Page 13 of Love or Your Money Back

CHAPTER

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 champion more

unsung 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.’

‘Why?’

‘In case you start throwing things.’

‘Why would I do that?’ I take a seat.

‘Tony Robbins threw three Granny Smith apples during his last marketing evaluation.’

‘ Did

he?’

‘Oh yeah. And Richard Branson cried like a baby. Marketing evaluations can be gruelling. Actually … just in case.’ Freddy hands me a silver box of tissues.

‘I’m not going to cry,’ I say. ‘I’m much more likely to throw fruit.’

Freddy moves the fruit bowl to a side table. ‘Okay. First things first. Open your phone and block Chris’s number.’

‘What?’

‘You want me to help you, right?’

‘Look, I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Chris.’ My eyes flick to the fruit bowl. ‘But I honestly think that’s a positive. Because I’ll take anyone who’ll have me.’

‘Anyone?’

‘Not anyone. That came out wrong.’

‘So, what are your criteria?’

‘Anyone who isn’t racist, sexist, homophobic or anti-disability.’

Freddy’s jaw pulls tight. ‘Listen Kat, I’m all for practicality. Love is, after all, just marketing at its most successful. People love their iPhones. But your standards should be higher. You want to have kids one day, right? That’s the purpose of this marriage exercise?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your standards are incredibly immature.’

‘I’m not immature –’

‘Oh no? Your criteria match a teenager looking for a boyfriend. You’re a mature woman looking for a husband. You want to have children with this man, correct? That’s what this whole marriage exercise is all about?’

‘Well, when you put it that way … I suppose, yes.’

‘So you need someone capable of being a good father. A successful professional who has proven themselves responsible, reliable and committed enough to do well in their career. Can we at least agree on that as a minimum?’

‘I suppose ... okay.’

‘Great. Now block Chris’s number.’

‘Freddy, honestly, there’s no need,’ I insist. ‘I would never entertain anything

with a married man. But Chris and I can still be friends. I’ve known him nearly half my life.’

‘God, Kat, I thought you were intelligent.’ Freddy runs a hand through his expensively choppy hair. ‘Don’t you get it? Chris and Minola won’t last five minutes. And when they break up, he’ll come crawling back to you for free bed and board.’

‘Do you really think so?’ I feel my chest lift.

‘Block him.’ Freddy bangs the desk. ‘Immediately. And take that pathetic look off your face. Chris is not the responsible, marriage-minded consumer we want to attract. You want a husband, not a perpetual one-night stand with a man-child.’

‘I think you’re being a little harsh. He’s not that immature –’

‘Really? Let’s test that theory. How did Chris react when he found out you had MS?’

‘He freaked out.’ I eye up the fruit bowl again. ‘Especially when I needed a cane. I think my illness made him feel … old. Trapped.’

‘Because he’s a child,’ Freddy snaps. ‘We don’t have time for man-child nonsense. We need fully formed. Block him.’

‘Okay, fine.’ I pull out my phone and find Chris’s contact card, finger hovering over the word ‘block’. ‘And you’re sure I have to block

him?’

‘Yes,’ Freddy barks.

I press block, feeling both sick and strangely relieved.

‘Good work, darling.’ Freddy pats my shoulder. ‘Now, let’s talk about all the massive mistakes you’ve been making in your quest for a partner.’ He turns to the giant screen and lifts a presentation pointer. ‘Hold on tight, Katerina. Because this is going to hurt.’