‘Do you think Matt and Susannah will still be able to make the wedding if we decide on Corfu?’ Freya asked.
It was the following morning and they were sat at the dining table, eating for breakfast the Chinese they had started the night before.
‘I’m sure they will and we can always pay for their flights.’
‘I’m making a list of people to invite. I’ve got Matt and Susannah and little Jo, obviously. Roger and Dionne, Emma, Yiannis and Melly, Mr and Mrs P. Then I’m kind of struggling.’ She chewed the pen she was writing with. There was no one else she could think of unless she invited her ex-boyfriend Russell or people she’d met in jail.
‘Well, you can add my Uncle Ted and my Aunt Carol. Though I don’t expect they’ll come because I haven’t seen them since my parents’ funeral. I ought to ask, though.’ He raised his head out of the script he was reading.
‘So that’s twelve. Do you think that’s enough? I mean, I know we said we wanted a small wedding but ten people and two under fours?’
At this rate, they wouldn’t need catering; they could just ask Samos to open the kebab shop and serve everyone gyros.
‘We only need two witnesses, so ten is good. And probably just enough for a game of beach volleyball after the ceremony,’ he joked.
‘I keep telling you, it isn’t that warm there in December. There might be snow. Are you reading through that same script?’ She put her pen down and jabbed at a sweet and sour ball with her fork.
‘Yeah, I’m still not sure about it. It’s not a role that’s going to stretch me.’
‘So don’t do it. What’s the point of doing something if you aren’t going to get anything out of it?’
‘They’ve offered me fifteen million.’
‘Shit! Fifteen million! That could…’
‘Go towards building another hospital. Or buying more equipment. Or helping set up another Every Day centre.’
He’d read her mind. Fifteen million for one movie was extortionate but how much good could that do for so many other people?
‘But, Nick, regardless of the money, don’t do it if it isn’t right for you.’
‘I don’t know. It’s a whole lot of money for not a lot of work.’ He sighed.
‘Money isn’t everything. No matter how wisely you spend it, or give it away.’
‘No, I know. Hey, why don’t you read the script, see what you think.’ He pushed the wad of paperwork over to her.
‘Me? Oh, I don’t know. You know I’m not really one for reading.’ She got bored halfway through a postcard.
‘No, but you are one for films. I’d value your opinion.’
‘Well OK, I’ll give it a go.’ The intercom buzzed and Freya jumped up. ‘Ooh, that’s Amos with the post.’
‘Are you expecting something important because you leapt up like your life depended on it.’
‘Not my life: our wedding. I called Sharona Owen yesterday afternoon and asked her to send me some wedding-dress catalogues.’
Sharona Owen was a well-known designer and one of her specialties was plus-size gowns.
‘Sadie Fox not getting your business then?’
‘Sadie Fox would never be able to get hold of enough material to dress me. She’s used to dressing models with stomachs as flat as ironing boards and personalities to match. Hello!’ Freya greeted, pressing the button to speak into the intercom.
‘Hello Freya, this is Brian. Are you receiving me? Over.’
‘Brian? What are you doing here? I thought you were Amos.’
‘Today, I am Amos. Over. I have the mail. Repeat. I have the mail. Over.’
‘Oh, OK. I’m buzzing you in. Come up to the house. Over.’ She pressed the button to open the front gate.
‘Brian?’ Nicholas questioned, putting the breakfast plates on the countertop.
‘Yes and he has the mail. Over.’ She headed to the front door.
She opened it up and Brian, dressed in a postman’s uniform, hurried up the driveway towards the house.
‘Good morning, Nick. Good morning, Freya. Over.’ Brian walked up the steps and onto the front porch.
‘You don’t have to say over now, Brian. We’re not on the intercom; we’re right here,’ Freya said, smiling.
‘Sorry. Right, here is your mail.’ He dug into the sack across his shoulder and pulled out two large packets and two smaller letters.
‘Gimme! Gimme!’ Freya ordered. She snatched the large packets from Brian’s hands and ran back into the house.
‘One of those was for you,’ Brian informed Nicholas, handing him the smaller letters.
‘Thanks, Brian. Freya’s a little over excited about wedding dresses.’
‘I heard about that. Tell me, is her father really dead?’ He adjusted his hat.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s on the front page of The Gazette this morning. Here, I’ve got a copy with me, and I’m sure I heard something about it on the news too. Although, I was eating at the time and my hearing’s not quite as good when I’m eating as it is when I’m not.’ He produced the newspaper from the mail sack.
Nicholas took hold of the paper and read the headline. ‘“Freya Fuels Father Feud”.’ He looked at the photograph. It was one of the publicity shots from their hospital visit the previous day.
‘Brian, can I keep this?’ Nicholas asked him, folding the paper up.
‘It was seventy five cents.’
‘I’ll shout you a meal at Casey’s the next time you’re there.’
‘Three courses? With drinks and sides?’
‘Whatever you want. I promise.’
‘Sure, keep the paper.’
Freya licked her lips as she looked at the dresses in the catalogue. She’d bypassed the frills and the lace and was gazing at heavenly creations she might be able to get a dual use from. Some of Nicholas’ film parties needed glamour.
She heard him come back into the room.
‘Don’t come any closer. I’ve seen a couple of frocks I like and I do not want you getting even a peek at any of them.’ She picked up the brochure and held it against her chest.
‘You might want to look at this.’ He put the newspaper down in front of her.
She looked at the headline and then read out loud.
‘“Nicholas Kaden and fiancée Freya Johnson visited Carlton General Hospital yesterday to unveil the facility’s new scanning equipment paid for by the Nicholas Kaden Foundation. During the visit, they met with patients of the cancer ward, most of whom have limited life expectancy. One such young patient, who cannot be named, was heard asking Miss Johnson about her upcoming nuptials and in particular, whether her father, billionaire business tycoon Eric Lawson-Peck, would be attending the ceremony. A source claims Miss Johnson seemed particularly uncomfortable when asked about her father and ultimately informed the patient her father was dead. Eric Lawson-Peck, alive and well, attended a reception in New York last night where he refused to comment. Last year, Freya Johnson’s ex-partner, Russell Buchanan, claimed Miss Johnson had been abused by her father throughout her childhood and made countless accusations of improper conduct relating to both his personal and business life. These claims were strongly refuted by Lawson-Peck and Miss Johnson issued an apology.” Shit!’
‘Good, huh?’
‘I don’t understand. How the hell did they get hold of this? I mean, they’ve misquoted me to start with. I didn’t actually say it like that and I didn’t blurt it across the ward. I said it to Katherine and you were the only one there. She’s a kid and from the look of her yesterday, she was in no state to give interviews to The Gazette,’ Freya exclaimed.
This was bad. Anything with her father involved was bad but this, telling the world he was dead! Nothing good was going to come out of that. How stupid was she? Why had she said it? She didn’t think. That had always been her trouble and now she was neck deep in just that.
‘Well, I don’t know how they got hold of it but they did and they printed it. Brian also said he heard something about it on the news this morning.’
‘Oh my God. What am I going to do?’ She put her hand to her chest as the breath caught there.
‘Look, calm down. Let’s think rationally about this.’
‘Think rationally?! How can I think rationally? My father’s going to take one look at this and think I wanted it. The paper’s already asked him about it and he refused to comment. What does that say?’
‘It says he knows how to handle the media and he’ll let his press agent take care of it.’
‘Oh no, no. You don’t know my father like I do. He won’t be letting anyone else handle this. He’ll be handling it himself. If there’s one thing I know about my father, it’s that he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.’
‘Freya, calm down. What d’you think’s going to happen?’
‘What’s going to happen is what always happens. He’s going to punish me.’ She felt the tears brimming in her eyes.
‘That isn’t going to happen. Come here, come on.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘It’s not so bad. I mean, you said he was dead. It was an off-the-cuff remark. It didn’t mean anything.’
His words did nothing to comfort her. She knew the man. She knew how he operated.
‘He won’t like it. It won’t be acceptable, for me to speak out like that, off-the-cuff remark or not. I’ve put him in the papers and brought everything all back up again. He’s going to do something about it, Nick. He’s going to hurt you or me, or Emma. Oh God! What if he hurts Melly?’ Her voice came out as a shriek and the tears fell.
‘Listen, that isn’t going to happen. I mean, read the article again. It’s just rubbish. So, someone overheard you say your father’s dead? What’s that really going to mean to him? You aren’t part of his life anymore. To you, he is dead,’ he reminded.
‘He just won’t like it. He’ll feel insulted and people will be looking at him wondering why he isn’t going to his only child’s wedding. Then the rumours will start and people will start asking questions again about all the things Russell told Shooting Stars magazine,’ Freya told him.
‘The truth, you mean.’
‘Yes, the truth. But dealing the truth was too much of a price to pay and it was over. But now? God, why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?’ She wiped at her eyes, then put her fingers in her mouth to chew the nails.
‘Come on, babe, it’s going to be fine. Look, if you’re really worried, let me sort it out. I’ll get Sandra on to it. We’ll issue a statement telling everyone you were misquoted and we’ll cut this off before it has a chance to do any damage, to us or your father,’ he said, running a hand through Freya’s hair.
‘It’s too late; it’s done and he won’t let it go again.’ Her voice was trembling now. That’s what that man did to her: terrified her. All the happiness and excitement she felt earlier about her wedding and choosing a dress had all but evaporated.
The phone rang.
‘That’ll be the start of it. That will be a reporter,’ Freya stated, letting go of Nicholas and going back over to the newspaper.
‘No, it won’t. Hello,’ he greeted.
Freya looked again at the photograph on the front page of the paper and racked her brain as to who would have overheard her comment about her father.
‘Yeah, she’s here. No, that’s OK, I’ll just pass you over.’ He held the handset out. ‘It’s Sasha.’
She took the phone and he put a strong arm around her, kissing her cheek.
‘Listen, I’m going to grab a shower. Don’t worry about it, OK? I’ll deal with it, I promise.’ He squeezed her free hand. ‘Oh, and these letters are for you too. One of them looks like it’s from a shopping channel.’ He passed her the rest of her mail and left the kitchen.
She put the phone to her ear and raised her shoulder to keep it in place as she opened the first letter.
‘Hello, Sasha. Is the office on fire?’
‘No. Sorry to call you at home again but I’ve had journalists calling already this morning asking about your father. I just wondered what, if anything, you wanted me to say.’
‘Nothing, just say nothing. I know that’s something I usually can’t manage but I’m sure you’re far more adept at it.’ She let out a sigh and took the letter from the envelope.
‘You don’t sound surprised they’ve been calling. Has something happened? Is everything OK?’
‘I’m headline news again. That’s what’s happened. Good photograph but terrible article.’ She looked at the letter in her hands and couldn’t stop herself from reacting. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Freya? Are you OK?’
Freya stared at the letter. There was one word stuck onto the piece of paper, made out of newspaper cuttings.
Bitch
Freya stared at the word, then turned the piece of paper over to look at the reverse side. It was blank.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Sorry, I’m still here.’ She folded up the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her robe.
‘So, what shall I tell the journalists?’
‘Nothing. Say I have no comment to make. Listen, I probably won’t be in this morning. What’s in the diary?’ She picked up The Gazette.
‘Diana Farrington at ten. Miles Blake at eleven-thirty and Jonathan Sanders at one.’
‘Right, well postpone Diana. Do you think you could see Miles? I’ll make it for one.’
‘No problem. Are you sure everything’s OK?’
‘I’m fine, honestly. I’ll see you later.’
She ended the call and put the phone down on the countertop. One shaky breath later and she felt like passing out. It was starting all over again.