Freya

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘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?’

  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.

  22

  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 d
ictated 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?’