Free The Importance of Being Married by Gemma Townley Page B

unlock the door. Then, cautiously (there’s no other way to walk in two-and-a-half-inch heels), I made my way down the road toward the tube station.
     
     
     
    By the time I got off the tube at Farringdon, my feet felt like they were bleeding. For all I knew, they probably were. Whoever had designed the shoes that Helen had forced on me either hated women, hated feet, or never actually wore shoes themselves.
    Irritably, feeling about as far from “Jessica Wild hot babe” as it was possible to feel, I hobbled into the coffee shop on the corner for my usual (small cappuccino, no chocolate, since you ask), and waited in line.
    “Coffee?”
    I smiled. “Just the usual, thanks.”
    Gary, the man behind the counter, frowned. Then he grinned. “Is you? You different.”
    I blushed awkwardly. He thought I looked ridiculous. And he was right.
    “You do your hair? Is nice!” he continued. “Very glamorous lady.”
    “Hardly.” I bit my lip. “It’s far too shiny. Not practical at all.”
    “No, is good.” Gary was still grinning at me. “Is very good. I like.” He wasn’t actually called Gary, he’d told me once; he was Polish and called Gerik but whenever people asked him his name, he’d had to repeat himself about a million times and then the person he was talking to still seemed to think he’d said “Gary,” so eventually he’d given up correcting them.
    He turned around and started to make my cappuccino. Then, when it was finished, he handed it to me. “No money,” he insisted when I tried to hand him two pound coins. “And you take this pastry, too. From me. Present.”
    “Present?” I looked at him in alarm. He felt sorry for me. That was the only explanation. “No, no, you have to take money, Gary. Here…”
    But he held up his hand. And then he winked. Frowning, I turned around to see whom he was winking at. But there was no one there, and when I turned back he winked again. “On the house,” he said, firmly.
    “Really?” My eyes widened in surprise.
    “Really. For brighten up the day.” Brightening up his day? I’d never, to my knowledge, brightened up anyone’s day before. Gary shot me a big grin and I managed to smile back, sort of, before turning uncertainly and making my way out.
    “I’ll brighten up your day if you give me a free croissant,” I heard a woman offer as I pulled open the door.
    “Bright enough, thanks,” I heard Gary say gruffly. “And you keep smiling like that, I make you pay double.”
    Unsteadily, I made my way down the road toward Milton Advertising. As I approached the door, my phone rang and I transferred my coffee and pastry to my left hand, then pulled out my mobile. HOME was flashing on the screen.
    “Hello?”
    “I forgot to say, keep your head up. You always look at the floor. So don’t.”
    I sighed. “Aren’t you meant to be applying for jobs today?” I asked.
    “I am,” Helen said quickly. “But you’re my priority.”
    “Well, thanks,” I said. “And I’ll keep my head up if you get your résumé together.”
    “If you make this work, I won’t need a job. You’ll be a millionaire and I can be your paid companion,” she said.
    “’Bye Helen.” I put my phone back in my pocket. As I did, I saw Anthony through the glass doors. He was on his way out; immediately I felt myself tense up.
    Awkwardly, I pushed the door in front of me, but Anthony pulled it at the same time and instead of walking through, head held high, I fell forward, knocking into him. Quickly I pulled myself backward, but my legs, unused to balancing on high heels the width of a pin, swiveled under me; as I reached out to grab something—anything—to stop me from falling, I let go of my cup of coffee, which tumbled, as if in slow motion, toward the floor, toward Anthony, splashing his shoes, missing his trousers by about an inch. I would have followed it, too, if Anthony hadn’t reached out to catch me.
    “Fuck! I mean, oh God. I’m sorry.” My face drained