Chapter 13 Freya
FREYA
CHEF’S WIFE IN SNATCH ORDEAL reads the headline on the Daily Mail app.
My breath catches in the back of my throat as my eyes furtively scour the article, scanning for the details.
Coco De Luca was savagely attacked outside her own home on Friday night.
Police are looking into whether she was followed home from an event in Bishopsgate, or the assailant lay in wait outside the multimillion-pound property she shares with her husband, the renowned Michelin-star chef Frank De Luca.
A Patek Philippe watch, thought to be worth around ￡70,000, was snatched from Mrs. De Luca’s wrist by the masked attacker, leaving her with several nasty cuts, as she fought to defend herself.
“Coco’s in shock and being looked after by Frank,” said a close friend of the family. “Right now, his priority is to keep her safe.”
Two security vans were seen outside the De Luca residence today, suggesting that their security arrangements are being reviewed in the wake of the traumatic incident.
I let out the breath I was holding in, scrolling furiously for any other mention of what had happened. The comments section gives more of an insight than the article could ever hope to.
“What does she bloody expect?” asks GRT56_grrr.
“Good job she’s got a cosmetic surgeon on speed dial,” says Catty_Cat.
“Urgh. Fake news. Fake boobs. Fake lips,” slams another anonymous keyboard warrior.
As tempted as I am, I refrain from adding, It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror and apply a pink gloss to my lips. My fringe is falling in front of my eyes, but I quite like it. It gives me something to hide behind.
Smoothing my skirt down as I get out of the car, I can’t help but feel disappointed at the state of the run-down Victorian mansion I’m standing in front of.
As is usual with council-run care, the inspiration seemed to have run out even before the money did, and add-on after add-on has only made an already ugly property even uglier.
With damp patches creeping around the ground-floor windows and broken guttering doing little to catch the falling rain, it doesn’t look like somewhere you’d choose to live, let alone choose to die.
It’s only the front door, painted in a bright sunshine yellow, that gives a hint of the joy this money-strapped hospice is trying to spread.
“Welcome to Unicorn House,” says Jane, the manager. “It’s so good of you to come all this way—especially in this weather.”
“Not at all,” I say, shaking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to be here and see the work you do.”
Inside, the walls are painted in a kaleidoscope of colors, depicting the outside world in all its whimsical glory. An underwater scene runs down the length of the entrance hall, with a golden treasure chest being guarded by a pink octopus, and a smiling dolphin waving his flipper.
“A local artist very graciously gave us her time,” says Jane, as I marvel at the detail. “We hope that once the families are across the threshold, they would have forgotten what the outside looks like.” She smiles with kind but sad eyes.
We turn the corner, and a jungle with monkeys swinging from tree to tree, lions hiding in bushes, and snakes slithering through the undergrowth brightens what would otherwise be a chipped magnolia wall.
“It makes such a huge difference to the children,” says Jane. “Their faces light up when they see it.”
“Boo!” comes a tiny voice.
I do a hop and skip, pretending to jump.
A little giggle emerges from behind a row of brightly colored rain jackets hanging on pegs, and I make a show of trying to find where it’s coming from.
“Who could make a noise that big?” I tease, running my hands through the rainbow of plastics, purposefully ignoring the messy head of blond hair that’s sticking out.
I turn to see Jane smiling as the little boy squeals excitedly. “There it is again,” I call out, looking around theatrically. “Is it a lion roaring? Is it a gorilla banging his chest? Let us find this strange creature who has the ability to make grown-ups shake in their boots.”
“It’s me!” says the boy, unable to stay in his hiding place a second longer.
“And who are you?” I ask, laughing.
“I’m Harry!” he says proudly. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Freya,” I say, taking his pudgy little hand in mine and shaking it vigorously. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Are you a doctor?” he asks, his big blue eyes a complicated mixture of fear and resignation.
“No, I’m just a friend,” I say. “I’ve come to play.”
He cups his tiny hand in mine and leads me through a door into a room that has sand on the floor and a puppet theater stand in the corner. “Do you want to build a sandcastle?” he asks.
“Absolutely!” I smile.
He looks at me agog as I take my shoes off. “Well, you wouldn’t expect me to go on the beach with my shoes on, would you?”
He giggles and follows suit.
We build sandcastles and play in an imaginary sea, where the water is warm and the fish are plentiful.
“Okay, Harry, it’s quiet time now,” says Jane, coming to him with a towel, pretending to dry him off.
“Can she come, too?” he asks, looking up at me hopefully as he holds onto my hand.
“Freya’s going to have a chat with your mummy,” says Jane.
His bottom lip sticks out as she leads him away.
“I’ll come and play again soon,” I call out after him, feeling as if my heart might break.
“You’ve got a fan there,” says a woman, smiling and ruffling his mop of hair as he passes. “I’m Maria, Harry’s mum.”
She looks quite a bit older than me, but I imagine she’s aged tenfold since her son’s diagnosis. I listen as she tells me how incredible Unicorn House is and how it’s helped her family.
“I’m on my own, so for me, this is the only time I get to play with Harry and be his parent, rather than his carer.” She smiles. “I think I look forward to coming here even more than he does—it’s like being on holiday.”
She explains that she’s raising money in a race against time to send Harry for clinical trials in Alabama, where a research facility is confident of finding a cure for his rare genetic condition.
“The government isn’t going to help us,” she says, looking around the drafty conservatory we’re sitting in.
“They can barely keep this place ticking over. So it’s down to us, to find the money at the grassroots level. ”
I think of all the corruption that undoubtedly goes on within the walls of Parliament, of the multimillion-pound contracts that are awarded to friends of friends that are never delivered.
Of all the fat cats in the city, who make more money than they can spend, and people like Coco De Luca, who think nothing of hanging a two-million-pound artwork in a room they don’t use, and who walk the streets wearing a seventy-thousand-pound watch.
It sickens me that such vulgar and obscene wealth is on blatant display when places like Unicorn House can barely support their own weight, and families like Harry’s are praying that they’ll get enough five-pound donations to save his life.
“Tell me how we might be able to help,” I say, her story compelling me to do all that I can to see that Harry gets the chance he deserves.