Free The Love Market by Carol Mason Page A

polish.
    ‘And they’re smudged and have bits of carpet sticking to them,’ I smile. My heart wasn’t really in going out; I was just fighting my inner tendency to be a hermit on weekends.
    ‘I think they look great. For three toes.’ This is Mike. Always tries to make you feel good about yourself.
    He continues to stare at them, as though my feet are an emotional stop sign he’s trying to get past but can’t. I think of my unprovoked outbursts about why I wasn’t happy. My feeling that marriage had become some kind of stopping place, some destination we’d reached only to find that I’d hoped for more when I got there. The strange thing is, what was it that I felt he stopped me from being, doing, that I want to run out and be and do now?
    When he finally looks up, he stares somewhat unseeingly into my eyes and it’s as if he’s just quickly re-read his Coles Notes on the section that deals with how you learn not to care. ‘Anyway, while I have you here,’ he says. He briefly looks past me inside our house and his face is a snapshot of sadness and regret. I can hardly bear to look. ‘Before you shut the door on me—’
    ‘—I wasn’t going to shut the door on you.’
    ‘Yes you were.’
    ‘I wasn’t. Why would I do that, Mike?’ It hurts me he’d think this.
    ‘Because, finally, you can.’
    I don’t answer this. He moves closer, his eyes going fleetingly to my mouth. ‘I’ve given a lot of thought to this business of being alone, and I have a proposition for you.’
    ‘I don’t like the idea of any of your propositions.’
    ‘You won’t. No. But I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
    ‘You’re going to put a horse’s head in my bed? I suppose I deserve it.’
    ‘Actually, that was going to be my last resort.’
    We smile at my lame attempt at a joke. I’ve missed his smile; its kindness draws you like a moth to light. ‘What I mean is, given that we are now officially divorced, and given that I for one am ready to take some giant step to move my life forward, I thought you might be able to help me out.’
    ‘Doing?’
    ‘I want to employ you. To help me meet somebody else. My soul-mate.’
    He scrutinises my presumably stunned-looking face. ‘It makes sense. You know me better than anyone. You’d know who would be good for me, probably better than I would. And I’m obviously going to pay you. I’m not asking for favours.’ His eyes settle where they’ve been buzzing, at the base of my throat.
    Mike always looks at me in shades of conflicting emotions. But I always sensed that while I might have doubted him, he never doubted me. Another thing—Mike never looks at you as though he’s seen it all before. I’ve never been made to feel that he’d fancy me more if I put lipstick on for him, or had bigger boobs. I know this is rare, from many of my SADs (Sane Attractive Divorcees, who are grounded, healthy, normal, and just want a second chance at happiness), as opposed to the SAFs (Spinster Attractive Females who have never been married, are getting more desperate and more inflexible the older they’re getting). Mike may not be a six-feet, wheeling dealing hulk of testosterone, but he knows how to appreciate a woman. Which makes me picture him appreciating someone else.
    ‘No way.’
    ‘Hear me out.’
    ‘No. I’m not doing it.’ I fold my arms under my breasts.
    He extracts his eyes from my throat. ‘I’m an opportunity for you to make another two thousand pounds. I’ll be a good client. I want the full service, though. The fake date. The whole works. Just like I was any client. Just because you were married to me you can’t hold it against me. No assumed prior knowledge.’
    ‘You don’t meet the MIS.’
    ‘What’s the MIS?’
    ‘You know what it is.’ Minimum Income Standard of sixty thousand pounds that the men have to meet to qualify.
    He wags a finger in front of my face. ‘No prior knowledge, remember?’
    ‘Okay. Mike, you’re not well