Page 34 of Love or Your Money Back

CHAPTER

It’s stuffy in the Salt Marketing box. Freddy feels it keenly. Not the heat, which is pathetically mediocre and British. The atmosphere. Everyone is so blandly attractive, in their identical suits and dresses. If only Kat were here to argue with him.

Still.

There’s alcohol. That’s something.

Freddy heads to the small private bar.

‘Good afternoon. Can I get a shot of tequila?’

‘We don’t do shots, sir,’ says the barman. ‘This isn’t that kind of bar. But I can do you a measure of Cuervo Gold.’

‘Isn’t Cuervo Gold tequila?’

‘It’s a luxury, cactus-based spirit.’

‘Yeah, that’ll do.’

The barman presents Freddy with a small shot glass filled with premium tequila, and a bill that could pay for three bottles of wine in a supermarket. Not that Freddy buys wine from supermarkets.

‘I thought you didn’t do shots?’ Freddy asks, examining the glass.

‘We don’t.’

‘But this is a shot glass.’

‘I wouldn’t call it a shot glass, sir.’

‘Well, what would you call it?’

‘A miniature tumbler.’

Freddy knocks back the tequila in one, slaps the glass on the bar and says, ‘I’ll have two more of those miniature tumblers.’

‘Certainly.’

Freddy throws two more tequilas back, then decides he’d better check in on Kat again. He’s been watching her from the balcony. Maybe it’s a little intrusive, but Freddy monitors all product launches closely. Just not usually with binoculars.

Hey … that’s weird. Marcus isn’t with Kat anymore. It looks like she’s talking to …

No

.

Freddy dials the binocular focus, zooming in on fucking

Chris.

Where did that dickhead come from?

On instinct, Freddy grabs a scone, meaning to hurl it in Chris’s direction. But he doesn’t, because the scones here are fluffy and light as little clouds and would make poor projectiles. Also, battering Chris with baked goods won’t help Kat, who looks like she’s struggling to stand.

Freddy chucks the binoculars at the butler man, grabs Kat’s new Lulu Guinness bag and sprints out of the VIP box.

‘Sir. SIR!’ The barman gives a frantic wave. ‘Please don’t run. It’s dangerous after the amount of miniature tumblers you just consumed.’

‘I can handle my drink.’ Freddy runs to the stairwell, where he promptly trips and falls.

He clambers to his feet.

‘It wasn’t the tequila!’ Freddy shouts up the stairs. ‘Gucci loafers have no grip whatsoever.’