Freya (44 page)

‘Joss, please,
I
should be the one apologising,' she cut in. ‘I've been so preoccupied with one thing and another it's almost like I've forgotten how to behave. Instead of being the nice girl you thought I was I've been a moody cow, and I'm sorry. This –' she gestured around at the clusters of people – ‘is wonderful and lovely and much more than I deserve.'

‘I never thought you were a nice girl,' he said, a smile twitching his mouth, ‘and it is
exactly
what you deserve – to be surrounded by all the people who love you and cherish you.'

The kindliness of these last words made her eyes moisten. She felt her mood turning dangerously confessional. ‘Joss, there's something I –'

Whatever she had been preparing to say was interrupted by Nancy, urgent at her shoulder and pointing at the French windows where an inconceivable figure had just emerged, uncertainly looking about for a face he might recognise. She hurriedly excused herself from Joss and slalomed through the press of people towards him, her own uncertainty going like tom-toms in her chest.

She called his name, and turning to her Alex smiled, a smile that had always contained in it (she saw now) a plea for understanding, for mitigation.

‘Nancy told me you'd rung, but I couldn't quite believe you'd turn up.'

‘How could I miss this? My dear, dear Freya –' he seized her in an embrace so fierce it almost winded her – ‘what a friend you've been to me.'

She was confused. The last time they had met she had rebuffed him when he'd asked to borrow money. ‘Alex, you got my letter, didn't you?'

‘Of course. And I feel ashamed that I should have put you in such a position. But that's all finished with.'

‘What d'you mean?'

He gave her a fondly sceptical look. ‘I heard what you did, Freya. A man called Jerry Dicks telephoned me – he said, “The genie is back in the bottle,” and that the negatives were in his safe keeping.'

‘But how – how did he do that? Did he pay him off?'

‘I don't know. Maybe. What I do know is that your intervention saved me. I took three weeks' leave of absence and disappeared. There was no way I could keep paying, so I took off north, to Scotland, expecting Sewell to blow the gaff at any moment. I was quite prepared to – to make a permanent exit.' Alex held up his hands to forestall her expression of concern. ‘When he went quiet I began to wonder what had happened – then a couple of days after I returned to London an anonymous telephone call came through. I was to wait in my flat until Jerry Dicks called. He told me you were the one who'd sparked the whole thing off. Honestly, it's like being granted a pardon …'

She had searched his face as he spoke. In spite of his relief a vitality had gone out of him; his complexion had a grey, shrunken look, and a haunted distance had settled in his eyes. The years had ambushed him. And to think he owed his deliverance to a man like Jerry Dicks. There was a warning there.

‘God, Alex, you came close …'

‘I know. That's why I'm getting out of here, the MoD, London, this bloody country. It's never going to be a place for people like me. It never was.'

‘Where will you go?'

He sighed. ‘Eastern Europe, maybe. I haven't given up on finding Jan. I hear from people that he's still alive.'

They talked a little while longer, until the pressure of attention from other friends began to drag her away. But before they parted she made him promise that they would meet again: she had become too wary of his disappearing act. He kissed his joined middle and index fingers and waved them to her in goodbye.

The late-August sky had darkened to indigo, and time had started playing its weird trick of leaping ahead in hours rather than minutes. The lawn felt velvety beneath the thin soles of her shoes. In the marquee the jazz quartet had just launched into their second set, a flighty uptempo number that was pulling guests onto the dance floor. The drummer's sizzling hi-hat was making her blood tingle, and she decided it must be time for a dance. But whenever she took a step nearer to the music more well-wishers interposed themselves. The party was now at full gabble. Joss had cast the net wide in his invitations, so wide it seemed impossible she should know this many people, let alone consider them her friends. She kept glimpsing unlikely pairings in company, unlikely in the way a dream shuffled a deck of faces that had no connection to one another outside of her own acquaintance with them. How else to explain the incongruous spectacle of Elspeth chatting away to her grandfather as if they were pals of long-standing?

She had just managed to gain the entrance to the tent when she felt a hand snaking close around her hip. Nat Fane, wearing a purple velvet jacket and a rather girlish scent, leaned in to drawl, ‘I am dying, Egypt, dying.'

‘Oh. May I ask the cause?'

‘Neglect, darling. I've been at this party an
eternity
and yet you've vouchsafed me not a word, not a
glance
.'

‘I've had quite a full evening,' she smiled.

He returned an archly reproving look. ‘You've had fuller ones more recently, I think.'

‘Nat, best to release me at this point,' she said, gently unhanding herself from his embrace. ‘Your wife's nearby. She might start to get jealous.'

‘You don't know Pandy,' he said in a brittle voice. ‘She came back from New York full of her conquests, none of them professional.'

‘Ah. I trust you weren't so indiscreet –'

‘Speak low, if you speak love.'

He held her by the wrist, scrutinising her, and she realised that he might actually be serious. They had not spoken since the night she had stayed at his flat. She knew there would be a follow-up, a reckoning between them; she had not for a moment envisaged a confrontation here. She sensed one or two guests glancing their way, polite but puzzled, and she said quietly, with a public smile, ‘Nat, I don't think this is the time or place –'

‘The place is immaterial. The time, I should say, is
long
overdue.' The teasing drollery had gone from his voice. He was serious, after all. She felt herself to be moments away from a ‘scene', and looked about for a diversion. But there was no one in their proximity to whom she could appeal. Nat's grip was tight, almost painful, on her wrist.

The quartet had just struck up, at a jaunty lick, ‘I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm', and an instinct told her what she must do. Fixing him with a square look she said, ‘You might ask a girl to dance.'

Nat, disarmed for a moment, seemed to remember where he was, and with a little dip of his head invited her to the floor. Holding one another they began to move to the music. It occurred to her that she had never danced with Nat before, and now she understood why. The fluency that had made him famous as a writer and talker eluded his command as a dancer. His tall frame seemed of a sudden all knees and elbows, and though he took the lead he was unable to steer her around with any confidence. Their bodies clashed on the offbeat, then continued awkwardly together, striving but failing to catch the music's lilt. Nat's hands were sweaty, and his feet kept treading on hers. She had never danced with anyone so clumsy before, and as the song reached its end she felt herself nearly swoon with relief. But it wasn't over: Nat held her until the next song began, and off they went, almost jostling one another as the trumpet blared in their ears. This time she tried to lead, but he soon put a stop to that. Other couples moved around them, oblivious to her plight. She shifted her eyes briefly to his face and saw on it only a glazed determination. The song seemed to go on for hours.

‘May I cut in?' asked Nancy, humorously taking Freya around the waist and guiding her away from Nat.

As they swayed together she rested her head against Nancy's shoulder and muttered, ‘Oh God,
thank you
…'

‘Darling, you're pouring with sweat!'

‘I know. The result of what Nat would call a
mauvais quart d'heure
.'

‘Oh dear. What happened?'

‘He seems to have gone mad – he thinks he's in love with me.'

Nancy gave a start. ‘What? Did he tell you that?'

‘No, I headed him off and we danced instead. Which was almost as bad. Fred Astaire can rest easy.'

It was strange, she thought, how dancing with Nancy was simpler than with anyone else, the way they fell into step without really having to try. It had been like that since the first night they met. She supposed it would be a shock to everyone here if they knew who was truly the heart and soul of her life. Her eyes flicked to her, and then away. Nancy had never made any secret of her own devotion; she was proud of the passionate friendship between them. But could that survive if she and Robert made a go of things? What if she decided to move out of the flat? The thought of it made Freya feel sick. But that surely didn't mean she was
in love
with Nancy?

The dance floor was now a forest of swaying bodies. Nancy was so close she could smell the scent behind her ears, the cream she used on her face. She had only to lean in and ask,
Do you know how I feel about you?
But she felt, for once in her life, afraid – afraid of pressing the eggshell fineness of feeling between them and cracking it. The music changed, and Nancy beamed back, unsuspecting; and Freya knew the moment was gone.

By half past midnight the party was winding down. She was seated, cross-legged, on a sofa in the living room, rolling a cigarette and half listening to Fosh and two old
Frame
colleagues shoot the breeze. A diet of champagne and gin had smothered her in a fog of tipsiness. She was thinking of tomorrow morning, when it was all over, and they would begin the post-mortem on the occasion, picking through the memorable moments. From the garden she could hear the trumpet purring quietly, almost tearfully, through ‘It Never Entered My Mind'. Elspeth wandered in and plumped down next to her.

‘Maaah-vellous party, darling. Have you enjoyed it?'

‘I couldn't have liked it more,' said Freya with a giggle.

There had been another birthday cake, made by her mother and carried into the marquee with a mingled look of shyness and pride. As she cut the first slice and the cameras flashed she felt like a bride – a bluffing bride. The band had struck up ‘Happy Birthday' at a jazzy stroll, and Stephen gave a short toast that made an amusingly laboured play on Freya's enthusiasm for a ‘scoop', first as a girl with Gennaro's ice cream, later on Fleet Street as a roving reporter. Whoops and cheers were raised. She had wondered if Joss might say something, too, but he had hung back.

Where
was
Joss, as a matter of fact? After their little heart-to-heart earlier in the evening they had barely spoken to one another, and for the last hour he had disappeared altogether. Elspeth hadn't seen him either. Freya got up and began scouting the rooms, offering quick smiles to avoid being detained. Not there, or there. Having tried the slowly emptying marquee she returned to the house and went upstairs. He wasn't in any of the bedrooms, or the bathroom. At the top of the house was a dusty attic room used for storage, its shelves crammed with box files and back issues of magazines. She rarely came up here, but seeing a blade of light under the door she climbed the stairs.

‘Joss?' she said, and on a reflex knocked before entering. She had a sudden wild suspicion that he might not be alone – but he was. He stood at the open window, and turned on hearing her enter. ‘What are you doing up here?'

He stared at her, and held up his cigarette by way of explanation. There was something blank in his expression, as though he had already asked her something and was impatient for a reply. But he still hadn't spoken.

‘Sorry,' she said lightly, ‘have I neglected you?'

He gave a dismissive snort. ‘Do you mean this evening, or in general?'

There was nothing very friendly in that, so she pushed past it and began talking about the party, thanking him again for his generosity – they'd had a smashing time. Joss nodded, though his face didn't soften as he listened. When she mentioned the dancing he interrupted her.

‘I saw you, by the way. With him.'

‘Him?'

‘Nat Fane. In the marquee. Quite a spectacle.'

‘Yes, we were dancing – badly! I didn't know until now he had two left feet.'

‘Didn't appear to stop you,' he said, then shrugged. ‘I always thought there was something of the snake about him.'

Freya, keeping it civil, said, ‘He can be wonderful company when he's in the mood.'

‘Oh, I'm sure there are compensations.' Sarcasm rang off every word.

‘Joss, what's the matter? Tell me, honestly –'

‘Honestly?!' he said, with another snort. ‘Dangerous word to use. I didn't want to believe it until I saw you together this evening. Do you suppose it was pleasant for me to watch him with his paws all over you?'

‘I couldn't really help it. He grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.'

‘I wonder how much of a struggle you put up the other night. Those whip marks on your arse must have hurt. What, you think I hadn't noticed?'

She had underestimated him. She thought she might have got away with it. Either she could try to limit the damage or else pour the whole thing out, which would only be calamitous. The night in question was vivid to her; it was not, however, fathomable, or explicable. Joss had just asked her something, and her attention came back into focus.

‘No. He didn't force me. I let him … Nine or ten strokes, I suppose.'

Joss shook his head, baffled. ‘Why? Why did you let him?'

She took a deep breath. ‘I don't know. It excited him.'

‘But not you?'

‘Not that part of it, no.' Candour was luring her to the edge of the cliff.

‘Oh. So you let him fuck you as well?'