by West, Sam
“Yeah,” Freya said, scraping the chair back across the wooden floor.
Hastily, she wiped her eyes, surprised to find that she had been crying. When had that happened, exactly? It wasn’t like her at all. There weren’t many tears – barely enough to dampen her eyes, in fact – but that didn’t seem to stop hawk-eyed Jean from noticing.
The older woman reached out and gently touched her arm. This show of kindness, no matter how casual, threatened to be her undoing and she felt the tell-tale lump rise in her throat.
“Dear? What’s the matter? You haven’t been yourself the past few shifts. I understand that it’s your nature to be a little withdrawn, but this is different. Something big is happening to you, isn’t it?”
The woman’s astuteness pierced her heart like an arrow and when she raised her gaze to meet hers, she saw nothing but kindness and compassion there. In that fleeting second, she saw what might have been if she had been born into a different life. If she had known kind, decent people like Jean growing up. If someone like Jean had been her mother, or her grandmother. Before she could stop herself, the unbidden words were spilling forth:
“What would you do, Jean, if you were put into an impossible situation? A situation where, no matter what you did, it could only end horribly.”
“I would confide in someone. And then I wold choose the lesser of two evils.”
Freya pondered her words, weighing them up in her mind. The lesser of two evils.
“Look, I’m not sure that it’s my place to say anything,” the older woman continued when she fell silent, “but I can see you’re hurting. I don’t know what’s happened to you in your life, and I don’t know what you’re having to deal with now, but I’ll tell you this; sometimes life throws us a few curveballs along the way. When my husband was very sick for the second time with cancer, we had to make some uncomfortable choices with his chemo. If he had chemotherapy, his life might have been prolonged, and if he didn’t, then his life would be shorter but arguably less painful. As it was, we decided against the treatment. Like I say, the lesser of two evils.” She offered a thin smile. “Whichever you choose will be equally wrong or equally right. Do whatever your gut tells you.”
Jean patted her reassuringly, then went over to switch on the kettle.
“Thanks,” Freya said.
The old woman hadn’t really helped her in the slightest, but there was no denying that she had tried to help her without getting too personal. Her heart was in the right place, of that Freya was sure.
“I wish I could help you, dear. If you ever want to talk about things, I’m here. And whatever you decide to tell me, I promise I’d take it to the grave. Now you’d better get downstairs before sour-faced old Esther has a coronary.”
Taking Freya completely by surprise, Jean closed the gap between them and enveloped her in a hug. Her familiar perfume – an old-lady scent that brought to mind lavender and mothballs – filled her nostrils and nostalgia for something that had never been spiked her heart.
Jean, who was tall for a woman, broke off the hug and peered down at her over her spectacles, holding her at arm’s length. “Try not to worry, these things always work out in the end, you’ll see.”
Freya nodded her thanks, in that moment too choked up to speak. God, why was it so much harder when people were nice to her?
Forcing herself under control, she hurried down the stairs, back to work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For the hundredth time that night, Freya read the text messages that she and Jim had exchanged earlier that afternoon:
Jim: Shall we meet at the Bulldog in town at eight? Or would you rather I picked you up from home first?
Freya: I’m sorry, I’m going to have to cancel. Maybe another time.
Jim: Is there someone else? I don’t want to be creepy, or anything, but I really like you, Freya. If there is, I’d like to know.
Freya: There’s no one else, I’m just busy, that’s all. Another time perhaps.
And that had been that. He hadn’t replied, leaving her wondering. Why hadn’t he suggested an alternate night? He couldn’t like her that much then, she reasoned.
I’ve upset him.
She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or disappointed about that. With a sigh of disgust at herself, she flung down her phone on the sofa. This wouldn’t do, mooning over some guy; there were far more important things that she had to worry about, not least the fact that she was standing there in the living-room, wearing nothing but her DM boots and her ankle-length leather coat.
It’s not like I can’t look after myself, she reasoned. This isn’t much different from any other night-time excursion.
Except it was. Never before had she willingly followed a lion into its den. And by following her stalker’s instructions, that was exactly what she was doing. If you’re going to attack, always do so outside or on neutral ground, never on someone else’s territory.
I don’t have any choice.
She glanced at the wall clock – it was just gone eight. It wasn’t like the mysterious letter writer had specified a time, so she figured that she’d just go as soon as it was dark enough. Just as she was psyching herself up to leave her flat, the doorbell sounded. She very nearly screamed out at the alien sound, only then fully realising quite how jumpy she was.
She went to the sofa and sat down, closing her eyes and letting out a long, shaky breath.
Just relax, she told herself. Whoever it is, they’ll go again in a minute.
The doorbell sounded once more and she almost cried out.
Just go away, please just go away, she thought in despair.
Getting up from the sofa, she went over to the wide bay-window that looked out over the main road, intending to peak through a crack in the blinds to see who was at the door. It could be a salesman – sometimes there were a few weary stragglers this time of night, trying to make up their pitiful commission for the day.
To her dismay, she saw Jim standing on the doorstep. And he was looking right at her window.
“Shit,” she muttered, letting the blind ping back into place.
He didn’t see me, she told herself. He just happened to be looking my way. Please God, please not let him have seen me…
“Freya? I saw you, I know you’re in there! Open up!” came his muffled voice from the other side of the window.
He pounded on the windowpane, making her jump like a frightened hare and the entire window shudder. He kept on banging on the glass, sporadically calling out her name.
Inside, she shrivelled. What if the neighbours heard and called the police? The last thing she wanted was to get on the radar of the fuzz.
Just let him in. What harm will it do? Just give him five minutes…
“Okay, okay,” she said, rushing out her flat and along the short, communal hallway to open the door.
As soon as she opened the door, Jim bounded over from the window.
“Freya,” he panted, having the good grace to look a little sheepish.
And also completely and utterly adorable, she noted with some reluctance. He wore the same, beat-up, waist-length jacket he had been wearing the other night, and his black hair looked as messy as it always did, in a way that made her want to run her fingers through it.
“What do you want, Jim?” she asked as coldly as she could to try and hide the fact how nervous she was around him.
Not because of him, she thought, but because of what I have to do tonight. She almost believed it, too.
“Can I come in?”
“Actually, I was just going out.” And then a thought occurred to her, and she was surprised that she hadn’t thought of it straight away. “How the hell did you even know where I lived, anyway?”
He raised an eyebrow at her in a way that made her lower-stomach clench in arousal. Shit, this really wouldn’t do at all. “Needs must, where the devil rides. You know what, Freya? We can do this out here, if you want. I’m sure the neighbours would love to know your private business. It’s
better than watching some dumb soap.”
“We live in the city, Jim. No one cares what anyone does.”
She said it, but she didn’t quite believe it; she was sure that the curtains in the ground-floor flat of the house next-door had twitched.
Sighing, she relented. “Fine. Then come in. But you only have five minutes because I have to be somewhere.”
She stalked inside with as much dignity as she could muster, but inside she was quaking. This crush, or whatever the hell else she was supposed to call it, was getting worse, not better. And that simply wouldn’t do at all.
Jim followed her inside her flat and shut the inner door behind himself. As soon as he was inside, she cursed herself for leaving her paintings propped up against the living-room wall. As she didn’t drive, the gallery was due to come and pick them up tomorrow.
But, she reasoned, how the hell was she to know that Jim was going to turn up on her doorstep tonight?
It was with little surprise that she watched him make a beeline straight for them.
“These are yours?” he asked, the wonder in his voice obvious.
“Yes, Jim, they’re mine,” she said, as irritated by him as she was attracted to him. All she wanted was for him to go so that she could get on with the miserable night that lay ahead of her.
Oh yeah? So then why did you invite him inside instead of sending him on his merry way?
“Christ, they are amazing.” He looked thoughtfully down at them, his head cocked to one side, oblivious to, or just flat-out blanking her hostility. “I’ve seen these before, in the window of that gallery in town. My God, I had no idea these were yours. That’s just incredible. Still, I guess that explains why you can afford to live in a place like this. You really are a veritable ocean of secrets, aren’t you?”
“Jim,” she said carefully. “I truly don’t have time for this. What do you want? And you didn’t answer my question. How did you find out where I live? Are you stalking me?”
And are you writing me those letters?
As soon as she thought it, she felt vaguely guilty for doing so. In her heart, she knew it wasn’t him.
Really? You sure about that?
He shrugged, turning round to face her. When he smiled that disarmingly boyish smile of his, her stomach performed a little somersault. She frowned at him and crossed her arms across her leather-clad, bare chest.
“Stalking sounds a little harsh, Freya. I prefer to call it more of an active interest.”
She smirked, despite herself. “An active interest, huh?”
“Yeah. And in answer to your question, I work for Shortbread and Tweed too, don’t forget. I’m also friends with Sally at head office, and she was more than happy to dish out your address.”
“She was, huh? You gave her your stupid, cute smile too, do you? I bet that works a treat on all the girls.”
His grin broadened. “You think I have a cute smile?”
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, you did.”
What are you doing? You have to get rid of him right now, she reminded herself. When she spoke next, the flirtatious tone in her voice had been killed stone-dead.
“Look, Jim, I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I’m sorry I blew you out, maybe we can reschedule…”
“No. You can give me more than that.”
She looked at him blankly. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight is important to me, Freya, because right now, I’m here with you, and that’s all that matters. If you and me are going to have any kind of meaningful relationship, then this game-playing stops right here, right now. If all you can give me tonight is five minutes of your time, then so be it. But I want those five minutes to count.”
He paused, and she seized her opportunity to speak, walking towards the door as she did so.
“Jim, I have to be somewhere now, I think you should…”
“Please, just hear me out,” he said, raising his hand to silence her. “I like you, Freya. I mean, I think you’re amazing. I want to get to know you properly. I’m not just after a quick shag, that’s not who I am or what I’m about. I mean, I’m happy to wait until our wedding night if it means that much to you.”
She blinked, not able to tell if he was joking or not.
Jim rolled his eyes, the wolfish grin back in place. “Relax, I’m only kidding. But only about the wedding-night part. I’m really into you, but I also want to take it slow. This isn’t about sex. You’re special, Freya. I can tell you like me too, or at least, I think you do. I’m not going to hurt you, I only want to know you.”
Freya’s hand involuntarily curled around the door-handle, yet she didn’t yank open the door. His little speech was intimidating and too full-on for her liking, yet a small part of her – the part that had responded to Jean’s warmth at work earlier that day – was touched by it.
“Okay,” he said, as if driving home his advantage when sensing her barriers could be temporarily lowered. “Just tell me one thing and I’ll go. I mean, I’m going anyway, you obviously don’t want me here, and believe it or not, I respect that – I’m not a bully. I know I’m asking a lot of you when I ask you to trust me, even just the smallest amount. Where are you going tonight, Freya? And I’m not asking this as a jealous, potential suitor, I’m asking this as a friend. It’s something to do with that letter that was tucked under the windscreen wiper of my van, isn’t it?”
She looked at him, aghast. “Why would you even think that?” she managed to say in what she hoped was a calm manner.
“I saw the look on your face when I handed you that letter. I didn’t want to make scene at work, figuring that I’d just ask you about it tonight.”
A myriad of thoughts simultaneously tumbled through her mind, jostling for her attention.
Of course he knows the letter upset you, stupid, one vicious little voice whispered. That’s because he wrote it.
No, Jim wouldn’t do that, came another.
“You really fancy yourself as a psychologist, don’t you?” she said, her hand tightening on the door-handle.
Her legs felt suddenly unsteady beneath her, and she leaned against the door for support, the long, silver door-handle digging into her hip.
Yet still some inexplicable force prevented her from opening it.
“Well, I am a psych major,” came his deadpan reply.
Freya pulled open the door, still leaning against it as she did so. “Good bye, Jim.”
“Please, Freya, just let me in. Whatever’s troubling you, I can help.”
To her horror, tears brimmed in her eyes – the second time that day. “No one can help me,” she said, her face resting against the white-painted wood of the door.
“No, that’s not true,” he said with infinite tenderness. Like he actually cared.
He came up to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Instead of pulling away like she knew she should, she allowed him to touch her.
Just for once, it would be so good to share a problem with another living soul…
Emotion was a sign of weakness, she knew this, yet she was so sick of being strong. She was so sick of fighting; she wasn’t even sure what she was supposed to be fighting for anymore.
“I’m just so tired,” she found herself saying, and it was almost as if she were listening to somebody else talk. “I’m tired of fighting, of running from my past and towards a future I don’t want or understand. Don’t you ever feel like you just want to get off the merry-go-round, but it’s going so fast that you don’t know how?”
She clutched the edge of the door for support, aware of Jim grasping it too.
“Come and sit down, Freya. Let’s talk about this.”
Gently, he gripped her shoulder to steer her away from the door, at the same time as he pushed the door shut. She was aware of a tightness around her hips, then a ripping sound reached her ears.
Her mortification swiftly followed. The door-handle had been wedged between two buttons of her coat, and as the
door shut, so a button had been ripped from its bed. Her hand fluttered down to hold together the torn edges of her coat, but she was too late; Jim had seen the exposed flesh below her navel.
“Are you naked under that coat? Jesus, Freya, what the hell’s going on?”
“No, of course not,” she said, her heart beating hard in shame. “I’m just wearing a low-rise skirt.”
“I glimpsed you all the way down the floor. I saw your, ah, you know.”
Shit. She noticed he was almost as embarrassed as she was. At least he’s not leching after me right now.
Tears stung her eyes – this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go at all. But maybe, on some level, she had hoped for this. Maybe, subconsciously, she had been crying out for someone to see the real her. A sense of fate washed over her, that she was destined to turn to Jim.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, steering her over to the sofa. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Tell me everything.”
“Everything?” she sobbed. “If I told you everything you’d never speak to me again. You wouldn’t want to know me anymore.”
“Try me.”
Freya talked, omitting nothing. She spoke of her troubled past, about how she was shunted from foster home to foster home, some indifferent, some horrendous, none good. She told him how she had been raped by one of her carers when she had been thirteen-years-old. She told him how, despite her rough start in life, she had decided that she wanted, that she needed, to pull herself out of it. About how she had worked hard at school, made good grades, and landed a place at Sheffield University to study Art. How she had been so happy, that her time at University marked a turning point in her life. That her future had looked bright.
Then she told him about how disaster had struck, sending her into a spiral of depression, into the abyss that had almost swallowed her whole.
“I was walking home alone one night. Me and a bunch of students from our halls of residence were out on the town, and you know how it is – we got separated. Some had pulled, some had gone back to our digs hours ago, and before I knew it, I found myself alone in the nightclub.” She paused for a second, dry-eyed, collecting her thoughts. She had never spoken about this before, apart from briefly to Lucy, and she was strangely matter-of-fact about it, like she was speaking about someone else’s experiences. “There was this guy there. He was about my age, really cute. He had been flirting with me on and off all night, but I wasn’t interested. I guess I flirted back a little, but I wasn’t going to do anything. I’d never had a boyfriend before, I thought I was too damaged for all that relationship stuff.” She looked at him pointedly. “I still do.”
