Chapter 2 Freya #2
Gritting my teeth, I make my way up after her, my heels leaving divots in the deep-pile carpet.
I should have perhaps taken my shoes off, but I’m too incensed to care.
Coco will no doubt notice the marks quicker than she would her daughter’s unhappiness, but I’d imagine she’ll have someone to call on to take care of any lasting damage.
Much like she would for her little girl, no doubt.
Locking the door of the gold-leafed bathroom, with its basin spout modeled into a swan’s neck, I consider my reflection in the mirror, asking myself what the problem is. Why aren’t I ecstatically happy for Charlie? He’s realizing his long-held dream, and I’m living it with him, albeit vicariously.
This opportunity would mean greater financial reward and higher acclaims, sealing his spot as the culinary world’s one to watch. It is everything he’s ever worked for, and nothing less than he deserves.
So why, when I know all that, is there a flicker of panic from somewhere deep within my chest? Is it envy? Apprehension? I know better than to kid myself. I’ve been here before, and as much as I don’t want to acknowledge the feeling, I’m able to recognize it for what it is.
It’s the age-old crush of insecurity. The fear that paralyzes me in the middle of the night as I dare to believe that I’m good enough—that I’m worthy of good things happening to me—only for someone to tell me that I’m not.
From my mother to my piano teacher, and from my father to my best friend at school, time after time, I’ve given my all, only to be made to feel that it would never be enough.
And it seems that even as a happily married thirty-two-year-old, I’m still not free of that shackle of self-doubt that tethers me to my childhood. The chain is tugging, putting the fear of God into me as I realize that the faster Charlie’s star ascends, the further I’ll be left behind.
He talked about imposter syndrome all the time, that one day he would wake up and everyone would have discovered that he was a fraud.
But he had no idea what it felt like to be constantly waiting for him to realize that I wasn’t the best he could get.
And now, far better would be throwing themselves at his feet, happy to show him what he was missing out on.
There’s a soft knock on the door and I hold my breath, not wanting to get Luciana into any more trouble.
“Hey,” comes Charlie’s voice. “You okay?”
I close my eyes, wishing my insecurities hadn’t made themselves quite so obvious. “I’m good,” I say, opening the door and forcing a smile.
“What’s up?” He comes in and takes me in his arms, making me feel equal parts guilty and stupid for my pitiful thoughts. “What’s going on?”
I could tell him exactly what’s going through my head, knowing that he would do all that he could to reassure me.
But that would elicit a conversation that would demand answers that I’m not ready to give.
So instead, I turn it on him, preferring to make him the bad guy rather than risk sharing my fears.
“Do you not think we should have discussed Frank’s offer?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He holds me away from him with a look of surprise playing on his lips. “What’s to discuss?”
It’s out before he has a chance to think about it, and it makes me feel oddly satiated. He’s not looking to absolve his snap decision by telling me he’s sorry. He’s quite happy to be the villain, which so happens to be just what I want him to be right now.
“My mistake,” I snap. “I just would have thought that you’d want to talk it through—as a couple.”
That look of bemusement is still threatening to turn the corners of his mouth up. “But we knew this might be coming. You said as much the other night.…”
“We thought Frank might be stepping aside,” I say. “That he’d be handing the head chef’s hat over to you. We didn’t allow for him to offer you a slice of the business. That’s different. It ties you to him and Indigo forever.…”
His brow furrows. “But that’s a good thing, no?”
“Not when we have so many other plans,” I hiss, my bravery boosted by the alcohol that’s coating my senses with a not-unpleasant numbness. “We wanted to travel. We saw ourselves moving out of London eventually.…”
“Eventually, yeah, but I need to make my mark first.”
“And what about me?” I shrill, hating myself for sounding so pathetic, so needy.
He takes hold of my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes, and for a moment it feels as if we’re back home, re-creating the first dance at our wedding. He’d spin me around as he sings Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” And then stop and hold me close as we moved in time to the chorus.
“You’re already setting the world alight,” he says, attempting to claw his way back.
“Look what you’re achieving at the charity.
You’ve trebled their fundraising in the last four years.
You’ve got Lord Hemsley on board as a backer.
You did that.” He pulls me into him and breathes in my hair.
“You’re capable of great things,” he whispers. “Don’t put yourself down.”
He detracted from his misdemeanor by attracting me to my strengths. Clever.
“We’re just getting started,” he goes on, “and we’re in it together, every step of the way.”
That’s what I needed to hear. That no matter where his life might take him, and no matter what temptations would be put in his path, it would be me and him against the rest of the world.
“Promise?” I ask, looking up at him.
He tilts my chin up to kiss me, the hairs of his beard tickling my lips. “I promise.”
I smile as my pathetic insecurities are immediately reset, lifting the dark cloud that had momentarily hovered above me.
His eyes search mine, as if begging to be let into my inner psyche, but I’m still not quite ready.
There’s so much more that I need to tell him, that he deserves to know, yet every time I think I might be brave enough, doubt creeps in.
What if knowing who I really am has him running for the hills?
What if my troubled past ends up revealing my barely disguised vulnerabilities?
What if my obsessive need to control the narrative threatens to show itself?
Would he be able to see his way past that person, look deep into my heart, to see the love that sometimes feels as if it might suffocate me?
Maybe my mother was right. Maybe we didn’t know each other well enough to be sure we’d be together for the rest of our lives. Or maybe, no matter how long you’ve known each other, there will always be things that are best kept well hidden.
Charlie leans in as if he can hear the workings of my tumultuous thoughts, needing to get closer to separate the calm from the storm.
He kisses me again, his eyes never leaving mine as his tongue pushes its way past my lips. I let him in, unable to imagine a time when I wouldn’t. I only need to feel his skin brush mine for the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. And when he kisses me, my knees could easily buckle.
“Here?” I exclaim, feeling a pull in my groin at the thought. All the while knowing, as well as he does, that it won’t wait until we get home. It rarely can, especially when he’s had a drink, as it invariably puts him in the mood even more than normal.
I can feel his urgency as I unbutton his trousers and release him from the confines of his zip. He groans with relief as I take him in hand.
“Shh,” I urge, not knowing if I want us to be heard or not.
But isn’t that the whole point? The thrill of being found out, of others knowing what’s going on—and maybe even getting turned on by it?
I imagine Coco outside the door, listening to every sigh and pant, wishing that she was with someone who propositioned her in someone else’s bathroom, unable to get through the evening without feeling himself inside of her.
I cling onto the sides of the basin as the euphoric wave washes over me, biting down on my lip to stop myself from calling out. Charlie holds onto me from behind, his breathing hard and fast.
We stay like that, not wanting to disconnect and return to real life. But when I hear Frank’s booming voice from downstairs, I pull away and turn to face Charlie.
“You should get back,” I say, smiling.
His lips plant soft, feathery kisses on mine, as if he’s getting ready to go again. “But I want to stay here, with you.”
“You get to spend the rest of your life with me,” I laugh. “Now go!”
I push him out of the door, tuck my blouse into my trousers, and check my makeup in the mirror. There’s nothing other than a telltale rouge to my cheeks to suggest what we’ve been up to.