Page 67 of Love or Your Money Back

CHAPTER

I am woken by a knock, knock, knocking outside the suite. It’s daylight. Sort of. Autumn daylight: sun fighting with grey cloud.

‘Katerina?’

I struggle against bedclothes. Who on earth is outside? It sounds like Aunty Sylvia, but it can’t possibly –

‘KATERINA! Open this door immediately or I will pick the lock with my emergency lock-picking kit.’

It is Aunty Sylvia. What on earth is she doing here, outside my hotel room in Germany at this ridiculous hour of the morning? And come to think of it, what hour is it? And where and I? And why do I feel so … open?

Oh, dear god. I’m naked

. Why am I naked?

I push mountains of soft, white bedclothes aside and surface in a different hotel room than the one I went to sleep in on arrival. I feel surprisingly well-rested and unstressed. This is unusual for me. I normally wake up with my heart pounding and an urgent to-do list racing around my head.

I squint at the dully sun-lit curtains.

Oh wow.

It comes to me in a rush.

Freddy. Last night. Freddy, Freddy, Freddy.

We did the thing. The thing you should never do with a womanising co-worker. Having sex with someone who goes to the gym is a superior experience, but …

Oh God.

He said he loved me. I said I loved him.

I look around the bed. Freddy isn’t here. He’s gone.

OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

My eyes fall to Freddy’s side of the bed. There’s a soft indentation in the pillow where his head was. Other than that, there’s no evidence he was ever here.

Freddy’s suitcases aren’t by the wardrobe anymore and there are no clothes, shoes or any other manly attributions scattered around the place.

He’s done a runner. Of course he has. He’s a guy who lures women into bed with good marketing slogans. I shove my face right into the pillow and scream.

Katerina, you total fucking idiot.

After all the hard work. All the rebranding and new clothes and self-improvement and you ditched your fiancé and fell for the hook-up routine of a serial womaniser.

I am so furious with myself.

GOD. For all Chris’s disloyalty, at least he stayed until morning.

I want the luxurious bed to swallow me up which, as a matter of fact, feels like a possibility.

What have I done?

Knock, knock, knock!

Aunty Sylvia is still outside the suite.

‘KATERINA! Open this door, I am VERY worried.’

I leap out of bed, feet getting caught in the bedding and catapulting me to the floor.

Wait. Was that the bedding or a leg malfunction?

I try to stand and fall flat on my face.

On the whole, my body feels a lot better than yesterday, but my left leg has developed ghost trembles. That’s fine. They’ll go by lunchtime.

I get onto my hands and knees and crawl towards the door, dragging one trembling leg behind me. Then I reach to pull down the door handle.

‘You were in the newspapers!’ Aunty Sylvia pushes into the bedroom. ‘Being carried onto the stage in a wheelchair

, darling. Well done

. But you should have told us you needed help. Caro and I flew out the moment Freddy told us about your flare-up. Why are you naked? Don’t you have a dressing gown?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Well, we’re here now, darling, to hear the whole thing. No more struggling by yourself. Ah! Here’s Caro with coffee.’

Aunt Caro appears in the doorway with three takeaway coffees and a bag of German cleaning products.

I pull myself onto the sofa and wrap freshly laundered towels over myself to cover my nakedness.

‘We’re here to help you dress and pack.’ Aunty Sylvia sits beside me.

‘Freddy Stark flew us out business class. What do you think about that? Although really, it was just more legroom, a few alcoholic miniatures and a free copy of the Financial Times, which Caro shouted at me for reading. Well, stop lying around. We need to get you dressed. If you’re well enough, we’ll take you into Frankfurt for a nice meal.

And then we’ll see about getting you home. ’

‘I can get myself home.’ I pull myself up, holding in angry tears. ‘I’ve been getting myself home and upstairs on crap legs for over a decade. I was stupid enough to think I could change that story, but it turns out, no. Life is never that good.’

‘You sound depressed, darling.’ Aunty Sylvia offers me a black-bread sandwich in a carton, a bag of paprika-flavoured crisps and a bright green apple. ‘Shall we give you a little shot of steroids to perk you up?’

‘I don’t need steroids,’ I say. ‘I need to get home and get on with my mediocre life.’

Sylvia folds pink fingernails over faux leather leggings. ‘Katerina, what’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes, there is. I love you like a mother. You know that don’t you? And I know when something’s wrong.’

My face softens. ‘I know that.’

‘I wish you’d talk to me. Let us help you.’

I suck in my breath. ‘I don’t need help. I am just fine looking after myself.’