if it’s in London that doesn’t have to stop you from being friends. So you do have one.’
‘I guess...’
Alison smirked, because she knew Freya well, and from the little flush on her cheeks it was clear to her he was more than just a friend.
‘It’s just a temporary thing,’ said Freya.
‘Why?’
‘Because temporary is all he does.’
‘But that’s not like you.’ Alison frowned.
‘Well, maybe it is. Look, we’ve been out a couple of times, and both of us know that it won’t be going any further, and that actually suits me just fine.’
‘Why?’ Alison asked again.
‘It just does,’ Freya said, and gave an uncomfortable shrug.
She wasn’t ready to tell Alison she was thinking of coming home for good once her contract was up, but thankfully then their meals arrived.
The lamb was delectable and the conversation became easier. Alison chatted about her and Callum’s tenth wedding anniversary, which was soon coming up.
‘Can you believe it?’
‘Not really.’ Freya laughed. ‘It feels like just a couple of years ago that I was your bridesmaid.’
‘Are you coming home for your thirtieth?’ Alison asked.
‘I think so,’ Freya said. ‘Though I’m doing all I can not to think about that.’
They had a wonderful night catching up. Although not about the things that hurt.
As Freya walked down the hill for home the air was salty, and despite the late hour the sky was still dusky. It was so much lighter here than in London. But autumn would soon close in.
It was one of the reasons she’d come home.
Tomorrow she had to speak to the estate agent about house prices and things, as soon the families renting for summer breaks would fade away and her little slice of potential heaven would be going on the market.
It would be a relief, Freya told herself. The rentals covered the mortgage, but there was a lot of work to be done on her home.
A lot.
She let herself in and smiled at the pretty flowers she’d set by the window. Then she made herself a hot chocolate, frothing the milk in her coffee machine, and took herself to bed.
Freya rarely closed the curtains. There was nothing between her little cottage and the water, and the sight of the bridges always had her in awe. They were miles away, of course, but it looked as if fairy lights had been expertly strung in the sky, and the new Queensferry Crossing was magnificent.
Tomorrow she was catching up with a few friends, and then there was a huge Sunday dinner at her parents’ house to look forward to.
And then she thought about Alison and what she’d said about ‘temporary’ not usually suiting her. Perhaps now it did.
She took out her phone and read again the text he had sent.
Freya liked Richard.
A lot.
From the moment she had first seen him he had captivated her.
Yet she wanted to keep things breezy and light.
Or rather, she had to.
And not just because Richard Lewis had told her that it was the only way they could be. It was also because this place was home. Not London.
Freya had made up her mind now—she would not be selling her home.
* * *
He’d noticed her lack of response to his text.
Of course he had.
Richard had been moving through Security at Heathrow when he’d fired it off, and had regretted the simple message the second after he’d hit ‘send’.
He did not report in to anyone—certainly not about things like interviews—and, furthermore, he loathed the cascade of texts that all too often came when he was seeing someone.
When he’d collected his phone on the other side of Security he’d seen that she hadn’t responded.
Good, he’d told himself. A mistake had been made, but a lesson had been learnt, he’d decided as he had boarded the plane.
‘Phones to be turned off now, please,’ the steward said, but Richard had checked his again before he did so.
Four hours later, as he stood at Moscow airport, even though the very reason for his trip was to get away from the constant buzz of pagers and phones, he found himself turning it on.
No, she had not replied.
Freya could not have known the effect on him.
It made him want her more.
And that did not sit well with Richard.
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