Chapter 4 Freya
FREYA
I back away from the door, winded by the discovery that the man I’d allowed to sweep me off my feet, blinded by the belief that this time would be different, has once again deceived me.
My mother was right. How could I have been so stupid to believe this was going to work?
That I would ever be enough for a man like Charlie?
I’d tried to give him everything he could possibly want.
Seeing it as my job, as his wife, to make him as happy as I could.
Sure, our relationship could be volatile, but we seemed to thrive off that intensity, arguing as passionately as we made love.
But maybe I’d got it wrong. Maybe he’d only ever wanted a loyal wife by his side to ensure that his reputation remained as good and wholesome as his cooking.
But all the while, his instincts were calling on him to do what he felt he naturally must do.
Though I can’t even begin to understand why, when the world is his oyster, he chooses to do it with Coco.
Not least because she is fake, shallow, and conceited—everything he claims he is not. But because she’s his boss’s wife.
Is he really that unscrupulous that he would happily exchange his morals to get a foot up onto the proverbial ladder?
It seems so.
My legs don’t feel like my own as I stagger down the stairs, holding on to the banisters for fear that they might collapse beneath me.
A drop of red wine spills from the glass that I’m precariously holding, and I watch, as if in slow motion, as the liquid falls to the ground, landing on the perfect cream carpet with the precision of a diver jumping headfirst from a diving board.
I can’t help but smile as I imagine the horror on Coco’s face when she sees the bloodlike stain ingrained into its silk fibers. Its dirty imprint spoiling an otherwise picture-perfect canvas—much like her blot on my marriage.
But then I pull myself up. They’re going to know I was here—and I instinctively swipe it with the sole of my shoe in a careless attempt to magic it away.
If I’d been sober, I would have known it was the worst thing I could do.
If I’d been sober, the once-sedate dinner party wouldn’t have ended in such carnage.
I’ve drained my glass before I walk back into the dining room, na?vely believing that I need it to dampen my nerve endings to the deceit that is playing out right under my nose.
I look to Frank, who I suddenly feel an unforeseen affinity with, wondering if he knows that his wife is sleeping with his protégé, the man he’d so nobly mentored, treating him like one of his own.
What would he do if he finds out, I wonder?
Like many Italian men, his sense of pride runs deep, but the passion for his family runs even deeper.
I see that in the way he looks at Coco, never believing for a second that her head is for turning.
She’s everything to him—at least that’s what he claimed, crediting her in almost every interview he’d given for being the lynchpin that holds it all together while he loses his head.
Which, when he does, is like a bomb going off.
The emotional intensity that makes him so good at what he does is also the reason the ground shakes when he’s upset. And there’s no bigger upset than this.
If he notices my hand trembling as he refills my glass, he doesn’t mention it.
“I was just telling Richard about your charity work,” he says. “And how much good you’re doing.”
“Well, I’m not exactly fighting the humanitarian efforts on the front line,” I say.
“Maybe we can convince him to give your organization a little helping hand,” Frank goes on.
“I’d be very happy to talk more,” I say, through a forced smile, able to imagine all too easily how someone like Richard might interpret such an offer. Because when you have his kind of money, I don’t doubt people will do more than talk to secure funding.
Is that what Charlie’s doing upstairs right now? Is he selling his soul in exchange for a piece of the action? Had Coco cajoled Frank into offering him a stake in the business and Charlie was paying her in kind? Did it make it any more forgivable if he was?
“It’s getting late,” says Richard, pushing his chair back, too impatient to wait for Charlie and Coco to finish whatever it is they’re doing.
He’s done well to get this far, having ignored Isabella’s silent pleas for the best part of an hour.
I never wanted to be the kind of bored wife who would catch her husband’s eye at an event and indiscreetly tilt her head toward the door.
I also never wanted to be the kind of wife who was able to converse at said event while knowing that her husband was screwing someone else upstairs.
“Come on,” says Coco, bustling back into the room, and for a moment I assume she’s talking to Charlie.
But he’s nowhere to be seen—probably because they thought it would look less suspicious if they came back separately—and instead, it’s little Luciana who is being hustled in, clearly against her will.
“But Mama…,” she pleads in a tiny voice.
“No buts,” says Coco authoritatively, forcibly pushing the little girl toward the grand piano in the adjoining drawing room. “I let you stay up late for this.”
“But I’m tired,” says Luciana, her lip wobbling.
“You will play ‘Clair de Lune’ and then you can go to bed.”
Charlie sidles in, his eyes shifting from side to side as he assimilates the scene—staking out the lay of the land—though whether that’s with me, Frank, or us both, I can’t work out. All I know is that he looks as guilty as hell.
I furl and unfurl my fists under the table, simultaneously wanting to rip the flesh from his bones while clinging on to him for dear life, begging him not to do this to me.
To us. We had the best life. We had so much to look forward to.
How could he throw it all away? Was his career that important to him?
It had to be the only reason he’d risk what we have because the alternative is not something I can even consider right now.
“But I don’t want to…,” cries Luciana, with tears springing to her eyes.
“We all want to hear you,” says Coco, looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy as she spits out the words through a fixed grin.
“Actually, I don’t,” I say, matter-of-factly.
The whole table turns to look at me, as if nobody can quite believe that I’m brave enough to say what surely everyone else is thinking.
“Ex-cuse me?” questions Coco.
I wish she hadn’t.
I fix her with an immovable glare. “I have no desire to sit here and watch your daughter be forced to do something she clearly doesn’t want to do.”
“Freya,” warns Charlie, looking at me wide-eyed.
“What?” I slur, my voice rising. “You only need to look at the poor girl to see how unhappy she is.…”
“Freya, that’s enough,” barks Charlie.
“Enough?” I laugh acerbically. “Enough of what exactly, Charlie? Enough of the playacting? Of pretending that we’re all just good friends, and that you’ve been offered a partnership on merit alone.…”
It’s a low blow, but one I can’t hold back, probably because there’s nothing I could say that would hurt him more. And I want to hurt him right now. I want him to hurt as much as I am.
He glares at me, his eyes a burning mire of fury—as if he’s the wounded party, as if he’s the one who has just found out that the person he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with was being unfaithful.
His audacity knows no bounds, and it only stokes the fire that’s already set alight in my soul.
Frank looks between me and Charlie with bewilderment, no doubt wondering how our honeymoon has come to such an abrupt end.
He should ask his wife, who’s sitting at the end of the table making a show of comforting her distressed daughter.
It’s as if she knows what’s coming—if only I were brave enough—and is using Luciana to divert attention.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” says Charlie, going to stand up.
“But I think it’s time we leave.…” He must know what’s on the tip of my tongue as well, as the color has drained from his face.
He takes hold of my upper arm and attempts to lift me up from my chair in an effort to stop me saying something we’ll all regret.
“That would make it a lot easier, wouldn’t it?” I snap, pulling away from him. “If I just skulked off into the night.”
He looks at me as though I’m nothing more than a stranger. The cold detachment in his eyes is something I’ve never seen before, and it scares me. It’s as if he’s silently warning me that whatever I’m about to do, I should think very, very carefully about it.
It’s what my mother has always said—that if it seems too good to be true, then it probably is. But as much as I try to ignore her rancid bitterness, I hate to admit that she might actually be right this time. Because it seems that the great love affair is well and truly over.
“But if you think I’m just going to go quietly,” I go on, “and let you get away with it, then you’re very much mistaken.”
They all look to each other, wide-eyed, as if witnessing a car crash in slow motion. Suddenly Isabella isn’t so keen to leave. I silently will her to stay, as the show hasn’t even started yet.
“I really think it’s time to go,” says Coco, holding Luciana close to her, as if I’m the one the little girl needs to be shielded from. “It’s late and you’ve had a lot to drink.…”
It’s that that tips me over the edge: her condescending, patronizing tone, masquerading as Miss High-and-Mighty, while all the while she’s fucking my husband.
“A little drunk, I may be,” I snap. “But at least I have an excuse for my behavior.” I fix her with a cold stare. “What’s yours?”
“Okay, okay…,” says Frank, holding his hand up as he steps into the firing line. “We just wanted Luciana to play you something nice, that’s all. If you don’t want to hear it, that’s up to you, but please, don’t be rude to my wife, in our home.”
I can’t help but smile. “I don’t think you have any idea what’s going on in your home … or your business, for that matter.” My mouth’s running away with me, and I can’t stop it. “Because if you did, you would know that your wife and your so-called protégé here are having an affair.”
There’s a collective gasp as the air is quite literally sucked out of the room. Coco’s mouth falls open, Charlie’s jaw spasms, and Frank looks from one to the other, waiting for somebody to tell him what the hell’s going on.
“Go on,” I urge. “If I know, it’s only fair that he does.”
“I’m sorry, I have no idea what she’s talking about…,” says Charlie, looking dumbstruck.
“I heard you.” He recoils as my spit hits his face.
“Freya, I’m warning you.…” He takes hold of my arm and pulls me toward the door.
“Get your hands off me,” I yell. I’ve lost all control at this point. There’s no going back.
“Go on upstairs, darling,” Coco whispers to Luciana.
I thought she’d try to deny it, but it seems she’s going to come straight out with a confession.
Why else would she not want her daughter around to hear it?
I try to give Luciana a smile as she passes by, wanting her to know that everything’s going to be all right, but I’m not sure it’s a promise I can make.
There’s an ominous silence as Coco waits for a bedroom door to close. “Who do you think you are?” she cries, coming toward me. “How dare you come into my house and make false accusations?”
Frank instinctively pulls her back, but his face says he’d like to let her loose on me.
“What is wrong with you?” she continues. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” says Charlie, snapping to his senses. “We’ve all drunk too much, said too much. We’re going to go—”
“That’s all you have to say?” questions Frank.
“I’m sorry,” says Charlie. “I don’t know what else—”
“Well, if it isn’t true, wouldn’t you want to know why your wife would think it is?” His brow furrows. “And if it is, I’d expect something of an explanation.”
Charlie’s eyes shift from side to side, and I can sense his brain desperately trying to formulate an adequate response. But I’m not going to stand here and wait for it.
Without saying another word, I pick up my bag and walk out, not knowing that I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.