Chapter 11 Freya
FREYA
I listen to the machines that are still having to work to keep Marcus Harding alive. I watch his fingers curl and uncurl against the bedsheets, and I see his eyes flicker, as if he can sense that I’m here.
I want to shake him awake and ask him what he saw, what he remembers. I want to know how close I am to losing the life that I have. Because as difficult as it might be right now, it’s still a life that I want to lead. With the man that I love.
“Can I help you?” asks a voice.
I freeze.
“Are you a relative?”
“Er, no…,” I offer, looking around for fear that one will appear. “Just a friend. I heard his condition had much improved?”
She smiles with kindly eyes. “Marcus has surprised us all. He’s now able to communicate and has some movement in his left side.”
A flash of fear rushes through me. “Communicate?”
“Yes, he’s using a letter board. His wife has been working tirelessly with him, and he’s blinking to spell out words.” She laughs. “Turns out he’s quite the chatterbox.…”
“That’s such fantastic news,” I say, forcing a smile.
“God works his miracles in mysterious ways,” says the nurse, turning to walk away.
I go to follow her, but there’s a moment, albeit fleeting, that I imagine pulling the tube from his mouth.
Would his breathing stop? Would alarm bells ring?
Would it make a difference? I hold on to the bed frame, wondering what kind of person would do something like that … think something like that.
I need to get out of here. I don’t trust myself. There’s something wrong with me.
As I push through the doors into the corridor, the noise of the outside world hits me. The groans of patients in pain, the clanging of metal wheels as occupied beds pass by each other as if they’re carts in a supermarket. Even the squeak of rubber soles on the laminate floor sets my teeth on edge.
My eyes blur as I follow the red arrows on the ground, assuming they’re taking me to the exit, because I’ve lost all sense of direction. I keep my head down, not wanting to be seen for fear that my pixelated features will be displayed under a headline.…
DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN? IS SHE CONNECTED TO THE HIT-AND-RUN THAT LEFT MARCUS HARDING FOR DEAD?
“Freya!” comes a call, reaching me through what feels like cotton wool in my ears. I walk faster, desperate to get away from the tricks my nerves are playing on me.
“Freya!”
Sweat springs to my pores and my legs suddenly feel like lead weights as I will them to move quicker. But it’s not fast enough—a hand catches hold of my arm, slowing me down. I have no choice but to turn, my brain racing through every eventuality of what I’m about to be faced with.
Relief rushes through me as I study the nondescript features of a woman I barely recognize. With her short brown hair and hazel eyes, there’s a certain familiarity about her, but I can’t think where from. My panic abates and I’m able to breathe again.
“I’m sorry…,” I start, getting ready to extricate myself.
“I thought it was you.” She smiles and her whole face lights up, making her look younger than first impressions had presumed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I shift awkwardly as I run through the possibilities, desperate to find someone I wouldn’t mind running into here and now. The list is painfully short.
“Erm.…” I rack my brain, but nothing comes. I’m going to need her to put me out of my misery.
“It’s me, Tess!”
Still nothing.
“From the meeting the other week?”
The cogs and wheels turn slowly before clicking into place. “Oh, hi,” I say, in surprise that she’s so far from home. But then she could say the same about me.
“What are you—?”
“Is everything—?”
We meet each other with our questions.
“All good,” I say, wanting to cut her off without giving anything away. But there aren’t many reasons why we’d both find ourselves in a hospital in South London at 8 PM on a Friday evening. I don’t ask her again to avoid finding out.
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” I lie.
She shrugs. “It’s okay, no pressure. Sometimes it just helps to have someone at the end of the phone who can understand what you’re going through—from the other side, you know?”
I nod and look at my watch, even though I’ve got no particular place to go.
She starts moving away, anticipating the excuse I’m about to give. “Well, it’s good to see you,” she says, smiling. “Maybe I’ll see you at the next meeting?”
“Wait,” I say, without realizing I was going to. “How about a coffee now? If you have time.…”
She hesitates and I immediately regret the offer. It’s overstepping a line I’m not sure I should cross. And I can already hazard a guess as to what Charlie’s going to say.
“Sure,” she says, moving out of the way of a fast-approaching wheelchair carrying a man with yellowing skin. “There’s a coffee shop in reception.”
I buy us each a cappuccino and we find a sofa in the corner of Costa.
I can’t help but grimace at the dirty cups piled up on the table and kick away the crusts of a half-eaten sandwich from under my feet.
A bang on the window makes me jump and I look up to see a man’s face pressed against it, with blood pouring from a wound on his head.
My breath is snatched away as I remember Charlie on that Sunday morning, his face swollen and his hair matted with blood.
“They’re coming for me!” yells the man on the other side of the glass. “Help me!”
Tess laughs acerbically. “God, I miss London, don’t you?”
I manage a smile, yet can’t help but feel unnerved.
There’s no doubt that in the six short months I’ve been gone, my confidence has taken a knock, and as I reaccustom myself to the sounds, smells, and characters that make my hometown what it is, I realize that everything I used to love about it now makes me feel like an alien.
“It’s funny,” I say. “When I’m not here, I miss it like crazy and long to come back. But now that I’m here, I can’t help but feel grateful to live a hundred miles away.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” says Tess. “How long ago did you move out?”
I immediately tense, having been conditioned by Charlie to be forever on guard for impertinent questions. But then even the most innocent conversation becomes a minefield—and I’m not prepared to live my life like that. I can’t.
“September,” I say. “How about you?”
“It’s only been about six weeks, so it’s all very new still.” She looks around. “But it’s like two different worlds, isn’t it?”
“The pace of life takes some getting used to, but we’re getting there.” I flinch, knowing I’ve left myself wide open.
Tess doesn’t hesitate to pounce. “So you said Charlie lost his job?” she says, looking at me over the top of her coffee cup. “Was that the only catalyst?”
“We just needed a lifestyle change,” I say, willing myself to see her as an ally, rather than an enemy. “We were working long hours, playing hard, and it just wasn’t conducive…”
She looks at me knowingly. “I’ve found it’s better to remove temptation rather than fight against it. Taking yourselves away from the problem is sometimes easier than pretending it’s not there.”
“You must be very proud of yourself for having abstained for … what is it…?”
Tess takes out her phone and smiles as she acknowledges the date. “Ten months and four days.”
“And you still feel the need to go to meetings?” I ask, unable not to feel a little despondent—and frustrated that the dependency could go on for so long, even after the drinking has stopped.
She looks at me as if she can hear my frustrations whirring. “You just have to be patient,” she says, her eyes creasing with kindness. “Don’t give up. It may not feel like it right now, as it’s still early days, but I promise you, you will get back to how you used to be.”
I smile, but as selfish as it sounds, I truly don’t know if I want to.
Mine and Charlie’s whirlwind relationship was fueled by alcohol; it was exciting, intoxicating, unpredictable.
It’s what made us tick. And, if I was to be completely honest, our marriage is all the poorer without it.
But what happened that night gave us no choice but to acknowledge the problem and address it—and as much as I know it’s for the best, it doesn’t stop me grieving for what we’ve lost.
I still love him—more than life itself—but the edges are softened, the thrilling buzz a little quieter—though that’s not his fault, it’s the absence of alcohol, for him—and me—that has turned us into how I imagine most normal couples are.
“Do you have a partner?” I ask.
Her lips pull thin, but I can’t tell if it’s reluctance or regret. “I’m still trying to figure things out in that department.” She attempts to laugh. “I’m a very different person now to the girl who thought a one-night hookup on Tinder was true love.”
I widen my eyes in faux surprise. “Wait, are you telling me it isn’t?”
She laughs. “Haha, you too?”
“I certainly went through a period of thinking it was the only way I was going to meet a husband.” I look away wistfully. “They were great times.…”
Tess nearly chokes on her coffee. “Is that how you met Charlie?” she splutters.
“God, no. We met in the most conventional sense, when I was least expecting it.” I smile. “He swept me off my feet.”
“Ah, so there’s hope for me yet,” she says, ruefully.
I picture him, wondering what he’s doing now, my desire to call him conflicted with knowing I’ll have to tell him about Marcus Harding.
I check my phone for any messages and go to swipe away the Instagram notification that @Coco_de_luca has posted a new story.
I wish I had, as when I instinctively click on it, there’s a video of her dancing in a skintight leopard-print jumpsuit, her lips pouting for the camera as she seductively runs her hands up and down her body.
And in the background, looking on, is Charlie.