Our Little Secret(55)

“That’s fine,” my mother breezed. “Whatever suits best.”

Freddy sat down beside Mom and me as we watched the sun dip behind the embankment. Its globe glittered away to nothingness, leaving only scurrying people on the riverbank, oblivious to the insignificance of their lives. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t hold back my tears.

“Angela, good heavens, you’re upset!” Freddy said, hunching low to get a good look at me. “What on earth’s the matter?” He put his arm around my shoulders, and it spilled out of me then, my worst, deepest fear. I couldn’t help it.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

He laughed as if I were making a joke.

“I think I might have something serious, like a personality disorder.”

Freddy shifted deeper into the couch cushion, squashing me down. “Well, that’s no biggie,” he said. “Haven’t we all.”

“Angela, you’re . . . fine. You’re doing just fine,” my mother said. “You were too involved, you know, too vulnerable, and Saskia was not protecting you. This too shall pass. Maybe now you can finally . . .”

“Move on?” Freddy offered.

“Yes,” my mom said. “Freddy’s absolutely right.”

I paused, letting their words sink in. I looked from Freddy’s face to Mom’s, and what I saw there was new and unfamiliar. Their eyebrows arched with the same concern. Had they always had these expressions? Was it just that I’d never looked properly?

“I’ve been thinking the past few days about the choices I’ve made lately, and . . . I’m scared. I don’t know how else to put it.” My nose ran and I wiped it with the back of my sleeve. Freddy pulled his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blazer and passed it to me.

“Are you talking about sleeping with HP?” he said. “Because if you ask me, it’s totally understandable. A mistake, for sure. But now you’ve got it out of your system.”

“We didn’t sleep together. He doesn’t even want me. Probably never did. Oh, God, I’m such an idiot.” I thought for a moment about the rich luxury of HP’s sheets, the quiet of the house before it all went wrong. Pressure built at my temples like heat.

“You are not an idiot. You’re my girl,” Mom said, running a hand over my hair and tucking a strand behind my ear.

I thumped my thigh with a clenched fist. “I need it to stop. I can’t live like this anymore—obsessed with all the wrong things. Why can’t I be like everyone else, just living a normal life?”

Mom took my hand, even though it was damp with misery. “You’re all worked up. You need to calm down.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Mom, there is no calm! I need help. I’ve got spiders in my brain and they won’t stop crawling.”

“Okay, let’s not panic,” Freddy said. “I mean, how many webs can a spider weave? Now you realize something new about yourself. So that’s good. And . . . And I’m right here.” He clasped me to him.

“You’re not helping. It’s not just about HP. It’s about a family I found a place in.” Freddy looked at my mother, and something passed between them that I couldn’t quite catch. “It’s about HP and Olive, being part of their lives. That’s over now. Gone.”

“I can see this is upsetting.” Freddy tapped his forefinger to his lip. “How can we help sort this out for you?”

“I’m just a tragic sad sack, pining after someone who doesn’t want me my whole life. It’s turned me into something I’m not.”

Mom shifted like the sofa was prickly. “Just try to be a bit kinder to yourself, darling,” she said.

“I’m tired.” I blew my nose loudly. “I’m tired of chasing the wrong things.”

“You are being a little bit dramatic,” Freddy said. “And very defeatist. You haven’t turned into something you’re not.”

“Olive thinks I’m the witch in the story.”

“Olive’s five. She thinks monsters live under the bed,” Mom said.

“But she’s right. I’ve wanted to hurt Saskia. I’ve wanted her gone.”

Freddy bit his lip. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps when you get to that level, it might be considered a bit . . .”

“Obsessive,” my mother said. “But, darling, I thought you’d gotten all your serious hate out years ago. Those manifestations you wrote, all that anger put into a jar . . .”

Freddy leaned in close to my neck, still holding his champagne glass. “Do you want me to have Saskia killed? I really don’t like her, either. What a cow.” He pressed the base of the flute against his knee so the crystal rotated, catching new light. “I’ve got all manner of contacts—all of them ex-military-contractor types.”

“What, contract killers?”

“I could have her dead by tomorrow, around midday,” he said. “Say the word—they’ll send me her head in a fancy hatbox. I’ll make a few calls on my hotline. Your mum can help out, right, take care of the sordid details?” He winked at Mom, then at me.

“Of course I could,” Mom chimed. “Anything for my precious, exceptional daughter.”