martin shakes his head and swigs his Redbull.

As I say, I visit Dr Martin for geographical convenience rather than sound medical advice. I turn to the waiting room, leaning heavily on my cane.

‘You’re giving medical advice to a doctor now, darling?’ says a horribly familiar voice.

Oh god. My stomach drops. ‘What are you doing here, Freddy Stark? I should have you arrested for stalking.’

‘Nice walking stick.’ Freddy perches on a plastic, waiting-room chair in his black suit and shiny oxblood shoes. He looks like champagne in a McDonald’s cup. ‘Is it yours?’

I redden, hiding my cane behind me. ‘I asked my question first. What are you doing here?’

‘We were supposed to be having a marketing evaluation, remember? Your team told me you were here.’

‘I can’t do the evaluation. I need to get back to the office.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course I’m not. I’m in a doctor’s office.’

‘It’s amazing anyone could practice medicine here.’ Freddy eyes up the boxes of duty-free cigarettes by the door. ‘It looks like a dock worker’s overnight accommodation. Do you need help walking?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re using a cane,’ Freddy points out. ‘Unless you’re carrying it for someone else –’

‘No-it’s-mine.’ I say the words all in a rush.

‘I looked up your illness,’ says Freddy. ‘Relapsing-remitting MS, right? Sometimes you’re well, sometimes you’re not. It makes sense. The up and down sales figures. Little Voice’s reputation for missed print and delivery deadlines. I’m guessing sometimes you can walk well, sometimes you can’t.’

‘Good research. I would raise my eyebrows in surprise if my face didn’t hurt.’

‘Let me help you –’

‘You can’t help me raise my eyebrows. I’m fine. Really.’ I make jerking movements across the waiting room.

Freddy holds open the door for me. ‘So, about this marketing evaluation –’

‘You can’t market a broken product.’ I head out onto the street at maximum speed. Which isn’t very fast.