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‘Your bashed-up hand.’

‘It was nothing. The guy was an utter prick who deserved it.’

‘Oh my God.’ I throw a hand to my mouth. ‘Chris! You fought with Chris!’

‘Not a fight,’ says Freddy hastily. ‘He came at me with a baguette and I punched him. Maybe I shouldn’t have done. But he was saying bad things about you and I lost it.’

‘You hit Chris?’ I confirm. ‘For saying bad things about me?’

‘Look, I know you’re a vegan and all of that –’

‘WHICH DOESN’T MAKE ME A PACIFIST! And I’m a vegan who eats cheese. Wow.Wow.’ I reach for a spoon, careful not to jerk my arm.

‘What?’ Freddy asks.

‘I don’t know how to feel about this.’ I spoon curry onto a plate with a minorly shaking hand. ‘Is Chris okay?’

‘Don’t do that.’ Freddy snatches the spoon from me and takes over the curry dispensing. ‘Don’t waste your pity on that arsehole. He doesn’t care about you. If he did, he’d be letting you get on with your life.’

‘You’re right.’

‘I’m sorry. Say that again?’ Freddy puts a hand to his ear.

‘You’re right. Chris doesn’t care about me. There were moments when I thought … well. I got it wrong. He doesn’t care about anybody but himself.’

‘Tell me I’m right again. I need to record it.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘Listen.’ Freddy hands me back my spoon and puts the plate on my lap. ‘I’d better stay in your guest bedroom tonight. You’re not moving well and you need someone to bring you tea or romance novels or whatever. But no funny business, okay? I know I’m irresistible, but we’re business partners and work and romance don’t mix.’

I laugh. ‘Can you imagine the two of us together? We’d kill each other.’

‘Yes, we would. But we’d probably have a lot of fun in the process.’

‘Do you know something, Freddy?’ I load curry onto my spoon. ‘You seem to have a positive effect on my MS. I’ve felt better since you’ve been here. So I accept your offer. On medical grounds.’

CHAPTER44

Just before Christmas, Freddy was on Donatella Versace’s yacht, sailing the Caribbean with a group of bikini-clad Victoria’s Secret models and enough champagne and lobster to potentially capsize. But eating curry with Kat at her cosy little house in Bloomsbury is a lot more fun.

Freddy finds himself asking Kat questions. The sort of questions he would ask investors at dinner when trying to figure out what makes them tick. Except this time, Freddy is genuinely interested in the answers. He wants to know where Kat went to school. What was her first big success as a kid? What was her best-ever Christmas present? Does she put ketchup on chips? What did her dad do?

Kat answers all Freddy’s questions, and he absorbs the answers like sun cream.

She went to school in North London, where there were more ethnic minorities than white kids, and she loved it. She was head girl. Obviously. Her best Christmas present was a flute, which she learned to play at grade-four level. She does not put ketchup on chips. What did her dad do? He left her, that’s what he did. Other than that, she has no idea and no inclination to ever meet him and find out.

Kat asks Freddy questions too, and he answers them honestly. He tells her he was shy as a kid. And skinny. He liked reading. But he had a huge crush on an older girl, and he didn’t think skinny would cut it. So he got into boxing and weight training. He lifted scaffolding poles because his Dad sometimes worked on building sites. Then he asked to join a local boxing gym, and they agreed.

Sadly, the girl Freddy had a crush on still wouldn’t go out with him, so he decided to make a lot of money to see if this would impress her.

‘And did it?’ Kat asks.

‘I don’t know,’ says Freddy. ‘By then, I’d met other girls to get spurned by.’

‘Tell me about the underwear modelling.’

‘It wasdesignerunderwear. None of your rubbish. I used the modelling money to expand the gym business. A chain of gyms, then a marketing company and various other businesses, some failed, some succeeded.’