Free The Love Market by Carol Mason Page B

off enough. You won’t qualify.’
    He shrugs. ‘So this is the one time when you can bend the rules a bit. And I’m not asking you to set me up with Angelina Jolie. One of your dodgiest eights will be fine.’
    Mike knows that the women have to at least rank an eight on the attractiveness scale. Because research still shows that men are into looks, and women are into money. I hate saying it. I’d hoped we’d all somehow got sensible over time. But we haven’t.
    ‘I don’t need a pin up. After all, I’m more into personalities than I am looks. I mean, I was married to a gorgeous woman and see what happened there.’
    We hold eyes, in the aftershock that follows such a remark. ‘I’m not doing it, Mike.’
    ‘Will you at least think about it?’
    ‘No. And I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it. What normal person would do this?’
    ‘But we know you’re not normal,’ he barbs, in his passive-aggressive way that’s meant to hurt you but he can’t quite pull the punch. ‘And who cares what others think? Most people don’t have an ex in the business, do they? And you’re so good at what you do; why wouldn’t I want to try to benefit from that? I could meet someone else still. Maybe even have another family—not that any other child would ever replace my first.’
    ‘You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I am going to shut the door on you.’
    He cocks his head, trying to win me over. ‘Come on Celine. Is it too much to want to see me happy? Do you hate me that much?’
    ‘I don’t hate you!’ A pain blazes in me. ‘Why would I hate you? I’m just...’
    Puzzled. Why would he insist on the fake date?
    Then a thought comes to me. ‘Mike… I hope this isn’t some strategy to get me back.’
    I regret saying it the instant it’s out. All the good humour slides right off his face. Then his gaze travels quickly up and down me. ‘You know what, Celine? Even in my darkest moments—because I still get them, far more than I would wish—I would never want to go back to being married to you.’
    We stare at one another while my humiliation takes a bow before leaving the stage. This hurts more than I can let on. More than I would have even expected. I go to close the door now. He gently puts his hand out to stop me. ‘Just tell me you’ll think about it.’
    I look off to the side of his head, through a spring of tears. ‘Move your foot or I’ll slam this and break all your toes,’ I bluff.
    Tense moments tick, and I get a quick flashback to one of our last fights. Mike usually has a personality like a sea before the storm, but he’d occasionally lose his rag. Something that usually came off more funny than threatening. That time, he pelted a shoe at me across the room. It missed me, but hit the Lladro figurine of a little boy that Mike’s mother had given us. Mike knew I’d always hated it, even though he’d loved it. It seemed poignant that he’d broken it. As though, by fighting, we had succeeded on some darker level, in breaking him rather than just an ornament.
    Mike studies me closely, then he moves his foot. I am able to close the door. I lean up against it, my breathing racking me. I don’t fully breathe out until I hear the scrunch of gravel under his feet as he walks away.
    And I realise one true thing. The thought just floats up from whatever place it comes from. No one will love me like Mike loved me. And that much I know. I know without anyone having to wag their finger in front of my face and tell me.

Ten
     
     
    Aimee sits by the window, swinging a flared indigo denim leg over the chair arm, in the powder blue satin top we just bought her. ‘Why didn’t he come in?’ she asks.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I shrug, still feeling somehow traumatized by our encounter. ‘I suppose I didn’t exactly invite him.’
    She stares at me. ‘What does an orgasm feel like?’ When she sees my face she says, ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll ask somebody else. Granddad. Or