Freya (67 page)

The lights changed to green, and, in a split-second decision, she hung a left, heading west. She felt not quite in possession of herself. Life was running things with a logic of its own, invitingly, like the outline of a drawing she was merely required to shade and fill. As cars shoaled and bunched around the junction of Great Portland Street and Marylebone Road she turned north to skirt the perimeter of Regent's Park. The stately Nash houses looked on, their windows vibrating thinly to traffic that was once all hooves and carriage wheels. The temperature was still muggy; the sky wore a stubborn mouse-grey colour.

When she reached the top of Parkway she began to slow. She wasn't sure where she was going, except that it seemed she knew the way. Her eyes in the rear-view mirror looked wary, underscored with violet crescents. She found a space to park and pulled up the Morgan's hood, anticipating rain. Their terrace looked shabbier in daylight, the pavement flags cracked and veined with weeds. It only occurred to her as she tapped the door knocker that she might not be in.

She had taken a step back when the door opened and Nancy stood there, blinking her surprise. ‘Hullo? What are you – come in!'

She followed her down the hall into the kitchen, Nancy chattering on about the warm weather and its encouragement to indolence. She seemed in a good mood, and Freya, watching from the table as she made them tea, felt the weight of what she had to say like a concealed weapon. She hadn't prepared anything in her head; it would have to come spontaneously or not at all.

‘I've just seen Robert,' she began, taking a breath.

Nancy's back straightened as she turned from the sink. ‘Robert? You mean, by chance?'

‘No. I arranged for us to meet.'

She stopped what she was doing and looked at her. ‘What on earth for?' She was smiling, uncertainly.

‘You need to sit down first.'

The smile died. Without a word she took the chair opposite. She tilted her head in a way that invited her to start.

‘I'm afraid this is going to upset you. What's worse, I have a feeling you're going to hate me for telling you.'

Nancy was staring fixedly at her. ‘You'd better tell me.'

‘Robert was having an affair with Chrissie Effingham. He was with her the night she died. Bruce Haddon had been pimping for him – there was another woman involved, and Chrissie became upset. She may have had a problem with barbiturates already, but after a row with him it tipped her over the edge. They found her in a coma. Bruce said he'd called an ambulance, but it looks like he didn't. Robert scarpered, in any case.'

Nancy held herself very still as she listened. Then she said, ‘I see. I assume you've told me to pre-empt the report I'll read in tomorrow's paper.'

Freya scrutinised her. ‘You don't seem all that … surprised.'

She looked away. ‘I've known, over the years, how susceptible he is. Robert tends to take what he wants, and he's never been very good at hiding things. The first time I caught him was with a student lodger of ours, here, in the house. There've been others that I've known about, and – evidently – one or two I haven't.'

‘Why don't you throw him out?'

‘I suppose … because I don't think he can help it. And because he needs me.'

‘He has an odd way of showing it.'

‘I thought there might be something going on with the girl – Chrissie. She was very beautiful, wasn't she?'

Freya nodded. ‘She also had the kindest heart.'

‘I'm sorry. I know you liked her,' she said softly. Then her tone took on a note of bravado. ‘So – retribution has come round at last. Robert brought down Alex, and now you bring down Robert. Poetic justice. How did he take it?'

‘Pretty well, in the circumstances. But he did try to bargain with me. In fact, he asked me to spare him for
your
sake – said that you wouldn't want to see him disgraced, “for all his sins”. Would that be true?'

Nancy sighed heavily. ‘Just do what you've got to do, Freya. Don't drag it out.'

Freya stood up and walked to the kitchen worktop, where the tea had been brewing, forgotten. She poured them each a cup and carried them back to the table. ‘You know, I'd never understood that old line “be careful what you wish for”. Among the things I wished for was a headline scoop that would make my name, and for Robert to get what he calls his “comeuppance”. I couldn't have imagined the luck of getting both at once. And yet I find I can't enjoy either of them.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, running the story will finish Robert's career in politics. But it will also finish us.'

‘I don't see that it should.'

‘You can say that, but it will. I'd always be a figure of Nemesis. The bringer of doom. That's why I'm handing the story over – my gift to you. You can tell Robert you know about it or not. Maybe you think he deserves a second chance, or a third, or however many he's had.'

Nancy looked taken aback. ‘Why are you doing this – really?'

Freya's gaze fell. ‘I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you.'

‘I'd rather you did.'

Here it was. Time had been nudging her insistently towards this crisis, and she knew she must find its voice or have it choke her forever. Nancy's green eyes had become brilliant in intensity. Freya stood up and extended her hand – the gesture was almost courtly – which Nancy took, puzzled, and rose; they stood facing one another. It was like the moment you paused before you began to dance. With the fright and exhilaration of leaping into a pool, Freya stepped forward and pressed her mouth firmly against Nancy's. Surprised, Nancy yielded for a few moments, perhaps bemused by the sudden strangeness of being kissed by a woman – this woman. Then she pulled away, and Freya was left leaning into space.

‘What are you doing?'

‘You asked me why I'm sparing your husband. This is me telling you. It's not because I pity him, but because I love you. It's important that you understand that.'

‘You … love me? – but I already knew that.'

‘No, not like that. I mean, like a man would love you. I've spent years,
years
, wondering if it could be true, and telling myself it couldn't be. But it never went away, and I realised that however much I kept hiding from it, this love would be there, not moving. When I think of romance, I'm thinking of you. Your face. Your body. Isn't that the oddest thing?'

Nancy stared at her, half disbelieving. She began to say something, and stopped – then began again. ‘How can you be? It's only men you've ever – How can you suddenly have changed?'

‘It's
not
sudden, I just told you. I've felt like this for years. Yes, I'm attracted to men, but I'm excited by women. I know it must be hard to understand. It took me most of my life.'

‘So have you ever … with a woman before …?'

‘Now and then. There'd been flirtations when I was in the Wrens, schoolgirl stuff. The first proper experience was with Hetty – you remember her, Ossie Blackler's friend? That was when I first felt that being with a woman could thrill me as much as being with a man. Maybe more. It was frightening, in a way. But also wonderful, because something in me had been freed.'

Nancy nodded, but her expression was troubled, and she turned away to face the kitchen window. Her arms were crossed over her chest. The clock on the wall ticked out the silence between them. There was a strain in her voice when she spoke again. ‘Thank you for not punishing Robert. I know what a sacrifice you've made, professionally
and
personally –'

‘Nance, please. I don't give a fiddler's fuck about sacrifices, or about Robert. I want to know what you think about
this
.'

She blushed now. ‘I – I hardly know what to think. I think you must be mistaken about me, you can't be in love with someone who's –'

‘Married?' she said in a mocking voice.

‘Yes, married! It's more than one kind of obstacle. And talk about a bolt from the blue. You didn't speak to me for eight years. Now, within three months of meeting again, you're telling me you – It's too ridiculous. I think you're still in shock from what happened with the baby. It's quite understandable, you've been through a trauma and it's unsettled your reason –'

‘Stop trying to sound like a doctor. This has got nothing to do with the baby. I understand my sexual feelings perfectly well, thanks. I'm sorry if this has embarrassed you, but circumstances have made it necessary. If I'd said I was doing Robert a favour from the kindness of my heart you'd never have believed me. He should count himself lucky, in any case, because the only person on earth who could have stopped me exposing his contemptible character is you.'

‘And I'm grateful –'

‘Oh, fuck off, Nancy. You're not listening! I don't want your gratitude. I'm offering you something. You have my heart in your hands.'

Nancy had looked away, shunning her gaze. She said quietly, ‘I have listened. And whether you care to hear it or not, I
am
grateful – more than I could ever say. But what you're “offering” – it's not something I can accept. I don't feel that way about you. I'm sorry.'

Freya stared hard at her, hoping to draw her eyes to hers. But Nancy wouldn't look at her. She waited, in silence, until she knew there was nothing more to say. As she left she trailed her hand lightly across Nancy's back. She had felt those last words like a wrecking ball to the walls of her life.
I don't feel that way about you
. There was an end of it. It seemed a long walk from the kitchen down the hallway to the front door, but she got there, and she didn't slam the door when she let herself out.

‘I'll miss her, of course,' she said thoughtfully. ‘She'd become rather a friend.'

‘Please, stop!' cried Nat. ‘I can't bear it. I feel like a brute to be separating you.'

‘Well, you gave me fair warning. I'm reconciled to the loss.'

She fished the keys from her bag and put them on the windowsill. Nat had come to collect the Morgan. His accountant had been ‘doing the sums', and it seemed he wasn't quite so rich as he thought he was. Certain assets would have to be sacrificed, starting with two of his three cars.

‘Will you have to quit Albany?' she asked.

Nat raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘The accountant pushed for it, but I dug my heels in. My financial position hasn't dropped to the Micawber line of indigence – yet.'

‘What about another screenplay?'

‘God spare me. Demeaning oneself before people who wouldn't know good writing if it thwacked them smartly on the arse. Pardon the image. To be honest, I'd like a break from writing altogether.'

‘To do what?'

‘Nothing! Truly – I'm sure there's an art to doing nothing. I simply need to find the gallery that will pay me for it.'

Their voices echoed in the untenanted house. The floors had been stripped to the boards, and not a stick of furniture except a sofa and mattress had been carried in. They stood on the first-floor front overlooking the square. Nat, having turned up with a bottle of champagne, had to go straight out again to buy glasses. It was characteristic of him that he bought a set of Victorian crystal flutes from an antique shop on Upper Street. A house-warming present, he announced.

‘I suppose moving in next door saves you the expense of Pickford's.'

‘Next door but one. And I'll be needing them anyway for the stuff I've had in storage.'

After all the years of renting it was hard to believe she was a homeowner. She had heard that number 7 was going up for sale back in July, and thought nothing of it. It was Stephen who had suggested she ought to consider buying it. She'd laughed, and asked him where he supposed she might raise that sort of money. The bank? Not a chance. Very well then –
he
could lend it to her. It looked like a good investment; that sort of property would only appreciate in value, and the area seemed (a brief hesitation) fine. She had dismissed the idea, but it must have wormed its way inside her head because every time she stood on the street she imagined herself living there. A few days later Stephen had handed over a cheque, with its disconcerting vapour trail of zeros.

And you really believe I'll pay you this back? she'd said.

Nat's thoughts were still running on pecuniary matters. He had been advised to open an account at another bank so that Coutts didn't have to bear the entire load of his debts. ‘There I was, the very model of a modern major playwright, shaking hands with my new branch manager, in his office. He asked me to take a seat. Can you guess what his first question was? “So, Mr Fane, and what do you do for a living?”'

Freya spluttered champagne down her nose in laughter. ‘Oh, what I wouldn't
give
to have seen your face at that moment.'

Nat shook his head wonderingly. ‘Odd, isn't it? We're all sorts of leading characters to ourselves, whereas other people comprehensively haven't heard of us. So much for “Nathaniel Fame” …'

Freya smiled at him. ‘That's the most humble thing I've ever heard you say. Actually, the
only
humble thing I've ever heard you say.'

He shrugged, brushing off the modified compliment. ‘Am I to see the rest of the house?'

‘Of course. Bring your glass with you,' she said, and they took the staircase, discoloured and denuded of carpet. Fronds of ancient wallpaper curled off the walls. They entered the duplicate of the room below, where the mattress lay rumpled from her night's occupancy. ‘Sorry, it's in disarray. I'm sort of camping here at the moment.'

Nat had paused to examine pencil marks on the jamb of the doorway. ‘Look, this was once a children's bedroom – they've marked off their heights.'