Chapter 27
Freya and Nicholas finally got up just after eight-thirty. Unable to wait any longer for breakfast, Willis had leapt up on the bed and paraded up and down the duvet until they had no choice but to give in.
While Nicholas made breakfast, Freya called Emma.
‘Hello,’ Emma answered.
‘I’m ten weeks pregnant.’
‘Oh my God! Freya! Ten weeks! Oh congratulations!’
‘She’s pleased,’ Freya conveyed to Nicholas as Emma let out another shriek of excitement.
‘What happened? Did you have the scan? What does Nick say?’
‘Yes, I had the scan. I wasn’t given any choice in the matter really. Dick Van Dyke was going on at me and then I kind of lost it in the car park about Jonny. Then I told Nick the doctor’s suspicions and he took it all out of my hands. I think it was probably what I needed.’
‘Whoa! Slow down, Freya. Jonny? Losing it in the car park? What’s happened overnight?’
‘More than you really want to know, believe me. It was definitely more than I wanted to know. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Just tell me,’ Emma begged.
‘Are you sitting down?’
She wasn’t sure how she managed to get the words out. She’d rattled the news out as fast as she could to try and lessen the shock for her best friend. By the time Freya had stopped for breath, both she and Emma were crying. Nicholas took the phone from her.
‘Hi, Em,’ he greeted, putting an arm around Freya and drawing her close.
‘After what Freya’s just told me, I feel like I need to come over and see her.’
‘There won’t be any need for that. We’re planning on coming to Corfu straight after Freya’s photography exhibition.’
‘For a wedding?’
‘We hope so.’
‘Let me have her back,’ Freya asked, reaching for the phone. Nicholas passed it to her.
‘Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately.’ She wiped at her eyes.
‘I can tell you exactly what’s the matter with you, Freya. You have too much on your mind and you need a break. I don’t know what to say about Jonny. I really don’t, I mean…’
‘I can’t talk about him. Not yet, maybe not ever. It’s too creepy and it turns my stomach and…’ She felt nauseous again.
The buzz of the intercom interrupted their conversation. Freya paused to hear Nicholas answer and establish who it was.
‘Hello,’ Nicholas greeted.
‘Nick? This is Harry, from The Hollywood Chronicle,’ the voice replied.
‘Harry, neither Freya nor I have any comment to make on anything right now. I thought we had an arrangement with you. I thought that was one of the trade offs of Freya bringing you cups of tea in the morning for the last six months.’
‘Oh, I know. I don’t want any comment on anything. I’ve just arrived here and someone’s tied something to your gate. I just wanted to make you aware of it.’
‘Emma, I’m going to have to call you back,’ Freya said, ending the call.
‘What is it, Harry?’
‘Well, it’s a wreath. And it’s got Freya’s name on it.’
‘I’m coming down to the gate. Wait there and don’t touch it.’ He ended the conversation.
‘A wreath with my name on. Well, fancy that.’ She laughed but it came out weak.
‘I’m going to call the police first and then I’m going to call Roger and we are getting CCTV out there today.’ He pulled on a pair of sneakers.
‘Wait, don’t go yet. I want to see this for myself.’ She picked up her jacket from the back of the chair and followed Nicholas down the hall.
The wreath was in the shape of a cross and it was made up of white carnations. Across it was a black ribbon with Freya’s name printed on it and R.I.P written underneath.
‘You haven’t touched this have you, Harry?’ Nicholas asked as he looked at the tribute.
‘No. I called you as soon as I saw what it was.’
‘And where are the others today? Has anyone been here before you? Has anyone photographed this?’ Nicholas continued to question.
‘I don’t know. I think everyone’s over at George Clooney’s today. There were rumours he was making a big announcement this morning.’
Freya stared at the wreath. She read her name, looked at the perfectly white flowers and the contrast between the pretty blooms and the black ribbon.
‘Just cut it down and put it in the bin,’ she stated.
‘I think we ought to let the police see it. They can check for fingerprints,’ Nicholas told her.
‘There won’t be fingerprints. There were no fingerprints on the smashed windows, the crows or the “bitch” letter. This person’s too clever to go handling things now.’
‘You’ve been having people smash your windows?! I mean, I saw the police coming and going but…’ Harry began.
‘That’s confidential, Harry. If it gets out, I’ll know who made the information public property. You get me?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Sure thing,’ Harry replied.
Freya started to untie the wreath.
‘Come on, let’s go back inside.’ He took the wreath from her and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘Perhaps I should change the name and have it sent to Jonny,’ she suggested as they walked.
‘I think we should start thinking of anyone who might have a grudge against you besides your father.’
‘Look, I know I can be a little abrasive, but making someone dislike me enough to do this sort of stuff? I can’t think of anyone. Unless…’
‘What? You’ve thought of someone?’
‘Martha?’
‘Martha?’ Nicholas remarked.
‘Yes, you can’t have forgotten your old PA already! Stern suits, even sterner demeanour. The one you fired for being a complete bitch to me. She must despise me. I lost her her job.’
‘I don’t think this is Martha’s thing. Anyway, she’s working for Terry Quinlan now. I’ve heard she’s having a ball bossing him around.’
‘Well, you asked me to think of someone and that’s the only person I can come up with. How about you? Can you think of anyone I’ve pissed off recently?’
‘Not off the top of my head.’
‘Then we’re at a loss, aren’t we? We’ll just have to play a waiting game and hope we won’t need to use this wreath for real.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Oh my God,’ Freya stated, clamping her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening.
‘What?’ Nicholas exclaimed as he pushed open the front door.
‘Well, what event in my life did all this coincide with?’
‘I don’t know. You’re going to have to elaborate.’
‘It’s Jonny. This all started after I met up with Jonny. That’s who’s behind it all. Not my father, but my father’s clone.’