Chapter 35 Freya
FREYA
“Hey, how are you?” Tess asks, pulling me into a hug.
I’d been relieved when she’d called, having made the reluctant decision not to reach out to her after last weekend.
It might have been a test that I’d subconsciously set—to sense-check what I may or may not have said in the lost hours of our drunken night together—or I might have been preparing myself to withdraw from a friendship that hadn’t yet reached its full potential, for fear that she would do it first.
Both of which seem to have been wasted energy, as nothing about her appears to have changed.
“How’s the hip?” she asks.
I roll my eyes, feeling even more embarrassed than I did at the time. Having since remembered that I’d boasted how competent a rider I was—just before I fell off. “My pride hurts more than my body,” I say, smiling.
“What did Charlie say? I bet he wasn’t best pleased that I took his wife off for what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend and returned you covered in bruises.”
I grimace, trying to gauge whether I should tell her, but knowing there’s every chance that she’s likely to bump into Charlie at a future meeting, I figure it’s wise to be honest. “Er, I didn’t tell him about the horse.…”
She looks taken aback. “Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s just that he gets a bit funny sometimes, so to keep the peace, I tweak the narrative. It makes for an easier life.”
Tess arches a judgmental eyebrow, though whether it’s aimed at me or Charlie, I’m not sure.
“You shouldn’t need to do that,” she says.
I smile at the approaching waitress, grateful for the reprieve, but Tess is not going to let it go.
“So what else didn’t you tell him about the weekend?” she asks, after we’ve ordered our coffees.
“Actually, I didn’t tell him where I went.…”
“Or with whom, I assume?”
I blanch. Is there any need to be that honest? I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but then if she sees Charlie …
“No,” I say, apologetically. “I told him I was on a work thing, visiting a new hospice on the South Coast.”
If she thinks that’s in bad taste, she does well to disguise it.
“It’s really none of my business,” she says, before stopping and looking around, as if reconsidering whether she should say what she’s about to say. I can hazard a guess at what it’s going to be. “But … do you not think that you’ve got bigger problems than just alcohol?”
Hearing it out loud makes me blink away the instant sting of tears. Once, twice, three times, but still the pull is making my throat muscles contract.
“I’m sorry,” says Tess, reaching across the table to put a comforting hand on mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m fine,” I sniff, forcing myself to stop there, otherwise I fear the floodgates may open and everything will come tumbling out.
“You’ve got to look after yourself,” says Tess. “Put yourself first and foremost.”
I nod. “We’ll work it out,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel.
“But there’s no shame if you can’t.”
“I know,” I say, though hell would have to freeze over for me to give up on Charlie.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, you only have to ask.” She smiles at me, and I know she means it.
“Anyway, enough about me,” I say, feeling the need to change the subject. “What’s going on with you?”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m better today,” she says. “But yesterday was my dad’s birthday.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.…”
“Yeah, it was tough.” She smiles ruefully. “It seems to get more difficult every year.”
“How old would he have been?”
“Fifty-eight,” she says.
“Still so young,” I offer, before realizing I’m only underlining the painful truth. “Do you mind me asking how he died?”
She sits back in her chair, as our coffees are put on the table.
“You don’t have to,” I add, sensing her reticence.
“It was fourteen years ago, so if I can’t talk about it now, when will I be able to?”
I offer an encouraging smile.
She stares at me, her eyes unmoving, as if focusing on something—on me—will make it easier. “On the day of my final exam—geography, I’ll never forget it—I came home, so happy that school was finally over—to find him hanging in the garage.”
I think I’ve misheard her, so I instinctively lean in, to catch the bit I must have missed. Before realizing that I haven’t.
“Oh my God.”
Tess plays with the froth on the top of her cappuccino with her spoon. “I loved the very bones of him,” she says. “He was the kindest, most honest soul—my best friend in the whole wide world.”
“I’m so sorry,” I offer. “I can’t imagine how that must feel.”
I don’t know if I’m referring to losing her dad in such horrific circumstances or having the kind of relationship where she calls her dad her best friend.
“He didn’t deserve to go like that,” she goes on. “No one does—but he’d been so badly treated—so let down—that he couldn’t see any other way out.”
I wonder if I should ask more, but she’s batting away a deluge of tears that are threatening to fall, picking up a napkin to dab at her eyes.
“That’s why I drink,” she laughs, the noise sounding strangled at the back of her throat.
“I’m so sorry, he sounds like a wonderful man.”
She nods. “He was. He was my hero. Everyone loved him and his death destroyed us. Our whole family fell apart.”
“I imagine suicide does that,” I offer, not knowing the right thing to say. “There are so many unanswered questions. You must ask yourself over and over what made him do it.”
She puts her cup down and looks at me. “Oh, we knew why he did it,” she says, in such a way that makes me scared to ask. “That’s what makes it worse.”