Killing Me Softly

Chapter 1 Freya

SIX MONTHS AGO

LONDON

FREYA

There was no part of me that could possibly have imagined that a run-of-the-mill Saturday night was about to dictate the rest of my life.

But I don’t suppose any of us get a warning of what’s about to shatter our seemingly perfect existence—if we did, we’d all be living in a catatonic state, terrified of putting one foot in front of the other for fear that we’d set about a chain of events that would be our undoing.

The heat of that late-summer’s day lay like a blanket above London, trapping the city’s pollution in its fibers, yet the air still held that optimistic sense of anticipation that those in the capital were accustomed to whenever the sun’s rays made themselves felt.

It lifted everyone’s spirits, the shot of vitamin D instantly putting us in a good mood, and as Charlie and I drove from Peckham to Regent’s Park, I couldn’t remember ever feeling happier.

Life had finally delivered. After more false starts than I cared to count, I was where I was meant to be.

“I think this is it,” says Charlie, peering out through the windscreen at a perfectly formed semicircle of Roman-inspired stucco terraced houses.

“Are you serious?” I ask, open-mouthed in awe as we follow the curvature of the enclosed gardens around the crescent.

“If I’d known they lived somewhere like this, I would have dressed more appropriately for the occasion.

” I look dejectedly at the wrinkled creases in my satin trousers, instantly forgetting how good I’d felt as I left our place just half an hour ago.

Geographically, the distance between SE15 and NW1 may well only be six miles, but in terms of class, there’s a million between them.

I can’t help but imagine the halcyon days of a bygone era, when uniformed nannies would wheel Victorian bassinets up and down this grand promenade in an effort to get their charges to sleep.

“You look great,” says Charlie, able to sense that I already feel out of my depth.

“I just wish you’d told me how posh it was going to be,” I say, noting a huge crystal chandelier through a passing arched window.

“I didn’t know myself,” he says, pulling up outside a pillared front door and putting the handbrake on.

“So how do you know this is the right house?” I ask, looking for any sign of a number.

“Because it’s been going up in evens, so I’m guessing thirty-two is going to be somewhere around here?” His tone is questioning, as if he’s never been here before. Had I known he had, perhaps I would have been the one with the questions.

“Charlie!” enthuses Coco, throwing her arms up as she opens the front door to us. “So good to see you.”

The woman with platinum blond hair pulls him into a hug, nuzzling his neck, while I stand on the doorstep feeling like a spare part, and wondering, not for the first time, who in the world would call themself Coco.

“You remember Freya…,” prompts Charlie, as he extricates himself from the confines of her fake breasts, which miraculously stand to attention all by themselves in a low-cut leopard-print camisole.

“Of course,” she says, though I’d hazard a guess she’s lying, having only met me once, at the opening of Frank’s new restaurant in Kensington, eight months ago.

And even then, she’d called me by a different name, ten seconds after we were introduced.

I didn’t hold it against her, though. It was a big night for her and Frank, and there was a lot going on, so I stood in the background while the food critics blew smoke up his arse, which, to his credit, he graciously shared with Charlie.

“This guy, right here, is the one to watch,” Frank had told the journalists as he heartily slapped Charlie on the back. “He’ll be running this place in a year’s time.”

And as much as Charlie hadn’t said—he wouldn’t be that presumptuous—I’d put money on that being what tonight’s dinner party invitation is all about.

He’s worked so hard to get to where he is—right by Frank’s side, as he rides the wave of being London’s most-celebrated chef.

The blood, sweat, and tears that go into running a kitchen, under such constant scrutiny and pressure, is harder than getting a restaurant noticed in the first place.

And Charlie had put himself in the firing line more than he cared to remember.

All too aware that he couldn’t enjoy the prestige of being at the top of his game without also accepting responsibility for when he wasn’t.

But that is what being a good chef is all about, and he is more than ready to take on the mantle of running Indigo himself, if Frank was to offer the opportunity.

“Oh, don’t you look lovely,” says Coco, physically holding me away from her and looking me up and down. “I heard that these wide-leg trousers were coming back into fashion. They’re so flattering for the shorter leg, you’re lucky to be able to pull them off.”

I haven’t even crossed the threshold and I need a drink.

I promised Charlie I would drive home—this is a rare Saturday night away from the restaurant for him, so he deserves to let his hair down—but I already know I’m going to struggle to get through it without a little something to numb the nerve endings.

“Come in, come in,” ushers Coco, her overinflated lips doing well not to touch me as she makes a show of air-kissing both my cheeks.

“Thanks so much for having us over,” I say, following her down the marble-floored hall as her intoxicating perfume billows behind her.

I sneak a look into the room on the left, with its gaudy gold ceiling and flock velvet wallpaper, clashing with the simplicity of the Banksy hanging over the Louis XV fireplace.

I do well not to ask if either are fake.

But God, I want to—just to see the look on her face.

“Your home is incredible,” I say instead, preferring to kill my prey with compliments.

“This is Calacatta Gold from Italy,” she says, looking down to the tiles her heels are click-clacking along. “I personally selected the slab they were cut from.”

Charlie and I smile at each other through closed lips, both of us knowing that we’ll be reenacting this scene once we’re back home.

Except it’ll be the threadbare seagrass matting in our hallway that I’ll be sending up.

“And it comes with the added bonus of a unique year-round fragrance,” I imagine myself saying.

“The sweet scent of a wet dog, having just swum in a stagnant pond…”

The pair of us will laugh and marvel at how far removed from reality some people are, seemingly going through life believing that their shit doesn’t stink.

“And that’s a Hockney.” Coco offers a wafting hand in the direction of a simplistic painting of a swimming pool and diving board. I murmur my appreciation, but it means little to me.

“Are you an art lover?” she asks, stopping in front of a huge white canvas with nothing but yellow polka dots on it. I turn to Charlie, assuming—hoping—she’s addressing him, but he’s wisely put a few steps between us, heading in the direction of Frank’s booming voice down the hall.

“I like what I like,” I say, not feeling qualified to get into a deep and meaningful conversation about something so subjective.

“So what is it you like?” She turns to look at me with a smirk, as if hoping to catch me on the back foot.

I offer a tight smile. “I don’t know until I see it.”

“Charlie loves this piece just as much as I do,” she says. “It’s by a Japanese artist called Yayoi Kusama who expresses her mental-health problems through art—in particular, polka dots. Most people come in here and say, ‘How’s that worth so much when it’s just spots?’”

She took the words right out of my mouth.

“But Charlie gets it,” she goes on. “We have a real connection through our love of art.”

I nod and smile, laughing to myself at how I’ll also be re-creating this scenario when we get home.

“Ciao bella!” exclaims Frank, his Italian accent exaggerated, even though it was recently discovered that he’d been born in Basingstoke.

Not knowing what I’m walking into, my sensory perception is on high alert and immediately assaulted by colors, voices, and bodies.

The scarlet ceiling bears down on me as I realize that we aren’t Frank and Coco’s only guests.

“How are you, my darling?” he coos, coming at me in an all-white suit.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was gay, but Charlie laughed it off.

“He’s been happily married for ten years!” he’d said when I dared to suggest a few months ago that his boss’s infatuation with him might transcend the walls of the kitchen.

“To someone who’s in danger of becoming a caricature of herself.”

“Coco’s got a good heart,” he said. “You should never judge a book by its cover.”

“I’m only saying what everybody else is,” I said, scrolling through my phone to the Daily Mail article where a “reputable” cosmetic surgeon had given his opinion on what work Coco De Luca had had done, using her Instagram posts as befores and afters.

“That’s just mean,” said Charlie, shaking his head as he read the damning verdict that she must have had at least seven procedures. “Two of which I would have refused to do,” said the supposed renowned authority on the subject, revealing a rare glint of morality.

“I think you’ve got a soft spot for her,” I teased, leaning into him on the sofa. “She’s certainly got a flame burning for you.”

“She has not,” he said. “She’s my boss’s wife.”

“Who couldn’t keep her eyes off you at the launch.…”

“You think everyone’s looking at me!” He sighed, his eyes creasing. “Though with my debonair good looks and come-to-bed eyes, I can see your point.…”

I laughed, because it was true. He was undeniably blessed with both, but it was his easy charm that seemed to blindside the women in his company—and, more often than not, leave the men wondering how it was fair that he held such a generous deck of cards.