Chapter 24
JAKE
I don’t one hundred per cent know whether I want to be here.
When Freya texted me yesterday, I reflex-action-replied yes to her would you like to meet? question.
Then she ignored me all day while I pathetically checked my phone obsessively. And then we had an excruciatingly polite text conversation to arrange this meeting.
I nearly pulled out of it today and then decided to message Max for some brotherly input; it genuinely did help talking to him last week, and I totally get his point about wanting to help me given the way our relationship has been since his accident.
He persuaded me that I had nothing to lose by coming.
So here I am, standing outside the pub we’ve agreed to meet at. It’s three minutes after our agreed meeting time but I don’t think Freya’s going to stand me up; I think she’s just slightly late. She probably got engrossed in whatever creative thing she was last doing.
And, yes, here she is, speed-walking up the road. She’s wearing wide beigy linen trousers and a short, pinky-orange jumper, and has her hair loose, and she looks gorgeous. As she always does. She also, I note, has bluey-green splodges of something on her hands.
‘Been painting?’ I ask, after she’s come to a halt a good metre away from me and we’ve said hello. (Apparently there will be no physical contact in our greeting.)
‘Yep. Downstairs loo. Just needed to finish the second coat. I’m really sorry I’m late.’
I smile, despite the general awkwardness of the situation. I love the fact that she’s always doing something creative and that it so often makes her a little late for things and that when it does she’s always very apologetic.
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Shall we go and find a table? What would you like to drink?’
I don’t really know how to broach anything I’d like to talk about (i.e. us), so when we’re sitting down I say, ‘So how have you been?’
‘Great, thank you. You?’
‘Yep, good, thanks.’ I’m really regretting this now.
It’s like being in a look-but-don’t-touch museum.
I’m physically in the same space as Freya, and seeing her is reminding me of how much I like her, thought I was falling in love with her; but we aren’t really communicating.
Although… she must have a reason for asking me to meet.
A stupid part of me is hoping. The rest of me – the sane part – expects it to be something to do with Sonja and the production company.
Or some terrible newspaper article that I haven’t seen.
‘Soooo,’ Freya begins, before stopping and chewing her lip.
I wait.
Eventually, she continues, ‘When we… after the TV show… I didn’t give you a chance to finish explaining.’
I nod, a little warily if I’m honest, because I’m still not sure where we’re going with this conversation.
‘So… I wondered if you… would like to explain. Obviously you might not want to. In which case forget I mentioned it.’
I’m beginning to feel as though I have some kind of chance of resurrecting my relationship with her. If I want to.
‘I think I already explained it,’ I say.
‘Sorry. That sounded kind of rude. But, yep, I think I’ve already said it.
I’m truly sorry for the way I reacted when I met you; I was being ridiculous.
I did the newspaper interview in the heat of the moment.
The bet was made later, but it wasn’t a real bet and it was also made before I got to know you properly that weekend.
And I didn’t want to take the money, but Pete insisted, so I said fine, I’ll make a charity donation. And there you go.’
As I conclude, I feel that I might have sounded a little terse, and looking at the closed-off expression on Freya’s face, I know I have.
‘I’m sorry,’ I offer. ‘I’m sorry you got upset about the interview and the bet and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it. And I’m sorry that I was so unreasonable about romantic fiction when we first met.’
‘Although, as you said at some point, if you hadn’t been, the challenge would never have happened, and we’d never have got to know each other any better.’ Freya’s smile is twisted.
I nod.
And then Freya nods.
And then we both take long sips of our drinks.
And then we look at each other.
And say absolutely nothing.
And there we have it.
I’ve told Freya I love her. I’ve explained everything. I think she gets it all. I don’t think it’s even that huge. I think it’s just that when it comes down to it, Freya doesn’t do love and at the smallest hint of an excuse she was always going to be off.
‘I lost,’ I say.
Freya raises both eyebrows in enquiring fashion.
‘The challenge. I found out that true love is not for me. I thought I definitely had a happily-ever-after waiting out there for me, but not at the moment. Too busy with lots of other things. And maybe not ready after my divorce. And then I met you and fell in love. And then I discovered that you can’t love me back.
And I don’t think I’m ever going to meet anyone else like you.
So, yep, you won. I agree. There is no happily-ever-after for me. ’
Freya’s been sitting with her hands clasped together on the table in front of her.
She shifts so that her elbows are on the table and brings her hands up so they’re kind of resting on her mouth.
Then she separates her hands and slides them round so she’s propping her face up with them.
She leans her head forward so she’s looking down at the table.
Suddenly, she lifts her head and says, ‘I’m sorry.’
That’s it? After all that thinking time. She’s sorry?
‘For what?’ I ask, for the sake of it, really. I’d feel too rude walking out before I’ve finished my drink and I don’t want to down it all in one so we kind of have to make conversation until we’re done.
I take a long draught of it to speed the process up while Freya starts the whole ‘thinking-woman’ routine again.
I have my mouth full of beer when she says, ‘For not listening sooner,’ and I nearly splutter liquid everywhere in surprise. And slight hope.
‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘I think maybe I was looking for something to go wrong, and I seized on that and didn’t think about the realities of it.’
‘Oh?’ I ask cautiously, not wanting to hope too much, but also, suddenly, really hoping.
‘Yes,’ she replies, very unsatisfyingly. And then she just sits there and sips her wine.
I look at her gorgeous heart-shaped face, her thick hair piled on her head, her delicate frame which belies huge strength of character.
And suddenly I just have to go for it one more time. Max was right. I should fight for her.
‘I love you,’ I say, very loudly. I sense people on the nearest tables turning to see what’s happening but I ignore them. I’m focused only on the amazing woman in front of me and whether I can salvage a relationship between us.
Freya swallows.
She looks at me, and I swear I see moisture in her eyes.
But she says nothing.
I’ve come this far. I need to say more, say as much as I can.
So I plunge in.
‘I understand from what you said before that you at some point began to believe that you’re unlovable and unloving,’ I begin. ‘But… at the risk of sounding know-it-all or patronising, I think you might be wrong.’
Freya is just staring at me, her eyes now looking even damper.
‘Lizzie,’ I say. ‘You can’t say you don’t love her or she doesn’t love you.
Charlotte. Sarra.’ I start reeling off names of friends she’s mentioned.
‘To name a few. Maud. You’re a very loving person.
And you’re a very lovable person. You are not like your father or mother and there are plenty of people out there who are not like them either. ’
A tear rolls down Freya’s cheek. I want so much to wipe it away, but obviously I can’t.
‘I’m sorry.’ I indicate her tears. More are now falling. ‘For making you cry.’
She sniffs, very cutely, and wipes under her eyes with a napkin from the cutlery pot at her elbow.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
I wait. I’m not sure what she’s thanking me for and I want to marshal my thoughts to see if there are any other good arguments I could make. I mean, I’m a lawyer for fuck’s sake. Surely I can do better than this. Arguing and winning is my job.
‘Thank you,’ she repeats.
‘For…?’ I dare to ask.
‘For saying nice things.’
‘They aren’t nice things so much as truths,’ I point out. ‘Have I mentioned that I love you?’
She nods. I really wish she’d tell me she loves me too but maybe she just… doesn’t.
I’m going to give it one last big go.
‘I love you and I would very much like to date you – officially – and work at things, like you do in any good relationship… like if we have an argument, not use it as an excuse to leave but assume that we want to work through it. That is what I would like. In an ideal world. Because I love you.’
Freya is really crying now. Fuck.
She mumbles something. I really can’t work out what she’s saying due to the tears.
‘I didn’t catch that,’ I say.
‘I said I love you,’ she says.
‘Oh!’ I look at her hands and wonder if it would be acceptable for me to reach across the table and take them in mine. ‘I love you too.’
‘You actually talk a lot of sense,’ she tells me.
‘I do?’
‘Yep. I think…’ She sniffs again and I just want to wrap my arms round her and make sure she never has anything to cry sad tears about ever again.
‘I think it’s like I always wanted to make my dad love me so I’ve always sought out men like him, but he was inherently an arse, and so were they, and then they showed their arsey true selves and I walked away, and I’ve construed that as me being unlovable and unloving but I don’t think I fully am unloving because I really, really love you, and you’re right: I really love my friends. ’
I do take her hands in mine, and squeeze them, hard.
She squeezes mine back.
‘Would you… Could we… Shall we date?’ I’m so conscious of how extremely important a moment this is in my life (and I hope Freya’s too) that I’ve become remarkably inarticulate.
‘Yes, please.’ She’s smiling through her tears and I feel my heart swell.
‘I love you,’ I tell her again.
‘I love you too.’
And then I lean across the table and kiss her on the lips, and it’s perfect.