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‘Clothes that match your brand,’ says Freddy. ‘You are now Katerina, CEO of an award-winning London publishing company. Got it?’

‘My mum used to call me Katerina.’

‘Okay, darling. Off you go.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask if I mind using the name my dead mother used to call me?’

‘No.’

‘Andwhereshould I go?’

‘Start with Faith and Doyles on New Bond Street,’ says Freddy.

‘I can’t take the tube with my leg flying out all over the place –’

‘I’ll order you a cab.’

‘But they’re an environmental menace.’

‘So you’ll be pleased to know we use an electric cab firm because I love the planet as much as you do. And by the way, worn shoe leather is bad for the environment too.’

‘I don’t wear leather shoes.’

‘Of course you don’t.’

CHAPTER14

Faith and Doyles department store turns out to be one of those beautiful, grand Victorian buildings that pop up in London like unexpected celebrities. You turn a corner and then, whoosh. There they are. No fuss. This is just me, here. An astonishing piece of history, next to electric cars and dropped coffee cups.

But there’s no time to enjoy the building.

For some people, shopping is a leisure activity.Let’s go shopping, they say. Like it’s a pleasant use of time, rather than a huge, overwhelming inconvenience.

I am not a natural shopper and department stores are foreign lands to me. I enter the ladies' clothing section in sore need of a guide. Luckily, a skinny, blonde sales assistant inserts herself into my eyeline the moment I touch the first clothing rail.

‘Can I help you?’ She has a scarily smooth forehead and looks like she lives on diet pills and Coke Zero.

‘Yes, I need clothes.’ I try to sound confident.

The lady blinks several times. Her overly smooth forehead looks like it wants to crinkle, but can’t.

‘I’m looking for a husband,’ I clarify.

‘You … want to find a husband?’

‘I know you don’t sell husbands.’ I try for a laugh, using my cane for support. ‘I’m rebranding myself.’

The assistant takes a micro-glance at my disability device, eyes widening. ‘Oh! You’re disabled?’

‘You’re not supposed to use the term disabled anymore,’ I say. ‘You’re supposed to say, people with a disability.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ The assistant pulls on a fake smile. ‘Well, we don’t have the facilities forthepeople withdisabilitieson this floor. We’ve had accidents before.Urineaccidents and … look, the only large toilets are in homewares in the basement. Maybe you’d be better off in H&M. They have more provision for, you know, the disabled.’

‘But I don’t want to go to H&M,’ I say. ‘It’s not expensive enough.’

‘Listen madam, I’M NOT CLEARING UP PISS AGAIN!’

There’s a long, awkward silence.