Emotionally, she was all over the place, smiling non-stop while on the verge of tears. The poor little thing, she was only eighteen.
‘Rachel.’ Gingerly, she double-kissed me, as if we were meeting socially. ‘We’re so grateful for your help with Mumma.’ She plucked at my sleeve. ‘Your jumpsuit is heaven.’
She flashed an anxious grin while tears made tracks down her face. From the pocket of her chocolate-coloured twill trousers, she pulled out an actual cotton handkerchief and used it to dab her eyes.
I have to say, her look was mesmerizing. On her long, narrow feet was a pair of dark brogues polished to a high shine. A glimpse of a vest in vivid green appeared under a boxy-shouldered serge jacket, topped off with a crossbody satchel which looked like a family heirloom. She could have come straight from the Margaret Howell catwalk or from the All You Can Wear for a Tenner from her local Oxfam.
‘Jumble?’ Bronte asked, faintly, at the sight of her daughter. ‘Oh! It’s really you!’
‘Mumma!’ Freya and Bronte fell into each other’s arms, Eden hovering behind them.
‘I’m so sorry you’re in this place,’ Freya said.
‘Jumble, no.’ Bronte was dotting Freya’s face with little kisses. ‘Please don’t fret. They’re all terribly nice. But … how are you here? Have you left San Francisco?’
‘Just for today. I fly back tomorrow.’
‘You’ve come for one day? Because of me?’
‘Yes!’
Then they were both laughing and crying into each other’s faces.
All of the others were gripped.
Freya said to Dennis, ‘May I?’ And indicated his chair, which was beside Bronte’s.
‘You certainly may.’ He hopped up and crossed the room to sit next to a stony-faced Eden. Nervously, he gave him a nod and muttered, ‘Grand day for it.’
Freya was stroking Bronte’s hand and Bronte was smoothing Freya’s hair – literally grooming each other. They needed to be separated if I was to get any sense out of Freya, so Dennis was despatched back to his original seat.
When everyone had settled, I began. ‘Freya, you were thirteen when your mum went to rehab for the first time. What was it like growing up with an addict parent?’
Freya was all angles, an earnest arrangement of knees, elbows and long expressive fingers. ‘What you must understand is that Mumma is the sweetest soul. We knew she had gone to rehab but I don’t remember her ever being … whatever the word is – out of it? Stoned? High?’
Ah here. ‘Ever?’ I asked.
‘Sincerely, no. She was so much fun and so sweet, always. I’ve always felt very loved by her. So have Hugo and Gerald. We adore her.’
Funnily enough, I believed her on that.
Bronte blew kisses across the room. ‘Bisous,’ she said, tears in her eyes.
‘What-oo?’ Dennis whispered, leaning sideways into Chalkie.
‘French word for “kisses”。’ Chalkie rolled his eyes.
Not everyone with an addict for a parent was messed up. Maybe Freya was damaged in less obvious ways but I was certain that she loved her mother.
‘I’m horse-mad,’ Freya offered. ‘We both are. We – she and I – Our horses are the loves of our lives.’
‘Will you get to see Bubble while you’re here?’ Bronte interrupted.
‘Yes!’ Freya squeaked, suddenly animated. ‘I’ll pop home for a little love-in if there’s time after this.’ She glanced at Eden, who nodded.
He’d told me they were going straight to the airport from here.
‘Give her a kiss from me,’ Bronte said.
‘Of course. And I’ll visit Merryweather, shall I?’
‘Oh, please!’
Something about all this horse-love made me wonder about Freya’s career choice. ‘In San Francisco?’ I asked. ‘You’re working in a bank?’
‘Investment bank. Just for a year, before I start uni.’
‘Are you planning on being a banker? Wouldn’t you prefer to work with horses?’
‘Yah, yes. But no.’ She flicked a furtive glance at her father. ‘It’s not a career.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Surely there were all kinds of jobs in the horsey world?
‘No, not financially. No.’
I wanted to press her further but she wasn’t my client, it wasn’t my business.
‘How did you feel,’ I asked, ‘when you heard your mum had relapsed?’