by West, Sam
“No kidding. They’re amazing.”
“You think?”
Freya watched her pouring over her paintings. Apart from the gallery owners of the two, high-end galleries that had taken on her work, this was the first person that had ever looked at her paintings with her in the same room.
She turned around to face her, her eyes shining with appreciation. “Yeah, I really do. I clocked them as soon as I walked in. I was dying to ask straight away, but you know, the alcohol issue was more pressing. So do you sell these?”
To her embarrassment, Freya felt the heat rush to her cheeks and she turned away to set down the wine-glasses on the small, rickety coffee table. “Yeah.”
“That’s amazing. God, Freya, why didn’t you say you were a famous artist?”
“Hardly. That’s just stupid.”
“No, it’s not. I always wondered how you could afford the rent on a place like this on the crappy wage Shortbread and Tweed pay us.”
“Oh, come on, this is hardly the penthouse suite at the Ritz.”
“No, but it is an okay area of the city, I couldn’t afford the rent here. This is why I flat share with a bunch of other students in the shitty end of town.”
It suddenly occurred to her that Freya knew so little about this girl; not where she lived, who she lived with, or what made her tick. In a rare moment of altruism, she vowed that tonight she would find out more about her.
Freya watched her as she went over to the sofa to retrieve the bottle of fizz. She popped the cork, giggling a little as she poured the frothing liquid into the two glasses, some of it puddling on the already stained coffee-table top.
“Oops,” she giggled.
Freya accepted the glass. It was still slightly chilled from the fridge, and for the first time in a long time, she took a drink.
Don’t lose control…
She pushed aside the negative thought; one little drink wasn’t going to hurt. Lucy sat down on the sofa, patting the empty space next to her. Freya sat, feeling inexplicably on edge, like she was dangerously close to losing control.
“So tell me; where on earth do you get your ideas from? They’re pretty morbid.”
Life experience, she thought, but didn’t say. “You should never ask a writer or artist that question. It really pisses them off.”
But she wasn’t cross in the slightest. In fact, she was actually smiling. The expression felt alien on her face, the muscles in her cheeks unused to the simple action. She hated to admit it, but it was kind of nice having another person take an interest in her work.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Lucy said, her face somehow shutting down, the playful sparkle gone from her eyes.
Freya’s smile also dropped, but not because she was irritated at Lucy, but at herself. Of all the things she had ever said to Lucy, all the times she had rebuffed her friendly advances, she would take offence at this slight?
Maybe it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Truth be told, Freya had no idea why Lucy gave her the time of day at all. A bright, beautiful, outgoing student like her would have tons of friends, it made no sense that she would try to cultivate Freya. In that moment, she resolved to make an effort. She resolved to be nice.
“I was just kidding. I guess sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
Lucy’s face softened somewhat. “I didn’t know you did kidding.”
“It happens. Sometimes. Not often, I’ll admit. I don’t find it easy, being around people.”
“I never would’ve guessed.”
But she said it with a smile and Freya sensed that she had been given another chance, and probably the last one, too. Taking a deep breath, she made the painful decision to open up:
“Look, I haven’t had the easiest time of it, you know, in life, and stuff. My mum abandoned me when I was a baby, and I’ve been in more foster homes than I can remember. Some were nice, some not so much. And when I was nineteen, when I was just starting to get my life together…”
She closed her eyes for a second, unable to continue. She had never spoken about it before, not to anyone. Only in her darkest nightmares did she dare to relive what had happened to her.
“Hey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to pry. I guess that’s why your paintings are so dark, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Freya managed a thin smile as she glanced over at them, seeing them with fresh eyes. The largest painting that was facing outwards showed a naked man contorted in agony against a red background. The painting was abstract, the subject matter not immediately obvious, but on closer inspection, one could discern hellish faces in the red behind him. The man himself was painted in hard lines, his form unmistakably human yet painted in such a way that at first glance it came off as an abstract pattern. Her talent lay in the way she used shadows to perfectly convey the impression of a face, rather than the actuality.
They overall effect was as eerie as fuck.
“They’re so striking, I’ve never seen anything like them. You’re very talented.”
Blushing, Freya waved her hand dismissively. “I’m really not,” she mumbled.
“Mind if I borrow this?” Lucy asked, reaching for the laptop which was still open and on the floor next to the sofa.
“Be my guest.”
Before long, some vaguely familiar, albeit tinny, dance-track filled the room.
“Now, we have to do something with your hair, and your make-up of course. And in case you don’t have anything suitable to wear, I brought you this…”
As she spoke, she rummaged in her bag, producing a little black dress which she held up in front of her. Freya’s eyes widened in horror.
“I can’t wear that. Uh-uh, no way.”
“Why not, if I had your figure, I’d be wearing bikinis. In winter.”
“Don’t be stupid. And I’m not wearing it. Not on your bloody life.”
Half an hour later, Freya sat there in the tiny black dress, make-up plastered on her face as Lucy fiddled with her hair and rattled on. Instead of irritating her, Freya found this ‘girl talk’ strangely soothing and was even beginning to relax in her company. Fleetingly, she allowed herself to bask in the fantasy that this was a real, honest-to-god friendship, and that she was just a normal young woman, doing what normal young women do.
“…and your hair is so beautiful. You look so gorgeous with it down instead of scraped back in that ponytail. And actually, this blunt cut really suits you, especially now that I’ve straightened it. When I first saw it down, I was like, you know, she should really get some face-framing layers cut in, but now I’m really liking the severity of it. It’s very Kylie Jenner, you know, it really shows off that gorgeous jawline and those big lips…”
“Kylie Jenner? The plastic pubescent?” Freya interrupted.
“Yeah. You look a bit like her actually, especially since I sorted out your dodgy, caterpillar brows. No, scrap that, I see you more as a young Angelina Jolie, except you are far prettier.”
“Will you stop with the compliments? I don’t think of myself like that. I don’t like to think of my physical appearance at all.”
“Oh yeah? Then why do you have abs of steel if you don’t care what you look like? Those babies were grown in the gym for sure,” she said as she faffed on with her hair, tugging at the front section with her straightening irons so that it hung dead straight from the centre-parting.
I work out to beat men up. “I just like to keep fit,” she said instead.
“Sure you do. You’re an enigma, Freya Flynn. Maybe that’s why I like you so much. And I really wish I had your body.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your body.”
Freya cast an appraising eye down the slim length of her, admiring her super-lean shape. Because she was sitting on the sofa, and Lucy was hovering over her with the straighteners, she couldn’t help but admire her slender waist. It was tiny, further enhanced by the shiny, thin black belt.
I reckon I could get my hands aroun
d that.
“Yeah, I’m skinny, and everything, but I don’t have your definition. Like, you’re a fucking Amazonian, and I’m like this weed next to you.”
“You’re not a weed, you’re really graceful and willowy, like a runway model.”
The wine must be making her loose-tongued, for she had never paid another human-being a compliment before. It was an alien feeling, and it was actually quite nice.
“Well, thank you, Freya, I do believe that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Cheers,” she said, raising her glass.
“You know what, Lucy, I do believe you’re right. Cheers.”
Together, they drained the last of the bottle, and for the first time in a long time, Freya realised that she was living in the moment, revelling like a pig in muck in this stereotypical ‘girl bonding’ moment.
So, just for good measure, and because she wasn’t used to this whole ‘chicks together’ thing, she blurted out;
“And you have really great breasts.”
Lucy, who was in the middle of draining her glass, sprayed it out across the room in a hard jet. “Thank you, sweetie, that’s very nice of you to say so.”
“Well, it looks like we’ve run out of booze, and I’m sorry, but I don’t normally drink, so there’s nothing in the house…”
“Who cares, sweetie? We have a god-damn free-bar at Hobgoblin’s because we’re with the band and you know, they have a tab behind the bar. So what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s party.”
CHAPTER FOUR
He had been watching her all day. Putting the sale signs out at work. Getting ready with her new ‘friend’ at her flat. Oh yes, he had been watching. He watched everything…
And now, stood at the crowded bar at Hobgoblin’s, he watched her.
When in public, hide in plain sight. This mantra had always served him well. He knew how to blend in, how to go unnoticed.
She was so fucking beautiful that it hurt to look at her. Even in the dowdy work uniform she was a knockout, but tonight? Dear God, tonight she was a fucking goddess. He had never seen her so dressed up before. That black dress clung to her hard curves, and somehow, the DM boots and long leather coat added to the dress’s sex-appeal rather than detracted from it. He had watched them through the window, arguing about her lack of ‘pretty’ shoes. Lucy had ‘allowed’ her to wear the DMs, as it was either those or the frumpy black work-shoes because her feet were way too big to squeeze into the shoes that Lucy had brought along.
And her face, sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, her face. He wasn’t one for make-up, in fact, he had come to outright hate the damn stuff, but her face was exquisite. A face like that should be on the cover of Vogue, or on the big screen. Hell, her face was more beautiful than any supermodel’s or starlet’s he had ever seen, by a long, long way. A man could get lost in that face for the rest of his life.
He wasn’t the only one staring, of course. Everyone in the pub was watching her. Fucking everyone. Even her so called, new ‘friend’ fancied her. He found that funny, that Freya didn’t know. But he knew, all right, it was painfully obvious, the way she laughed at everything she said and found any excuse to place a gentle hand on her arm… He wondered if Lucy even knew herself if she had a crush on Freya. Freya’s beauty was so strong, it was enough to get inside your head and completely fuck you over. It was enough to turn an otherwise straight girl gay.
He turned his attention to Lucy. She wasn’t as beautiful as Freya, but then, that comparison was pointless, for he doubted any female on God’s earth could hold a candle to Freya. But she was beautiful in her own right – the fact that she could stand next to Freya and not look like a complete dog was testament to that. She was a lot slimmer than Freya – one of those willowy, model types while still maintaining a nice curve to her hips. She had a pretty face, too. Hell, if he wasn’t too busy comparing her to Freya, then she had a beautiful face. Her features were delicate and perfectly formed, like that of a young Michelle Pfeiffer’s. Her highlighted blonde hair shimmered around her shoulders in an appealing, soft cloud, and her smile was easy and genuine. In fact, he would even go as far as to say that she was easily the second best-looking woman in the crowded pub.
And was it ever crowded tonight. Wrenching his gaze away from the two women he was following, he scanned the vast space. On stage, the band caterwauled their way through a rendition of some Coldplay song. He supposed that they were quite good, if you were into that kind of thing. Which he wasn’t. His tastes veered towards the harder end of the spectrum, mainly death and black metal from the late nineties and early noughties. But he did concede that their own stuff, which they performed here and there amongst the covers, was pretty good. A little softer than he would normally listen too, but still with that appealing ‘Depeche Mode’ vibe.
Watching the band, a little knot of anxiety tightened in his guts. Angrily, he gripped his pint as he agonized over the mere thought of Freya with Jim, the delivery guy. Jim was the lead singer, and what girl didn’t fancy a lead singer? Shit, that smarmy bastard could have his pick of any of the girls here tonight. And it just so happened that he had picked Freya.
Cunt.
On stage, the Coldplay cover had ended and Jim was now belting out the lyrics of a song he usually thought was pretty naff. Not tonight, though. Tonight, the song made him smile.
“…I’ve been watchin’, I’ve been waitin’, from the shadows…”
Fuck, they’re good, he thought grudgingly.
When he discretely got back to watching the girls over on the other side of the bar, he was disgusted to see how into the music they were, how their eyes shone with admiration and how their perfect bodies swayed unconsciously to the music. This was the first time that he had ever seen Freya with her guard down. He thought of the task he had set her, and the promise he had made to her if she didn’t complete it.
Well, tonight it looked like she wasn’t going to cooperate. No matter, she would learn. Next time, she would, because tonight, he had a promise to keep.
I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep…
He smiled to himself, and took a sip of his pint.
It had been a brilliant night. Freya had loved the music, and thought Jim was fantastic. Too fantastic, truth be told. On stage, he was positively mesmerizing. There was no disguising the swell of pride she felt that when their set was over, he bounded off the stage, straight over to her.
“Hey. I’m so happy you came tonight. Were we okay? Did we suck?”
“No, you were amazing.”
She blushed, realizing that she probably sounded like a simpering teen, but it seemed to please Jim, for his smile broadened, those adorable dimples coming out on his cheeks.
“Hey, baby,” Gary said, close behind Jim. He grabbed Lucy and planted a kiss square on her mouth. “So this is Freya, huh? Jim’s told me so much about you.” He extended his hand towards her. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, smiling shyly at him, taking him in.
Like Jim, he was tall and good-looking, but as blonde as Jim was dark. He wore his long hair in a ponytail, had quick, dark eyes and an easy smile.
“Will you shut up,” Jim said, looking suitably – and adorably – embarrassed. “He’s lying, Freya, I haven’t mentioned you at all.”
Gary raised his eyes heavenward. “Yeah. At all.”
To her dismay, Freya found that she was actually giggling, like some kind of star-struck groupie. She didn’t think she had ever felt so relaxed and happy, and, if truth be told, tipsy. Like Jim, Gary just came across as nice. The cynical little voice in her head warned her that it was all an act, that these guys were just good-looking playboys, out for what they could get. Yet when she looked across at Jim, she couldn’t quite bring herself to fully believe that. There was just something about these boys…
A group of women near them moved in closer, giggling and swishing their hair this way and that.
“Sweetheart, you were amazin
g tonight,” a gorgeous blonde said who had magically appeared at Gary’s side. “You play guitar better than Slash.”
“Thanks,” he said barely giving her a second glance.
Freya saw how his grip tightened around Lucy’s waist, and the way that Lucy grinned happily up at him. His actions cemented her opinion that Gary was a nice bloke.
“Shall we load up Henry’s car, then?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Then shall we go back to mine for a drink? It’s pretty busy here.”
Instantly, Freya was on edge. Being in a public place with them was one thing, but going somewhere private with them was quite another.
“What’s the matter, I thought you loved female attention?” Lucy laughed.
“Only from you, babe.”
“Come on, mate, let’s get this show packed up,” Jim said, his gaze flickering towards the stage.
There was a lone man on the stage, the third and final member of their band. Lucy had told her earlier that his name was Henry. He was a little older than Jim and Gary, and had a wife and two kids waiting for him at home. Right now, he was busy dismantling his keyboard stand.
“Okay,” Gary agreed. “We’ll be right back, babe, don’t go anywhere.”
Freya and Lucy watched them on the stage, packing up their equipment. They didn’t have much to pack away; just a couple of speakers, a keyboard, a guitar and a microphone stand.
“How are they getting that stuff home?” Freya asked.
“They’re gonna pack it into Henry’s car and he’s gonna take it back to his place. It’s all his equipment – his old band broke up and he had all this equipment but no band members. I don’t know how they all found each other, but they did. They have such an amazing chemistry together, I really, honestly think they’ve got a chance of hitting the big time.”
But Freya was barely listening, the buzz of the alcohol was coursing through her system and a new, alien emotion consumed her.
Is this what it feels like to be young and carefree?
For the briefest second, the memory of the foul letter slammed into her mind, dampening her mood. No. She wouldn’t think about that now. So what if some loser had seen her on her ‘night rounds’ and recognised her from Shortbread and Tweed, or something. So fucking what. She was tired of living in fear and hate. Just for once, she wanted to be free of all that crap.
