Frigga (Valentines Sweethearts)

Chapter 1

Fresh from uni and brimming with optimism, I moved into the small, old-fashioned town of Etenam a few weeks ago . My late aunt had offered any of her relatives the chance to stay in her home after her passing, as long as the ground rent was paid. I seized the opportunity, hoping to carve my own path in this quaint little town.

“ A house for waifs and strays ,” my Aunt would say when I was young. I couldn’t help but snort, remembering how my aunt had bestowed the title of waif on my ex-boyfriend, Tye, not barely a year ago. I shrugged, conceding to the wisdom of her preconceived knowledge. It had been but a few days before he had begun making my life a living nightmare with his controlling tendencies. I regret defending him to her that day almost as much as I regret ever dating the devil.

He’d started out nice, so kind and well mannered. A prince for the childish princess inside my mind. I never really had to grow up. Coming from a wealthy family, my every wish and dream were attainable. I never had to want for anything and when Tye had come along, suspected now of making me his mark, life had been perfect. He had taken care of everything, my parents loved him, everybody did, but they didn’t know him. Not like I did. Sighing, I let the tension recede from my body and the muscles that tensed whenever I thought back to those dreadful days with him.

I leaned down, clutching my steaming coffee on the glass table sandwiched between the television set and the one and only paisley sofa my aunt had ever owned. I blew at the steam circulating the top as, thanks to the warm mug, my fingers finally thawed. It was late winter and already the early morning frost was eating away at the warm cloud produced by the central heating. I couldn’t help the shiver that ran through my every cell like a noxious poison in my veins as the thought of the heating bill entered my mind. I took another sip, the bitter sweet lava chasing the worry from my mind as I swiped the newspaper off the table and flipped it open to the employment page.

The title captions were overstated in a bid to cover the gaping space where a few columns advertised. I scanned the articles, but they merely instructed unemployed persons to create CVs online for businesses to troll through. A total waste of time if you ask me. How am I supposed to stand out from thousands of other designers more inept than I am and even those I graduated with. I couldn’t. My family's position and wealth could make me visible in that graduating pile of applicants. But there was no way, after all this time pushing forward on my own merits, that I was going to parade my family's name just to get a job. I could do it on my own. I was a capable, modern day, independent woman and I could most definitely attain a job.

I looked through a few adverts. Dustbin people required? No, but their salary was definitely alluring. Part time baker? Ha! I could cook one thing and one thing only since I left home and that was noodles. I chuckled to myself.

There were no clients seeking an interior designer for an extravagantly priced mansion without budget constraints that would limit my creativity. The realization that my only options were waitressing or a supermarket job chilled me to the bone. I couldn’t help the shiver that resonated through me. My life was so unfair. I tried so hard to stand on my own feet, away from the clutches of my parents and their insistence on choosing me a betrothed no doubt to further the reach of expansion within the family business and yet I never seemed to catch a break.

Taking a deep breath, I turned the page with a crisp snap, my eyes rolling over dog walking positions and nannies until there, right at the bottom in the smallest of advertisements, was the opportunity I was looking for.

Etenham museum seeks remodelling for the newest Norse Mythology exhibition opening this summer. We are looking for friendly local talent to work with Norse historian, Sam Wotan, to help bring tourists to our quiet little town this summer. For more information, or to apply, please call the museum directly.

My teeth clenched with excitement at the thought of applying for the museum job. All the years I’d spent studying at university could finally pay off

I was a designer, for heaven’s sake. A creator of fantasies within homes and grand spaces. I could match any colour suitably to fashionable items. Even a second glance, fueled by fervent hope for a suitable position, yielded nothing.

I chewed my lip instinctively as I mulled over the details. Could the museum hold an opportunity hiding in plain sight? Maybe it could lead to something big, I thought. There was no denying it had potential, but was it really for me? Thinking about it, with ground rent due next week, I had no choice but to dial the number and pray luck was on my side.

Pulling my mobile from my pocket, I flipped it open barely glancing at the family Christmas photo my overbearing bossy parents insisted upon every year. This year, my homecoming for festivities resulted in yet more pessimistic lectures.

“A well-off young lady pulling away from the family business to study in an entirely different industry,” my father had scoffed. And making it on her own in a poorer relative’s part bought, part rented little house was laughable to my mother.

I always felt like the punchline inside a Christmas cracker. My parents always anticipated my downfall. I was so sure they might have revelled in my misfortune, the joke, before they donned their paper crowns and dominated my life before drawing me back into our close-knit family’s clutches.

I used to imagine them choosing me a husband. Not for love’s sake, but for the amplification of their business expansions and, of course, money. Sighing, I shook away the terror that felt like fingers crawling down my spine. Relinquishing the nightmare from my mind, I decided to take a chance and dial the museum’s number.

“Etenham Museum, how can I help you?” a tinkling voice answered. I took a deep, calming breath.

“Good afternoon, my name is Frigga Smith. I am enquiring about the exhibition design vacancy in the paper.” I drummed my fingers while I waited.

“Hmmm. Oh yes, I had almost forgotten. Mr Wallace is conducting interviews tomorrow. You’re lucky you called today, one day later, and boom, job gone.”

I could feel the hairs on my nape stand in irritation at the woman’s overzealous, sunny disposition.

“And what time is the interview?” I prompted.

“Hmm, let’s see,” the shuffling of paper permeated down the line, “As his last candidate, he can fit you in at…half past 2…Ish.”

“Excellent, thank you,” I hung up, mumbling obscenities at the woman. I could see it now, when we met tomorrow the dippy woman would wear wild clothes infused with flower power or love vibes. I was certain of it. I shook my head, chuckling to myself. By the next morning, my humour faded as I met with a replica of my expectation.

“Good afternoon, sweetie.” I looked at the bobbing daisy clock on her desk. “You must be Frigga.” She held her hand out and I took it in a firm shake. “Oh, strong girl,” she chuckled. “Take a seat in the cafeteria, Mr Wallace will be with you soon.” She smiled, ferreting around behind her desk before stopping me in my tracks and calling out, “Oh, and if you could read this.” She handed me a sheet of paper.

Entering the cafeteria, just shy of seeing the whole reception desk, I pulled out a metal chair and sat. A loud groan rent from the chair, its attention causing a blush to bloom across my cheeks. I fiddled with my Hello Kitty scrunchie bracelet to calm my erratic heart. The memory of the day my brother bought it smiled back at me. I took a deep breath and began to read.

Hello and welcome,

We at the Etenhan Museum are dedicated historians, working relentlessly to bring an authentic encounter with Norse mythology to the public. We want sights, smells, and sounds. Think BIG! Think OUT OF THE BOX!

If, however, you are new to Norse mythology, our local curator and historian specialist Sam Wotan will be on hand throughout the process.

What we want from you is a VISION.

If you still feel capable of providing that after reading this, fantastic. If not, no hard feelings - feel free to depart. Please notify reception on your way out.

I raised a delicate eyebrow, waiting. In my peripheral vision, I watched another candidate slip away through a light blue door behind a man I suspected to be Mr Wallace. The clock ticked interminably. It jumped on its mount every minute. As the clock ticked down, I couldn’t help the sigh that bubbled up inside of me. I had to get this job, I just had to. I wrung my fingers together before tugging at the scrunchie band. I could do this, I knew I could. But the last candidate that had gone, still hadn't returned and spending forty-five minutes on an interview exceeded the time of the last three by 10 minutes. I had no chance. I knew it. I tugged at my scrunchie, whispering a mantra of pleases beneath my breath.

Finally, the door opened and out walked the stilettoed blond huffing. “So unprofessional,” she muttered as she passed. “These small town jobs want miracles for pittance,” she continued, her steps receding with her rant as she exited the building.

The man behind her differed from the initial interviewer. He stood there, hands in his jean pockets, shoulders a little hunched, with a slightly shy smile spreading his thin lips. “Miss Smith?” I found myself jumping to attention, the chair screeching with my exuberance, earning a chuckle from the irritating, tinkling voice of the receptionist. I tried hard not to glare at the woman as I passed, hurrying over to the caramel skinned man, my tongue sweeping my plump bottom lip with the delectable taste of caramel invoked in my mind.

“Take a seat. My name is Sam Wotan. I regret the late interviewer change. Mr. Wallace needed to leave.

“Oh, dear. I, uh, hope he’s okay.” I remarked, surveying the office, my eyes curiously roaming over the roman suit of armour standing proudly behind the desk.

“Yes, yes, just a migraine. He succumbs to them more often these days.” He smiled kindly, a twinkle emphasising his overly large doe eyes. “I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing about any of this. You are here for the Norse display remodelling.” His smile was sweet but stern. He sat, back straight, behind a large desk. “First the formalities. I need your passport, ID, and references.” He waited expectantly.

I could feel my nerves fizzing, sparking like electrical wires as I ferreted through my bag and pulled out my phone placing it on the desk, then my card wallet and lipstick and coffee sashes and finally my passport and documents folded neatly into the last section of the bag. Cheeks glowing red, I handed them over, restuffing my bag as neatly and as fast as possible as I prayed my fiery cheeks, extinguished.

“Brilliant, thank you. So tell me why you want this job, Miss Smith.” The smooth tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine.

“Honestly? I need to pay the rent.” I looked him in his doe brown eyes, finding understanding.

“Well, that’s always an excellent incentive,” he chuckled.

“I mean, I want it to showcase my interior design skills.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm, so you are coming at it from that angle? Okay, I can see you are more than qualified, if inexperienced, in that sector of the project.” He moved the papers aside and folded his fingers on the table, leaning closer, his eyes ablaze. “But what about the mythology side? Do you know anything about Norse mythology?”

“Honestly, no.” I watched him sit back in his seat, disappointment evident in the deep furrow of his brow.

“Alright then miss --- how do you expect to go about creating the exhibit with no knowledge of the subject?” I could feel my cheeks flush at his stark judgement.

My ire was well and truly sparked. I sat straight, my eyes blazing. “Mr. Wotan I am more than capable of using Google, researching in a library and of course asking your own fine opinion on such historical implements.” He chuckled, making my back straighten in offence.

“I’m sure you are and as for my FINE opinion - it’s yours whenever you need it.” His smile was soft, genuine, like a door opening from the cold outside, melting the stiffness in my spine. A slight blush battled my pallor.

“I assume you have some idea of what you’re looking for other than what is stated in the newspaper, Mr Wotan.”

“Yes, of course. We have a thousand square feet of floor space to create. It is not huge, so I need the exhibit to be interactive around one major theme that can house all the artifacts I have collected on the Norse beliefs.”

“What kind of artifacts do you have?” His grin widened.

“Come with me.” He led me back through the blue door and into a small storage room. I couldn’t help but feel my skin prickle with the enormity of the realisation that I really did want this job. I could do so much. Already, ideas were forming in my mind’s eye. Colour palettes nagged at my subconscious, and then, a coarse smell, with its eye-watering grimness, snapped me back to the present from my meanderings. Mr Wotan chuckled.

“Stored artifacts can sometimes get a little musty, and this beauty has been flown in from Denmark so it’s a little on the stank side. Don’t worry, by the time I’ve cleaned her up and polished her, she won’t smell at all.” He stared at it with all the adoration of a mother with a newborn and I couldn’t help the flutter in my heart as a grin spread across my face.

“What is it?” I asked, staring into the crate.

“This is the legendary hammer of Thor, god of thunder. It's called Mjolnir. People recreated it using texts back in the back as far as the 11 th century. Although not an actual artifact of the era, it is old enough to be considered an artifact in its own right. Vikings would worship Thor through idols of his hammer.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke but it was his lips I couldn’t stop staring at as they pouted at the end of certain words.

“Strange.” My comment was aloft and fleeting, sure, but I couldn’t get my vocal chords to work as my heart leapt into my throat, desperate to escape and affix itself to the delectable Mr Wotan.

“Thor was a part of their everyday lives. He was the god who kept Midgard safe. His hammer could equally bless or punish.” I watched his eyes twinkle and my breath hitched. For a man so well formed and matured, that was a little naughty, I thought.

“You sound like a comic book geek,” I chuckled, chewing my lip and remembering how my brother had loved comics. I quickly pushed the memory aside before it could swamp me.

“Harsh. Comics are fiction. Everything I am telling you is fact.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, put into context, I can envision a true or false peg board or flip wheel about Thor and his hammer.”

“Wonderful. But in what colours? What images?” He leaned closer, his musky scent filling the air.

“Well, I would suggest incorporating the super hero theme into it as it will keep the children’s interest and help them learn, so maybe red and silver.” He grinned again, sliding the wooden top back onto the crate and sliding it across from a medieval breastplate before leading me out of the storage room.

“Well, Miss Smith, thank you for coming.” He held out his hand, its surface rough but his shake firm as I slipped my soft palm into his. “I’ll be in touch when a decision has been made. I mean, Mr Wallace will.” He chuckled, swiping a hand through his thick coal dark hair. The soft fragrance of tea tree hit me like the scent of mothers yoga room at home.

“Thank you, Mr Wotan.” I turned to leave, unsure how the interview would play out. I decided to treat myself to chicken noodles instead of the usual university food I was still stuck eating thanks to the determination to stand on my own feet.

I glanced back when he called out, “Miss Smith, I hope we meet again.” He smiled, a slight glow dancing on his cheeks. I raised an eyebrow, my smile a second too late.

“M..me too.” I turned, my steps quickening. Did he just? Absolutely not, he was much older than me; he was simply being kind. Besides, it's not like we had anything in common, though he did smell good. And… that smile.

The sounds of light town traffic imbued an array of friendly honks unlike the city horns I used to hear, honking their bad attitudes and spreading them like a plague of anger consuming everyone within reach. The softer sounds of the early Tudor chocolate-box town were much more to my liking than the frustration and stress I associated with the city. I loved almost everything about it, from the cobbled streets and black beamed houses to the ash tree in the park children had tied rope swings to. All except for the transport. Now that was another matter, vehicles in the city were easily accessible but in the small town of Etenham, buses came once every hour and Ubers charged a fortune.

I couldn't help the sigh that escaped me as I sat on the tiny metal seat in the bus shelter, reading the posters plastered to its walls in haste no doubt from the peeling top corner.

An over obnoxious picture of a vibrantly dressed dame from the pantomime adorned the visage. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her over pronounced ruby lips. I had always wanted to experience such a show but my mother looked down on them and as her too obedient daughter I did as I was told back then. I took a quick snap of the poster. If I had enough money left over this month after all the bills I might even go.

The bus came rolling in, shunting to a halt before me. Standing up off the cold bus stop seat, I pulled out my purse and ascended the steps. Into the less bitter quiet cold. Tapping my card, I found a seat on one of the less sustained upholsteries. I wished my mother could see me now. She would have a fit. My father had grown the business from scratch. My mother had always been from a wealthy family, so the image of me sitting on a bus would probably scar her fragile brain. Although I loved my mother very much, she was most definitely a snob. I, on the other hand, was more like my father. Though even now mother had converted him to her ways. Neither of them would have me or my siblings seen on public transport.

I had the urge to take a photo and send it to them. Naughty, I told myself . I would never send it. Even if I had taken it. For it would only bring them down on my head. I wanted to make a life of my own. Where I was not at the mercy of my family’s fortune. Nor was I the boss’s daughter. I wanted to rely on my own qualifications and intelligence. I wanted to be, just me.

The bus jolted forwards, a heavy thrumming rent the air as the engine ticked over, luring me into a strange sleep. It wasn’t until I smelt the stench of oil from some sort of engineer sitting next to me, that I stirred awake. The late afternoon sun was setting in a horizon of purplish ombre against the deeply bruised sky peppered with gleaming stars, each one trying to outshine the other. Their smell of damp earth permeated through the bus and a shiver raked my spine. I looked up just as we pulled into my stop. I shuffled around, grabbing my bag and checking my phone was still securely in my pocket. Why I insisted on having it shoved in my pocket I didn't know, I just felt safer with it there in case my handbag was snatched. I stood as the bus jolted to a stop and navigated the narrow the walkway littered with the bags of the working class traveling home. I nodded goodbye to the driver, an old man with a bald head who travelled the same route day in and day out, oh how bored he must be. Yet he still spared the time to smile and wink back at me as I exited the bus.

The ten minute walk back to my apartment was quiet. Though it was filled with the soft sounds of the bray of horses and awakening barn owls from the farm not a few miles away. Strange how sound carried when everything seemed so still. The soft glow of the lamp shone on the sidewalk. I used to look at the sidewalk and see mottled colours and roughness. Now? Barely a splat of bird faeces adorned them. I smiled to myself. I liked this town. If I got this job I could stay. I felt my heart flutter at the thought and realised how much I actually wanted it.

Thinking back to my interview had me fantasising again of Sam and his beautiful caramel skin, his warm aura, and his deep-set smoky quartz eyes. He was too old for me by far. But that dashing smile of his? Sigh . It had my stomach all in KNOTS. He seemed to like me too, not that it mattered. I have written off attractions to men since my ex. There was no way I was going against that. Not for a young man, let alone a man twice my age. Not that age mattered. Or did it? Now that I’d thought about it I didn’t think it would. But… there had to be a but somewhere, right? I frowned a little trying to think. I shook my head, dislodging the thought. There was no need to stress. I probably wouldn’t even get offered the job. There were loads of applicants and I was sure at least one of them was more versed in Norse mythology than me. I supposed there always would be in a small town. I found myself looking up to the stars and wishing like a child. Could this job, this little chance, be mine?

That night when I got in, I put the kettle on and queued the toaster. Pulling a pack of noodles from the cupboard, I thought about how they were my go-to meal since uni. Of course, it was because I was always busy, they were cheap, and to top it off my ex hated it when I put on even the slightest bit of weight. My stomach churned at the thought of him. It was chillier than I expected, so I turned up the heating and put on my hoodie. I made a scalding hot cup of coffee, soaked my noodles and buttered my toast, looking around at my aunt’s apartment. It wasn’t much, but for me? It was a chance at a new beginning and a life free from dictation. That was enough for me. I smiled to myself as I sipped my coffee. I grabbed the hot bowl, blowing gently at the steam that bellowed from their carbalishiousness as I twisted my fork into their depths.

Just as I was about to chow down in front of an old rerun of the Bold and the Beautiful, the mellow voice of Micheal Buble rang out. I picked up my phone, answering.

“Mum?”

“Hello, darling.How are you? It has been too long.” Came her soft yet dominant voice down the phone.

“Mother, I saw you at Christmas,” I moaned, remembering the headache that was.

“Exactly. That was ages ago.” I could hear the snark of frustration in her voice as she spoke to me.

“Mom, really? It was like five minutes ago.” I groaned, feeling the always present anaconda squeeze the freedom out of my life.

“Still too long. Your father’s wondering when you are coming back.”

Sure , I thought to myself. More like she was. “I have just returned from an interview mum,” I groan, exhaustion lacing each word.

“An interior design job? Oh, how wonderful, darling. Congratulations. Assuming you got it. You did get it, didn’t you? If not, I or Daddy can always have a word. I am sure knowing who you are will be of benefit,” she chirped happily.

“Mum please, I don’t want that. I told you. I want to do this on my own.” The anaconda squeezing the life from me just tightened its grip at the mention of the ‘family name’.

“Yes, yes, of course, darling. I’m aware. I respect that decision. I really do. But when the time arrives that you do need our help. You will call, won’t you?” She gave me her ‘no nonsense or I will hound you every day with phone calls’ voice.

I sigh. “Yes, mother.” I had found that it was often beneficial to just agree with her. “Mom, I have to go and eat my noodles. I mean dinner. It is getting cold.” I looked down into my bowl, my stomach grumbling as if on cue.

“Noodles again. I do worry about your health, darling. You eat so many of those stupid things. Don’t you realise their carbs?” she snipped, her all controlling tendencies apparent through the phone line.

“Yes, mother. Now I really have to go. I will talk to you soon.” I rolled my eyes, happy to get a reprieve from the nagging she had been giving me everyday since I left the family business and went to university.

“Okay, darling, if you insist. I love you. Bye.”

She hung up before I could say goodbye. As usual. I put the phone down, grabbed my fork, and dug into my noodles.

My evening wasn’t that eventful After that, I fell asleep on the sofa and woke only to my alarm. I turned over and slapped it off. I had no need of it really. I had no job. Though I really should get up. Maybe I had an email or a voice message from the museum. If I did, all my prayers would be fulfilled. If I didn’t, my problems were only just beginning.