Freya (45 page)

She shook her head.

Joss narrowed his eyes. ‘I don't believe you.'

Freya knew that, with any luck, she would get through the rest of her life. But she wasn't sure how she might get through the next five minutes. ‘I didn't. We didn't. He's not my type. Never has been.'

‘But you don't mind dropping your drawers and letting him beat you with a cane.'

She said quietly, ‘A riding crop. Not a cane.'

For some reason this caused Joss to lose his last vestige of restraint. He grabbed her arms hard and thrust his face close to hers. ‘If that's what you wanted then you could have
asked me
– I could fucking thrash you to your heart's content!' And so saying he turned her roughly about, like a teacher with a disobedient pupil, and landed a smack on her backside.

‘Get off me,' she said, pushing him away. The colour was high in his face, his eyes ablaze.

‘What, you don't like that?' He had grabbed for her arm again, and they struggled for some moments. She was having a fight with Joss. It seemed comical, except that it wasn't remotely funny. How had this happened? His grip was tigerish. ‘I could go a bit harder,' he said tauntingly, and smacked her once, twice, a third time. He wasn't letting up.

‘Joss – fuck! –
all right
, I'll tell you, just –'

He stopped, breathing hard, his eyes daggered at her. ‘Go on, then.'

She shook off his hand, and caught her breath. It was possible he might not even believe what she had to tell him. ‘There was someone else in the room with us – with me and Nat. A girl.'

Joss blinked his confusion. ‘What?' His voice had leapt on the syllable; there was almost a squeak of laughter in it.

‘Hetty. You don't know her. She's a friend of Nat's who shares his – habit. She was the reason I stayed. She wanted to watch me being “spanked”, and I let her.'

Joss, dumbfounded, was struggling to speak. He clamped his eyes shut, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. This had passed beyond his comprehension. Eventually he looked up. ‘So – he's smacking you, you're taking it, she's watching. Is that it?'

His voice to this point had been touched with pain and puzzlement – but now all she heard in it was his contempt.

‘That was the start. When Nat was done I got onto the bed with Hetty and she finger-fucked me, till I came. Then I did the same to her. And he watched. So we all got something out of it.'

A vein at Joss's temple was throbbing steadily, like some internal alarm. She may have imagined his body tensing in readiness to strike her, his expression curdling from disbelief into disgust. But she had no trouble remembering the low-voiced revulsion as he muttered, ‘You sick fucking deviant bitch. You filthy slut – get out. Get out of this fucking house before I throw you out.'

She returned a cool, appraising look at him. ‘I'll take that as a goodbye,' she said, and stepped out of the room.

Freya was twelve years old when she first realised that her father was having an affair. Her discovery of it was purely accidental. Bunking off school one morning she had come up to London and made straight for the flat in Tite Street. Stephen was of course surprised to find her at the door, but he didn't tell her off or send her packing as her mother would have done. (Cora was away visiting friends in the country.) While she was mooching about the studio someone else called, a woman of striking looks named Nina. Both she and Stephen seemed flustered by one another, though they quickly made an effort to appear otherwise. The three of them went out for lunch at the Corner House in Coventry Street. She had liked Nina, a stage actress, but she had asked impudent questions and tried to unsettle her. Stephen eventually gave her half a crown to go and buy him a newspaper.

She was returning from this errand when she paused at the cafe's glass-fronted door to observe her father and Nina together. That was the moment she knew. It wasn't that they were kissing or holding hands or even touching one another; it was something in their faces as they talked, the slight angle at which Nina leaned towards him, the nervy movement of Stephen's hands. Beyond the initial sting of outrage and betrayal Freya was troubled by complicated feelings of fascination, and of envy. It was envy of the adult world, a place where you might be so consumed with love for another person that you would risk everything for it. Her father, whom she had thought immune to temptation, had proved himself quite other. He, too, had a private life, driven by its own compulsions and desires. It became a matter of profound interest to her that you could choose to live on your own terms.
To thine own self be true
was the watchword, with the unspoken corollary
and stuff everyone else
. You just needed to be brave enough, or selfish enough.

Only after living in the adult world herself did she begin to see the drawbacks of that uncompromising philosophy. It became apparent to her that the truth was not necessarily a way to set yourself free; that in fact it might poison friendships and rupture bonds of trust beyond all hope of healing. The greater wisdom, perhaps, was to be selective in telling the truth and thus spare your friend (your victim) its scouring force: to keep silent, even in the face of provocation. Freya saw this, and knew it to be true kindness; but a gulf still lay unbridged between what wisdom dictated and what her instinct demanded.

She woke, chasteningly alone. Grey light was leaking through the uncurtained gap of her bedroom window.
Get out of this fucking house
. She had taken Joss at his word, and left without a goodnight to anyone. She had managed to find a cab at the foot of Haverstock Hill that took her home. There would be no way back. She couldn't imagine him even wanting to hear an apology; he would sicken at the sight of her. It touched her painfully to recall how his face had passed from confusion, to humiliation – to cold-voiced fury.
You deviant bitch
.

She got up and put her head round the door of the living room: Rowan had already gone, leaving his bedclothes in a neat pile. In the bathroom mirror her eyes looked bruised and puffy. Dressing quickly, she walked out to the shop on Theobald's Road to buy the newspaper. The unpeopled Sunday street looked the other way. The newsagent took her fourpence for the
Envoy
. She was halfway back to the flat when she saw the headline, just below the fold.
WHITEHALL OFFICIAL EXPOSED AS DEVIANT
. Her heart took a jolting leap. She ran a disbelieving eye rapidly down the column, drinking in the newsprint like poison. ‘Alex McAndrew, 33, a senior civil servant with a distinguished war record', was being investigated on charges of gross indecency at a London nightclub, the Myrmidon. An inquiry had already begun as to how he had been granted security clearance to such a high level. But the extra twist of horror was in the story's byline: by Robert Cosway.

So that was why he had missed her party. He wouldn't have dared let it slip he was about to blow the whistle on Alex, her friend. She could feel bile rising in her throat. Of all the ruthless things he could have done … She raced up the stairs and grabbed the telephone. On the third ring it was picked up, and an unfamiliar voice answered.

‘Alex?'

No, not Alex, but his lawyer, who asked her to identify herself before muffling the receiver. Alex came on the line, his voice eerily calm. Reporters had turned up at his flat this morning just after seven; now a whole mob of them stood waiting on his doorstep. The lawyer had arrived half an hour ago. There was a pause before he asked, ‘How on earth did Robert Cosway get hold of this – not from you?'

‘Of course it wasn't from me,' she gasped out. ‘Alex, why would I have gone to Sewell about those –?'

‘Don't say anything else – this line's probably tapped. I know you did all you could, Freya. But I can't understand how he knew so much.'

Nor could she. There were three people she'd told about Alex being blackmailed. Apart from Nancy, whose silence on the matter she absolutely trusted, there was Hetty – likewise – and Jerry Dicks, who'd gone out of his way, untypically, to outflank the threat of Sewell and his photographs. Her efforts had come to nothing.

‘Alex, what are you going to do?'

‘God knows,' he said, resigned. ‘Mr Patterson here recommended I make for the hills, but I fear it's too late for that –' He broke off for a moment to mumble with the lawyer, and then came back. ‘Excellent timing. The police are outside.'

‘Tell your lawyer to let me know where they're taking you. Alex –'

‘Freya, I have to go –' There was further muffled, indistinct talk, and the receiver was hung up.

Her heartbeat was going at a dangerous lick. Nancy was out. She rang Robert's number, but the telephone was one shared by the house, and the person who eventually answered had no idea where Robert was, or even
who
he was. She paced around the room, thinking. Where would he be at this hour? She looked at her watch.

Five minutes later she was walking, half running, down Chancery Lane towards Fleet Street. Her brain was overheating with theories about Alex's exposure. Who was behind it? She wondered if Sewell had welshed on whatever deal he had made with Jerry Dicks and had kept back some of the photos to sell on the sly. But Jerry would have been wise to such tricks; he'd have made sure Sewell had given up the lot – or else. Hadn't he said he had enough on the blackmailer to put him away for years? Jerry had stopped up the danger from that end. It had to be down to something – someone – else.

Entering the lobby of the
Envoy
, deserted but for the man at the desk who waved her on, she took the lift to the newsroom. The door to Standish's office stood open. She made a beeline for it.

Standish, unshaven and tieless, had his feet up on the desk. He didn't look very surprised to see her.

‘Why wasn't I told about the Alex McAndrew story?' she said.

He pushed his chair back and swung his legs to the floor. ‘Please, come in.'

She ignored his sardonic pleasantry. ‘Well?'

‘We knew that you had a personal connection to McAndrew and that you'd probably try to block it –'

‘Too fucking right I would have done.'

‘Calm down. It's a story, a queer in the MoD. A huge story. It's not like we could ignore it.'

‘You could if you had a conscience. How d'you dare call this a liberal paper, really – hunting down a man for what he does in his private life?'

‘I don't make the laws. And in any case, it's not just his being queer that's got him in trouble. They reckon he's been communicating with certain gentlemen in Eastern Europe.'

‘That's balls – Alex isn't a spy. He's been looking for a friend of his from the Czech air force. They met during the war.'

‘I'm sure his lawyer will argue the same. Look, if it hadn't been us it would have been someone else. Try to see it from a professional point of view. It's a story in the public interest.'

‘That's what they always say when some poor fool's been hung out to dry –'

She saw Standish's eyes flick to a point over her shoulder. She turned, just in time to catch a glimpse through the glass partition of a figure disappearing. She darted out of the office and was on his heels as he hurried down the corridor, pretending he hadn't seen her.

‘Robert,' she called out. He stopped, and turned round to face her, his jaw jutting defiance. She narrowed her eyes. ‘How could you? How could you, knowing what you knew?'

‘It's my job, Freya. I work for a newspaper that pays me to report things. This one's bigger than anything I've ever had. What, you expected me to hold off just because I knew him at Oxford?'

‘No. Because you knew
I
was Alex's
friend
– that's why. You really must have hated him to rat him out like that.'

Robert protruded his lip and shook his head. ‘I've no particular feeling about him one way or the other. I just got the story.'

‘Yes, and I wonder
how
you got it. Did Sewell make you a deal?'

‘Who's he? I made no deal with anyone.'

She paused. So if he didn't have the photographs – ‘How then? Who tipped you off?'

‘I told you, I've got a fellow at the ministry who keeps me apprised.'

‘Who – what's his name?'

He shot her a sceptical look. ‘Come on. I protect my sources, like you would. I just put two and two together.'

She stared hard at him. ‘I don't believe you. You're not clever enough to have worked it out yourself. I hope to God you didn't get it from Nancy.'

A twitch of resentment creased his face – a face she was feeling a violent urge to slap. He said, dropping his voice, ‘“Not clever enough” – ha. This story's going to be all over the papers, for weeks. It'll be on television. And I'm the one who broke it. Standish has already said he's giving me Home Affairs, my own office, whatever I want. I'll probably get a car. So you tell me which one of us has been clever.'

‘A car! I hope you fucking crash in it, you unspeakable cunt –'

Robert laughed, shaking his head. ‘Your language – it's priceless. I'll recommend they switch you to the crossword.'

‘Fuck you. You ruin someone's life for a car and a promotion. Don't you have any shame?'

‘You don't change, do you? Always the self-righteous cow. What the hell are you doing working for a newspaper if you can't stand people printing the truth?'

‘Nearly the right question,' she said, her rage suddenly tearing away a veil. ‘It's what I'm doing working for
this
newspaper. You know, I'd rather poison myself and get it over with – cos that's what would happen anyway if I stayed in the same fucking room as
you
.'

He frowned at her, puzzling at the implication. ‘You're not going to resign?'