Free Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley

emphasis like a politician. ‘To allow them to get a foothold on the property ladder in a difficult market.’
    Was it just me, or had he ignored the question? I frowned at the radio.
    ‘You’re not answering the question, Mr Shaw,’ interrupted the nice man.
    I cheered him on silently.
    Mr Shaw gave a derisory laugh. ‘I’m sure Mr Cromwell is well-intentioned if not well-informed but–’
    ‘WHAT?’ Mr Cromwell was becoming more passionate by the second.
    ‘Yeah, fighting talk,’ I said, enjoying the verbal insults from the safety of my own bed.
    The housing councillor continued, ignoring his adversary. ‘But not everyone can afford the luxury of an architect-designed home.’
    ‘Wrong,’ said Nick Cromwell forcefully. ‘Architecture should be for everyone, not just the wealthy.’
    These words were spat through gritted teeth and I gave the man a round of applause.
    ‘Er, that’s all we have time for. My thanks to Nottingham architect Nick Cromwell, and City Housing Councillor Malcolm Shaw.’
    I was a strong believer in fate. Things happened for a reason in my book. Which is why I scrabbled around for a pen and paper and scrawled the name Nick Cromwell before I forgot it. He sounded exactly the kind of man to give me my second, second opinion.

ten
    ‘Who’s moved third gear?’ I muttered, yanking the gear stick backwards and forwards as the car laboured up the hill and out of town.
    My ability to make cars to do what I want diminished considerably when I was stressed.
    After a meeting with my least-favourite client, I was most certainly stressed. I was also running late and sat with tense shoulders over the steering wheel. I worried at a bit of loose skin on my lip with my teeth until it tore off painfully, leaving the taste of blood in my mouth.
    Oh doughballs, now I was going to turn up late looking like I’d been in a fight!
    I did detest Frannie Cooper, owner of hair salon chain Fringe Benefits, but I had stopped short of coming to blows with the woman. She was a footballer’s wife who had thought that a little business would be fun and give her a handy excuse not to watch husband, Ryan, play.
    I dreaded meetings with Frannie. She was unprofessional, ungrateful and unhinged, flying off the handle and swearing rudely if she didn’t like what she heard. She was so bad that even my boss, the Queen of Mean, didn’t like her. Today, Frannie had rejected all the ads that I had shown her for the next campaign, which as far as I was concerned were exactly what she had asked for. Frannie had demanded that Jason, our graphic designer, re-did them. I had no choice other than to agree and the boss was going to be furious.
    So now I was late and it was raining. My curls turned into candyfloss when it rained.
    A gentle bong from the dashboard alerted me to the fact that the car was running on emergency fuel. I groaned and scanned the street ahead for a petrol station.
    I hated pool cars. When I got my own car, it would be spotlessly clean, free from the whiff of Brut and I would keep the tank topped up at all times.
    At least stopping for petrol meant that I could buy a drink. Frannie never offered me so much as a glass of water, ever. I pulled onto to the forecourt and persuaded an old man to put the petrol in the car for me. I did know how, but it was such a faff and I was wearing suede shoes. It was bad enough trying to dodge the puddles, let alone steer clear of petrol splashes.
    Ninety pence for a carton of Ribena from the chiller cabinet! What a rip off! I chose a multipack from the grocery aisle for a pound, paid up and left.
    Four weeks had gone by since my first visit to Woodby. Despite the drizzle, this time the trip through the countryside was much more scenic. The fields were full of gangs of scampering lambs and the brown rectangles of mud had been replaced with something green.
    I began to feel a bit fluttery as I approached the village. The architect would probably be at the bungalow by now. My