Page 17 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s 1850 or something like that.’
‘You can’t buy something now,’ Clay says, batting my hand away. ‘You’ll inevitably find something you like better in half an hour and then I’ll have to come back and beg for a refund. And anyway, it’s got a chip in it – look.’
We wander further down, stopping to look at various framed family pictures of serious black and white people, a table covered in knives and forks, a huge box of buttons.
‘You’re too thin,’ Clay says, as I reach up to take a hat off a hat stand comically placed in the middle of the pavement.
‘Do you talk to all your clients like this?’
‘You’re more than just a client, you’re a friend. And I’m worried about you.’
He puts the hat back on the hat stand and leads the way towards the far end of the market.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say.
‘I’m not. When I first met you, you had tits.’
I stop dead. ‘Yes, and I also had back fat. Magic of spin.’
‘Men don’t want to fuck skeletons,’ he comments, trying on a hat himself.
‘You are so rude,’ I reply primly.
‘You know I’m right.’
‘Maybe I don’t care what men think about my body,’ I say. I put the hat back and wander towards a stall selling cushions. Do I feel weird about buying second-hand cushions?
‘Well, as long as you’re not talking about dieting or weight loss online,’ Clay adds. ‘I had a client lose fifteen thousand followers last week.’
‘Who?’
He drops the name of a reality TV star and I am suitably impressed. Clay chuckles. ‘You’re gloriously basic.’
‘What did she post?’
‘She did a story saying she “felt fat” and needed to cut the carbs. Eating disorder charities were crawling all over it. Jameela Jamil did her Shame-ila Shame-il act and the rest was history. No moreCelebrity Bake Off, no moreDancing on Ice.’
‘Shit,’ I say, poring over another desk.
‘See,’ he says, ‘far nicer than the other one.’
‘I liked the other one.’
‘To go in your study? You’re mad. This is clearly the choice.’ He flags down the woman the desk currently belongs to. ‘How much?’ he asks.
The woman is French and smoking a cigarette. She gives us a haughty look. ‘Three hundred,’ she says with a thick accent.
‘Two,’ Clay replies before I can answer.
The woman gives a Gallic shrug. ‘Two fifty.’
‘Done.’ Clay smiles. He takes out his wallet and gives her a sheaf of fifties, then starts filling out a form for the delivery.
‘Stop it!’ I say. ‘I’ll pay for it.’
He shakes his head in refusal. ‘Consider it a little rebate on my fifteen per cent.’
We wander back through the market and I spot someone selling jewellery. I find myself surprised by how sad it makes me. All of it probably owned by someone, once upon a time, who’d loved it. I’d like to have a look at it, but I’m worried Clay might try and pay again and the idea of him buying me jewellery feels oddly awful. The only pieces I own, apart from a handful of Claire’s and Oliver Bonas bits, were bought by Jack, or inherited from Mum.
