Page 2 of Love or Your Money Back

CHAPTER

Source: New York Times

, re-quoted regularly (and probably inaccurately) by my Aunty Sylvia.

‘Welcome to Chris and Minola’s fairy tale wedding!’ A jolly, overweight woman in an unflattering tutu waves a toy wand at me. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘It’s Katerina. Kat for short.’

‘What a wonderful name! I bless you with fairy magic!’ The woman throws glitter over the rebellious brown frizz that is my hair.

I stand in quiet acceptance as handfuls of silver sparkles settle on my shoulders like ethereal dandruff.

To be fair, my least-bobbly, navy work dress and lace-up vegan-leather DMs do need a little brightening up.

In a woodland glade, surrounded by Tinkerbells and Maleficents, I need, at the very least, a pair of fairy wings.

‘Are you with the bride or groom?’ the fairy asks.

‘Groom.’

‘And how do you know Chris?’ She reaches for a second handful of glitter.

‘We slept together for over a decade. Then he ditched me for someone younger and bendier.’

The fairy’s hand hesitates mid-glitter removal. ‘Are you going to object to the wedding? Because between you and me, I think Minola can do better –’

‘Of course not.’ I try for a smile, which probably looks a little scary. ‘I want Chris to be happy. We were together for fifteen years. On and off. It was an amicable breakup, and we still get along well. Except for the excrement we post through each other’s letter boxes. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘I’ll put you on the bride's side.’ The fairy leads me to an empty log on the right side of the clearing, sprinkling fairy dust as she goes.

I must wince as I sit, because the fairy says, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ I lie, pulling on another scary smile. Truthfully, my left hip is killing me, but I never burden others with my physical issues. They’re a real joy killer.

I open up my slumpy, patchwork bag, digging around for my cane just

in case.

‘Oh!’ The fairy notices my folded walking cane, tucked among books, pens and notepads. ‘Are you disabled? Because if you are, I can offer you a plastic chair with better access to the portaloos –’

‘Not today.’ I pull my phone from my bag.

‘I’ve told my body to behave itself. It’s humiliating enough, watching my first love marry a woman 13-years younger than me.

I’m not going to add spasms and shakes to my list of indignities.

’ My eyes soften at the fairy’s confused expression.

‘I have MS. Multiple Sclerosis. Sometimes it means my legs start kicking people by accident. But today they will be good. I have given them a stern talking to.’

The fairy gives me an uncertain smile, then bounds away to glitter bomb more guests. I’m about to check work emails on my phone when something frilly and pink appears at my shoulder.

‘Katerina! There you are. Hiding away on the bride's

side. When you’re a friend of the groom

.’

I look up into the frantic, overly made-up eyes of my Aunty Sylvia. She wears her usual blend of pink, frills and sequins, and I resist the urge to comment on the many third-world workers who no doubt put her outfit together.

‘Hi, Aunty Sylvia.’ I try for a smile. ‘Your stalking skills are excellent, as always. I didn’t even tell you I’d be here today. Did you get the glucosamine I sent? It’s helped my knees so much. I’m sure it will help yours –’

‘If I took every vitamin you sent me, Kat, I’d rattle. You’ve sent me so

many supplements this year –’

‘Look, I’m a human guinea pig for this stuff, Aunty Sylvia. When I find something that works, I want as many people to benefit as possible. Out of interest, how did you know I’d be here today?’

‘I saw the wedding invitation in your kitchen. Printed on cheap, flimsy paper and asking guests to bring their own fairy lights and booze

.’ Sylvia shudders.

‘The invitation was actually in a drawer

,’ I point out. ‘A closed drawer.’

Sylvia looks awkward.

‘ And

it was in an envelope. Is Aunt Caro here, too?’

‘Yes. And I’m not stalking

you, darling. I’m here to stop you doing anything stupid. Like objecting to the wedding –’

‘I’m not going to object to the wedding. Today is closure. Okay? I need to move on. And seeing Chris get married, as painful as it will be, will help me know the door is closed. To make the omelette of success, eggs need to be cracked.’

‘Good girl.’ Aunty Sylvia pats me with a rose-fragranced hand. ‘You get your closure. And I’ll find you some nice men to meet. I wish you’d done something

with your hair and worn a little colour. You’re a beautiful girl underneath all that baggy drab. There are no ugly women, just lazy ones. Come along!’ Sylvia clicks fragranced fingers.

‘Can’t I just have a few moments more wallowing time before the wedding party arrives?’ I ask.

‘No.’ Aunty Sylvia pulls me to my feet. ‘And frankly, I have no idea what you have to wallow about. Would you have wanted this make-do-and-mend we-don’t-want-to-pay-for-a-venue woodland wedding?’

‘I wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Why on earth would you want to be with a man who has no career –’

‘Chris is an actor.’

‘Exactly. Now listen. I know you’re in your thirties and still unmarried.

And Chris treated you terribly and kept drunkenly proposing to you and then cheated on you and broke your heart.

And then you took him back, only for him to leave you for this beautiful, young woman who he’s now marrying.

And you’re still single and alone and thirty-four

years old and time is ticking. But do not give that a moment’s thought today, Katerina. Okay? Come and meet this man I’m sitting next to. He’s a dentist. Completely bald, but sometimes the nicest gifts come in bad packaging.’ She looks me up and down. ‘How are your legs today?’

‘Fine.’

‘Because I know that stress can –’

‘I’m not stressed. I’m sad.’

‘Yes.’ Aunty Sylvia eyes my outfit. ‘You look like you’re attending a funeral. A very shabby funeral.’

I look down at myself. ‘This dress isn’t shabby. It’s from Marks and Spencer.’

‘Wool isn’t the right fabric for a wedding, dear.

’ Sylvia plucks sadly at navy weave. ‘You should invest in some new clothes before everything drops. This is the decade when it all falls apart. Your bosom and … other areas. Do you know that educated women over the age of 35 are more likely to get shot by a terrorist –’

‘Yes, you’ve mentioned that statistic before,’ I say. ‘Many times. Frankly, I’m amazed you didn’t ice it into that offensive cake you made me for my 34th birthday.’

‘It wasn’t offensive,’ says Sylvia. ‘It was a Mary Berry recipe. And the fondant bride and groom were supposed to be inspiring. I wanted to show you that even though Chris was engaged to somebody else, you could still dream of your own big day.’

‘It’s too late now, Aunty Sylvia.’ My eyes wander to the front of the clearing and a wooden altar hung with fairy lights.

‘The plan was to marry before I turned 35. Which would still give me time to get pregnant without all the health risks. But Chris is marrying someone else. I’ll never love anyone the way I love him. ’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Sylvia grabs my arm. ‘You’re a beautiful girl with a stunning bosom and still young enough to fall madly in love again.’

‘But Chris was my first love –’

‘So? Come and meet this dentist. Lovely fellow. He was telling me that dental hoovers – you know the ones that suck out rotten, broken shards of teeth? Well, apparently, they’re very similar to my Dyson V15.’