Chapter 49
FREYA
The knock on the door makes me jump. The paranoia seeping in from every corner as my mother’s scathing observation prompts me to count the cost of anyone I may have crossed.
A man’s silhouette blurs through the opaque glass panel of the front door, and I take my mobile from my back pocket, ready to call Charlie. Though what he’ll be able to do, I don’t know. Still, I feel safer with it in my hand.
“Afternoon, darlin’,” says the smiling man as I tentatively open the door.
“Sorry, not today,” I say, going to close it. I’m not in the market for fresh eggs, or in the mood for banal small talk that folk around here are seemingly partial to.
“I’m here to fix the windscreen,” he says.
I look at him, puzzled. “I think you’ve got the wrong address.”
The man looks at his paperwork, his fingers embedded with blackened grease. “Nope, it definitely says the address right here. Silver Volvo.”
My brow furrows as I mentally tick off the details pertinent to me. “That’s my husband’s car, but I’m afraid he’s not here.” I feel on edge, vulnerable to the personal information this stranger has.
“Well, the car’s parked up just outside, and it’s all been paid for, so if you’ve got the keys, I may as well get on with it.”
I look to the bowl on the console, and sure enough, Charlie’s car fob is sitting there, seemingly removed from its key ring. He must have taken my car to work this morning.
I want to ask what needs fixing, but the desire to get this man off my doorstep is more urgent. “Here you go,” I say, handing him the key.
“I’ll be about half an hour,” he says. “And then I’ll be out of your hair.”
I watch him walk away, feeling more comfortable with every step he puts between us. I pull myself up—this isn’t who I am. This is who my mother wants me to be. Making me feel exposed gives her strength—and I refuse to give her the power she’s so desperate for.
But still, I can’t stop myself from imagining her and my father together.
What would they talk about after all these years of being without one another?
How would she forgive his indiscretion? And how would he prove that it had never happened?
It would still be his word against mine, but maybe that doesn’t count for anything anymore. The thought makes my chest tighten.
Aware that I’m giving into her again, I push away the intrusion. I need to get on, and as soon as the windscreen man is done, I’ll drive to the office and go about my day as I normally would, instead of hiding behind closed curtains and locked doors.
My phone vibrates its way across the kitchen table and I pick it up, expecting it to be Charlie, but it’s Pauline, sounding unlike I’ve ever heard her before.
“Freya, I need you to do something for me,” she says, breathlessly.
“Yeah, sure, what’s up? You sound—”
I don’t get a chance to finish the sentence. “Maria hasn’t received the money,” she says in a rush.
A split second’s panic washes over me as I doubt myself. But the brain fog soon clears as the cogs and the reels fall back into place. “Of course she has—she confirmed receipt yesterday.”
“On the phone or by email?” asks Pauline curtly.
“I spoke to her on the phone. What’s going on? Is there a problem?”
“Jane from Unicorn called to see if there was any update on funding and I told her that we’d sent Maria the money for Harry to go to America.” She catches her breath. “But she doesn’t know anything about it.”
I dare to relax. “Well, maybe Maria hasn’t had a chance to bring her up to speed yet.”
“Harry was at Unicorn House yesterday, and Maria didn’t mention it,” she says, blowing my theory out of the water. “Jane gave me Maria’s number and I’ve just spoken with her.” There’s an agonizing pause. “And she says she’s not spoken to you since meeting you at the respite center that one time.”
I laugh because that’s preposterous. “What do you mean? I’ve had numerous conversations with her on the phone. I was supposed to meet her in person again—”
“But you didn’t?” asks Pauline.
This can’t be what the least trusting part of me imagines it is.
“Well, no…,” I start, my brain battling to understand what the hell’s going on. “She got held up at the hospital with Harry and we decided to take a rain check.”
“So you’ve never actually met her face-to-face? Not since Unicorn House.”
Her line of questioning is making me doubt myself. “Pauline, you’re sounding deranged,” I say, attempting to laugh again.
“How do you know that the woman you met at Unicorn House four weeks ago is the same woman you’ve been speaking to since? The same woman we’ve sent the money to?”
My brain’s scrambling for purchase. “Of course it is. How else would she know Harry? How would she be able to discuss his condition and diagnosis?” Though even as I’m saying it, I’m asking myself exactly how much information she shared.
“Freya, Harry’s mum hasn’t received the money,” says Pauline, her voice shaky.
An uncomfortable heat begins to prick my fingertips, but I bat it away, knowing that there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the misunderstanding.
“Okay, somewhere along the line, we’ve got crossed wires,” I say, in an effort to keep Pauline calm. “Let’s check the account details she gave us.”
“How will that help?” asks Pauline. “Because if she’s not who we thought she was, it will mean nothing.”
“Let’s just check them off again,” I say, still refusing to believe that I could possibly have allowed myself to have been deceived.
Pauline reads out the account number and sort code I’d given her. “That’s where you told me to send it,” she says. And I feel quietly comforted to see that it matches perfectly the information Maria had given me.
“Okay, so let me give her a call and see what’s going on.”
“But the payment’s gone through,” says Pauline tearfully. “It’s too late.”
“I’ll sort it, don’t worry.”
“Will you give me a call back as soon as you’ve spoken to her?”
“Of course, now please stop worrying. It’ll all be fine.”
As Maria’s phone rings, my brow furrows as I struggle to understand what could possibly have happened. Because none of it makes sense.
“Oh, hi,” I say, relieved when she picks up. Pauline had made me think she had been a figment of my imagination. “Maria, it’s me, Freya.”
“Oh, hello,” she says, sounding just the same as she did when I spoke to her yesterday. “Is everything okay?”
I don’t know quite where to start. “Have you just spoken to Pauline, the charity’s founder?”
There’s a moment’s hesitation. “Er, no,” she says. “Why, should I have?”
The breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding in rushes out. “Okay, that’s kind of good news,” I say, fearing that we may have had a chancer on the make.
“Can I just check that you’ve definitely received the money?” I ask, just to be sure I hadn’t dreamed our conversation yesterday.
“Yes, it’s cleared the account,” she says. “Why, what’s the problem?”
I laugh nervously. “Erm, it’s nothing for you to worry about, but there seems to be somebody impersonating you … telling Unicorn House they don’t know anything about Harry’s funding. And Pauline’s just spoken to someone pretending to be you, who says she’s not received the money.…”
“Oh, that’s slightly worrying,” she says. “But you can rest assured, I’ve definitely received it.”
A rush of relief floods my veins.
“And it will most definitely be put to good use.”
I smile, daring to imagine all the good that might come of it. “Have you booked your flights yet?” I ask.
“Yes, we leave next Tuesday.”
“And when’s your first appointment?” I ask, ignoring the need to end the call so I can put Pauline out of her misery.
“Well, my first appointment is for a full-body aromatherapy massage in the spa,” she laughs.
I force a smile, eager to join in the joke. “I’m not sure the budget will quite spread to that.…”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “You’d be surprised how far twenty thousand pounds goes.”
The change in tone crawls under my skin, pulling me up.
“You do know that there are very strict conditions that need to be met.” I’m sure it doesn’t need to be mentioned, but just in case.
“You’re required to log all receipts pertaining to Harry’s treatment.
And I’m afraid a massage isn’t covered by expenses. ”
“What about a pina colada?” she asks.
“I—I’m sorry…?” I stutter, giving her one last chance to redeem herself, because if she thinks she’s being funny, she’s gravely misread the situation—and my mood.
A bitter laugh sounds down the line, laden with acrimony.
I hold my phone away from me to check that I’m even speaking to the person named Maria in my contacts. Seeing Harry’s Mum in brackets, I know she’s whom I’ve been talking to for the past four weeks, yet suddenly nothing about her sounds the same.
“Maria … I…”
“Oh, my name’s not Maria, by the way,” she says, matter-of-factly.
It takes a second or two for the admission to filter through. My throat closing up as each syllable hits home.
“And you might want to check those account details again,” she goes on, even though I so desperately want her to stop.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Well, while it was encouraging to see that you do actually have a conscience—and for a while there, poor Harry’s story tugged on my heartstrings as well—it wasn’t quite enough.”
A burning blanket shrouds me, setting fire to every nerve ending, suffocating me from the inside out.
“I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.”
“What bit are you struggling with, Freya?” Her tone is icy cold, devoid of any of the warmth I’d been drawn to when I met her—and since. “Is it that you’ve been burned, or that little Harry won’t be going to America after all?”
I shake my head, unable to accept either. “So you’re saying you’re not Harry’s mum?” The reality of what’s going on is taking far too long to sink in.
“Come on, Freya, you’re an intelligent woman.…”
“But you were at the hospital,” I say, remembering the last time we spoke. Fooling myself that it’s proof. “You were waiting on results. We discussed Harry’s treatment.…”
“You discussed Harry’s treatment. You told me about the consultant in London. She laughs. “Anything I happened to mention, you just chose to believe.”
Snapshots of our conversations resound in my head.
Harry’s condition, the research, the funding, his love for Mr. Toggs—spinning around, getting all mixed up—to the point where I wonder if I’ve misconstrued it all.
Had it ever even happened? I’d relayed it all back to Pauline, begging her to give him a chance of a cure.
She’d sent the money in good faith—on my say-so.
A swirl of nausea works its way up from my stomach, and as much as I try to swallow it away, I’m overcome with an intense heat that radiates into my fingers and down to my toes.
“You made it far too easy for me, Freya.”
“But why…?” I rasp.
There’s a drawn-out silence. “I think you should ask Charlie that question.”
My body folds in on itself, and I fall against the wall for support as I try to compute what she’s saying. Who is this woman? And how the hell does she know my husband?