Page 3 of Love or Your Money Back

CHAPTER1

Women over the age of 35 are more likely to be shot by a terrorist than get married.

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 canejustin 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 thebride'sside. When you’re a friend of thegroom.’

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 mesomany 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 andbooze.’ Sylvia shudders.

‘The invitation was actually in adrawer,’ I point out. ‘A closed drawer.’

Sylvia looks awkward.

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

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

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