Page 54 of Love or Your Money Back

‘Barely isn’t the same as not at all. I can manage. I manage all the time.’ I throw back the last of my champagne, then grasp my wallet from my bag with stiff, sore fingers. ‘Just let me settle up.’

‘No way!’ Freddy stands, nearly knocking the table over in the process. ‘DO NOT try to pay the bill. And let me get you a taxi –’

‘Didn’t you see the queue at the taxi rank on the way in?’

‘You need the taxi rank at the other side of the car park. There’s never a queue there.’

‘But that’s nearly as far as the train station –’

‘What ho, chaps!’ Ahmet bounds into the marquee. ‘Kat, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Oh! Goodness, you’re shaking. Are you okay?’

CHAPTER36

Ahmet is the quintessential English dag, in Freddy’s opinion. Dag is an Australian word meaning the shit that hangs behind a sheep’s backside. In other words, a lamo. A nerd. A geek. Why did he set Kat up with this guy?

‘Ahmet.’ Freddy hopes his eyes convey the parental annoyance he’s feeling. ‘Kat and I are in the middle of something.’

‘An argument,’ Kat confirms. ‘About trains versus taxis.’

‘Oh. Great.’ Ahmet takes a seat. ‘Can I join in?’

‘No you can’t,’ Freddy snaps.

‘My MS has flared up a little, Ahmet,’ Kat explains. ‘And I need to get back to London. I want to take a train, but Freddy thinks I should get a taxi.’

‘You can’t take the train,’ says Ahmet.

‘Exactly,’ says Freddy. ‘Because the station is over a mile away and –’

‘And there’s been an incident,’ says Ahmet. ‘Some hooligan threw a magnum bottle of champagne from the railway bridge and disrupted the electrics. Delays for hours.’

‘Right.’ Kat gives a stoic nod. ‘So I’ll have to hobble to the taxi rank on the other side of the car park –’

‘I have a wheelchair.’ Ahmet jerks to his feet. ‘I keep one in my car at all times for emergencies. I lead free Tai Chi sessions with geriatric groups in Hyde Park, and one never knows when a wheelchair might be needed. Katerina, I can push you to the taxi rank. Stay there. Stay right there.’

As Ahmet bounds away, Kat’s face contorts in pain.

‘Ow! Ow!’

‘You can’t wait for him to walk fifteen minutes to the car park and back again,’ says Freddy. ‘That’s thirty minutes –’

‘You’re right.’ Kat catches the table for support. ‘You’ll have to carry me to the taxi rank.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, Freddy. What’s the point of spending hours in the gym if you don’t lift something useful every so often?’

‘I don’t spend hours in the gym. I only go three times a week.’

‘Oh, come on –’

‘Honestly. I worked out a lot when I was younger, but now I just maintain.’

‘Still. You can lift me with ease.’

Freddy feels panic-stricken. He has, of course, lifted women many times, for reasons he rather not go into right now. But carrying Kat feelsawkward.

‘Think of the publicity,’ says Kat. ‘Someone’s bound to take a photograph. You, top-hatted Tarzan, carrying me through Ascot. Great for Salt Marketing’s image and all the girls will want to sleep with you. You’ll probably end up with a threesome tonight –’

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