Chapter 22 Charlie
CHARLIE
Charlie pulls Freya into him, breathing her in, fearing that the next time he sees her, a seismic shift will have toppled one or other of them off the ledge they’ve so precariously been balancing on these past months.
“I love you,” he says, holding her away from him as he looks in her eyes, searching for any sign that she’s aware of the pendulum swinging wildly between them. “I hope it goes well.”
She puffs air down her nose disparagingly, as if it’s a stupid remark to make. If she’s really going to visit the new respite center on the South Coast, Charlie supposes she might be right. But if she isn’t?
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she says, pulling her wheely case behind her as she goes down the path, looking like a lamb going to slaughter. Charlie wonders if that’s how she feels, too, knowing that the road she’s choosing, over the road he’d set her upon, is only going to end badly.
Still, he waves enthusiastically from the door as she gets in her car, her rigid smile the only telltale sign that a guilty conscience might be kicking in.
He hopes it isn’t; he wants to believe that his wife is telling him the truth.
After all, he tries to reason, for the hundredth time, why would she risk everything they’ve worked so hard to overcome by taking a chance like this?
Does she honestly think she’s going to get away with it?
Does she have so little regard for him that she no longer cares if she doesn’t?
His jaw spasms at the thought, his wrath knowing no bounds if he finds she’s being dishonest. If it occurs to him that they’re each living by a different set of rules, he doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge it. Because if he did, he would have to admit that he’s living the biggest lie of all.
As soon as Freya’s red Mini has turned the corner, Charlie shuts the front door behind him, his phone and keys already in his pocket.
He knows where she said she was heading, but he opens Find My on his phone to follow the AirTag he’d hidden in the boot of her car, to follow her to where she’s really going.
As she heads out toward the A429, with Charlie a minute or so behind her, he dares to believe that perhaps she’s going to Unicorn’s respite center after all.
She’s heading in the right direction—all she has to do is stay on the road until she hits the M4 and then pick up the A350 all the way into Bournemouth.
He’d worked out her perfect route late last night, when the torment of her about to do something she was going to regret stopped him from sleeping.
He rests his head back, loosening his shoulders, as he forces himself to pretend he’s going to the South Coast, even though every other sinew in his body is telling him that he isn’t.
He wills himself to manifest the better outcome, putting Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” on the car stereo at full volume.
It instantly takes him back to their wedding day, as he held Freya in his arms for the first dance, wondering how he got so lucky.
Believing that they’d always be that way: immersed in their own little bubble, protected from outside influences that might threaten their idyllic existence.
But somehow, the gremlins had found a way in; insecurities had been fueled by people like Anita, who couldn’t stand to see her daughter happy.
The time they’d promised themselves had been stolen by the pressures of work and life.
But the greatest thief of joy that had stripped their perfect union was the lure of alcohol.
“It’ll be fine,” he says out loud, in an effort to convince himself when all other attempts have failed. But as soon as he’s said it, the blue dot that’s moving five hundred yards ahead of him deviates from its path, turning right when it should be going straight on.
Charlie’s internal monologue gets louder, its alarm bells deafening as he battles to find any God-given reason why Freya’s not going in the direction she’s supposed to.
He slams the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Fuck!”
Hadn’t he given her everything she wanted? Well, as much as he could afford. Hadn’t he supported her wholeheartedly with whatever she wanted to do, just as long as it was in her best interests? Didn’t she know the sacrifices he had made for her, when he didn’t have to?
The flashing blue dot goads him on the phone screen, as it moves west, ever farther away from her supposed destination.
He’d forced himself not to close the gap, for fear that she might recognize his car in her rearview mirror, but his foot presses down on the accelerator, as if it has a mind of its own.
As if it already knows that there’s only going to be one outcome to this.
He swallows the acidic taste that’s souring his mouth and quells the rising panic in his chest, not knowing what he might be capable of if it comes to pass that Freya’s about to throw a rumbling grenade into their already shaky marriage.
He follows her down winding country lanes, careful to keep at least twenty seconds behind her at all times.
Another four miles and she turns into the entrance of an estate called Grantham Hall.
He slows down, taking deep in-and-out breaths to calm himself, because now that she’s arrived at her destination, he’s not quite sure what he’s going to do.
He thought he had a plan, but he doesn’t quite know how to execute it.
He makes the right turn that Freya had taken just moments before, the loose gravel as he crosses the threshold crunching satisfyingly under the tires.
A long drive stretches out ahead of him, lined with tall oak trees that meet each other in a canopy above him.
Horses graze in the fields on either side and Charlie allows himself to believe that perhaps she’s come here to indulge in a long-forgotten passion.
She’d told him about her beloved horse Kelsey and how she’d love to ride again one day.
“But aren’t they dangerous?” he’d asked, having always been frightened of their unpredictability and power.
“Not if they’re well trained and you know what you’re doing.”
“But what if they get spooked?” he’d asked.
“Well, then there’s not a lot you can do,” she said.
He’d told her it was a hobby he’d rather she not revive, but that was back when she used to listen.
When she thought he might have a valid reason for not wanting her to risk life and limb.
Is that the reason for this covert operation?
Had she thought that telling him would only cause an argument?
That it was easier to lie than tell the truth?
The thought saddens him, but he knows better than most that sometimes a lie can save you, though he can’t make any promises that that’ll be the case on this occasion.
His eyes scan the car park, wondering what he’s going to do if she’s already gone in. Will he storm in and cause a scene at reception, before dragging her away? Will he sit in his car, waiting for her to emerge with whoever she might be with?
He taps his fingers against the leather inlay of the steering wheel, his jaw spasming in time with the beat.
Above the roofs of cars, he sees Freya’s head appear, looking around furtively as if she’s half expecting to see him there.
But if she does, she pretends not to, too busy applying her lip gloss.
Nevertheless, Charlie slides down in his seat, not yet ready to reveal his hand. He watches as a smile spreads across her face, her pace quickening as she pulls her wheely case across the car park.
Knowing her as well as he does, he can tell it’s a nervous smile, one of trepidation and anxiety. His heart is in his mouth as he cranes his neck to see where she’s going and, more importantly, who she’s going toward.
He snatches split-second snapshots of her as she moves between cars, his brain telling him not to look, his eyes unable to stop.
There’s a moment, when she comes to a standstill, that Charlie convinces himself that the person she’s embracing is a man.
Their short brown hair falls into the collar of their coat; their angular jawline turns down to kiss his wife.
If he waited for just a few more drops of rain to fall on his windscreen, he could allow his blurred vision to pretend that his wife had come here to spend a clandestine weekend with her lover.
He could imagine the pair of them going straight to their room, ripping off each other’s clothes with an unbridled passion that couldn’t wait until they reached the bed.
He could hear Freya moaning with pleasure as he satisfied her in a way that Charlie no longer could.
He torments himself with the crystal-clear images, willing himself to believe that that’s what’s about to happen. Because it’s a whole lot easier than accepting that it’s Tess she’s come to see.