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Freddy catches up with me. ‘You’re not broken. Listen, you might think I’m shallow –’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘But my job is to see the benefits in everything. And I see the benefits in you, Katerina Friedman, whether you can walk or not.’

I stop walking and lean on my cane. ‘You see benefits in a cripple?’

Freddy stops too. ‘First off, don’t ever use that word about yourself or anyone else. And second – yes of course I do. You might think marketing is shallow, pointless and consumeristic. But a marketer’s job is to see value where no one else does. You are a successful, intelligent, beautiful business woman who is strong enough to deal with chronic pain. A sparkling jewel that, when packaged, presented and promoted correctly, every man in London will fall madly in love with.’

I stare at Freddy for a moment. A long moment. Then I say: ‘Freddy Stark. I would like to do my marketing evaluation.’

CHAPTER12

By the time we reach Freddy’s fancy central London offices, the painkillers have kicked in and I’m feeling a little better. My left leg is still flying out all over the place, but I can walk and the pain in my face has gone.

Good old codeine, and Dr Martin’s under-the-counter prescription policies.

The Salt Marketing offices are located on Charing Cross Road, just on the edge of Covent Garden. And I do mean offices, plural, because it’s a whole skyscraper. If I were to describe the building in one word, it would be ‘gleaming’.

Floor-to-ceiling glass windows sparkle, white marble floors glow and attractive staff click through the lobby with shiny hair, skin and teeth.

‘This place is not for people with imperfections,’ I tell Freddy, as I hobble into the lobby on my cane.

‘Don’t be silly,’ says Freddy. ‘We have the fastest elevators in London. This whole building has been designed for –’

‘People with spazzy legs?’

‘I was going to say non-standard ways of getting around.’

‘How very woke you are.’

‘I am actually. My assistant, Tim, is ex-army and has worn his knees out with jumping jacks. Which means he can’t do stairs. I wouldn’t be much of a boss if I made him crawl up to the office every day and he’s constantly lecturing me on politically correct terms for people with disabilities.’

‘Why is everything here so shiny? You must have people wiping smears away day and night.’

‘Yes. The window cleaners have their own Christmas raffle.’

Freddy strides into an elevator, and I hobble in after him. We ascend in awkward silence, made more awkward by our reflections staring back at us.

Freddy looks like a superhero’s daytime alter-ego, with his clipped brown hair, knowing eyes and sharp suit. I, on the other hand, am a mismatched bundle of baggy, elephant print yoga pants, a faded band t-shirt and supermarket running shoes, leaning on a walking cane.

Nothing about my frizzy hair and pale, tired face gleams, and I know I don’t belong here. Part of me wants to leave. But another, more desperate part, knows I’m here for a reason. I do want to get married. And I do think Freddy can help me.

‘Welcome to the board room.’ Freddy opens a glass door, revealing panoramic views of London and bursts of colour on block-painted feature walls.

‘Wow.’ I look around.

Freddy gives the kind of smug smile that tells me he gets this reaction all the time.

‘Just think, Kat. With more profits, Little Voice could have offices like this. Instead of your magnolia-walled, shabby old, tuna-smelling offices in the East end. You want to look after your staff, don’t you? Give them a nice place to work in?’

‘Yes,’ I admit, grudgingly. ‘But we’ll never make enough money.’

‘That’s because you don’t value money.’

‘True,’ I say. ‘I value free speech. And championing unsung voices. And literary awards –’

‘Money isn’t a bad thing,’ says Freddy. ‘It all comes down to what you use it for. You could use it to championmoreunsung voices. And give your staff nicer premises. But we’re not here today to talk business. Today is about Project Marriage. Take a seat at the far end of the table. Away from the fruit bowl.’