to show his love for you.’ She put on her earnest voice. ‘Moving into a church. It’s all a bit Jesus-y. Is he on a twelve-step programme or something?’
‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with twelve steps,’ Freya snapped defensively.
Emily guessed that was a yes, then. She said nothing as Freya ploughed on.
‘There’s a lot more going on than simply falling on a sword.’ She started ticking things off on her fingers. ‘A. He’s not sacrificing himself. He may have started working for his brother as a means of getting through this rough patch, but we made the decision to move as a family.’
‘I thought you said Cameron was a twat.’
‘He is, but …’ Freya glared at her then ticked off another finger. ‘B. Selling the house repays a substantial amount of Cameron’s generous assistance which means we only have to tolerate him lording it over Monty for another year or two rather than eternity. C? Monty’s working on the Hawkesbury development because he likes it. He’s an excellent carpenter. If you remember, he did most of the work on the kitchen.’ Freya flung her arm out and cracked her knuckles on a cupboard door that was sagging on its hinges. She shot Emily a look that dared her to say anything. ‘D, E, and F? They’ve deconsecrated the church, God is a myth created to bolster the patriarchal hierarchy and none of it matters anyway because you know as well as I do that Monty and I are agnostics.’
Emily tapped the side of her nose. ‘Best to keep that quiet when you move into the house of the lord.’
Freya scowled and swept some of her curls back from her forehead. Emily could see at least an inch of grey working its way into Freya’s hairline. It was the first time she’d known Freya not to have kept up with her appearance. Money must be extra tight if she was forgoing her trips to the hairdresser’s.
‘Anyway,’ Freya sniffed. ‘By doing the townhouses, Monty and Cam are preserving a “building at risk”, not a church.’
Oh, honestly.
‘When Prince went by symbol and Kanye wanted to be Ye, they were still Prince and Kanye. It’s a church, Freya. You’re going to be living in an as-yet-to-be-built townhouse in a church. With a massive loan hanging over your head. It’s hardly the philanthropic preservation of an old building. It’s survival. I thought the whole point of the move was to start being honest.’
Freya gave the tiniest of nods, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she flicked her hair back into submission. Again.
‘Like I said, Monty’s working on the townhouses. The bulk of his salary will go towards the situation with his brother. I’ll be building up my business in the artist’s co-operative—’
Emily cut her off. ‘Freya! If this whole thing is the fresh start you claim it is, you may as well start calling things by their actual names. Debts. Loans. Churches. What Monty is doing is virtually indentured servitude. What you’re doing is … I don’t even know what the name of it is. Madness? Insanity? I know you love him, but letting Monty put you all at risk a second time? Bonkers.’
Freya lashed out. ‘I’ve taken over the finances again. I’m dealing with all of the paperwork. I’m finding schools for the children. Giving up my shop. I’m changing everything so that our family can find a way to work to the best of all our abilities. I’m not kicking him out the door just because he cocked up. We both did.’
Emily gave Freya her best ‘I’m saying this because I’m your friend’ face. ‘It seems to me, you’re the only one making sacrifices to fix what Monty’s done.’
Freya lost her cool. ‘I thought you came over here to help, not rip me to shreds. The house is sold! The deal’s been made. I’m trying to keep my fucking family together, all right?’
Emily stuffed the healthy crisps/potpourri into the bin bag. Freya was right. It was her decision to make. Even if it was completely mental. ‘Hey. As long as you’re happy.’
‘I am happy,’ Freya ground out. ‘I have my husband back. The children are looking forward to us all living together again. Dumbledore’s excited.’
‘Who?’
‘Our dog!’ Freya shouted. ‘Dumbledore. You packed his poo bags about twenty minutes ago! Do you listen to anything I say at all?’ And then she burst into tears.
Uh-oh. This was unusual. There was obviously more going on here than Monty being an eejit with the joint account. Emily steeled herself and asked, ‘Want to talk about it?’
Freya sniffed and wiped her face on the sleeve of her T-shirt. A plain green one. ‘No.’ And then, ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t not pay the bills. Monty’s a lovely man, but the ball is in his court on this one, lady.’
‘No, seriously. It actually is my fault. Or a lot my fault,’ she acquiesced when Emily tried to interrupt her. In a steadier voice she explained, ‘The business hasn’t been going well for ages. Instead of facing up to it or changing tack I’ve just been barrelling on hoping it will all come good. Monty’s been struggling to pay whatever he could with less and less and I guess, in his own fucked-up way, taking out all those credit cards and ignoring the mountain of debt was his way of making sure I didn’t have to worry about it so I could focus on the business.’ She swiped away a fresh wash of tears. ‘I was going to talk to him about making some changes a while back but then Mum died and …’ she threw up her hands. ‘Life.’
Emily nodded. It made more sense now. She still wasn’t sure miring them in massive debt was something she’d forgive quite so easily, but even with her heart of stone, she could see that the pair of them had been trying to do what they thought best. Poor Freya. And, she supposed, poor Monty. The phrase ‘clouded judgement’ sprang to mind. A mental pea-souper more like. ‘Is Monty still seeing the counsellor?’
Freya shook her head. ‘It took a couple of goes to find one who was a good fit. I’m seeing one too and, of course, we’ve still got a few more sessions with the debt therapist, but …’ Freya made a noise that was hard to read. Did she actually want out but felt duty bound to stand by her man?
‘A lot of people would’ve left him.’
‘I’m not a lot of people.’ Freya knotted the bin bag tightly and marched off towards the hallway.
Emily looked round the large open-plan kitchen/living space she knew Freya loved and tried to see things from her perspective. If she stayed in London she’d be facing a life of endless penury and, most likely, bankruptcy. Being a single mother would be exhausting. Freya’s art embodied joy and whimsy. She wouldn’t feel either of those things if she tried to press on through. She supposed she could always move back to Scotland. Her brother and father would be over the moon if she moved back.
Freya slammed the door shut then stomped back into the room.
Uh-oh. She had her lecture face on. Emily took a swig of lukewarm wine. It too had a tang of potpourri.
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