‘I’m really sorry to have to mention it—’ I am incredibly un-sorry ‘—but I think we should get changed now or we’ll be late for the start. And we’re going to be filmed.’
Freya makes a sound like a very small and high-pitched bomb exploding and disappears into her bedroom with what I can only describe as a flounce.
This is by far and away the most enjoyment I’ve had to date in her presence.
I’m halfway through the first chapter of John Buchan’sThe Thirty-Nine Stepswhen Freya finally emerges from her room dressed in army fatigues. They made us give up our phones when we arrived, telling us that we needed to focus on each other, not the outside world, which is why I am, for the second time since I met Freya, reading a new-to-me author, having chosen it from the small selection available on the shelf in the corner of the room. I’m not a big reader in general, so this is a novelty.
I’m enjoyingThe Thirty-Nine Steps, but if I’m honest, I actually enjoyed Freya’s books more. I got into them more quickly; it’s something about the way she writes.
‘John Buchan,’ she says. ‘Hmm.’
I don’t like herHmm, or the look on her face. I sense that she’s about to make some very good point that I’m going to struggle to refute.
‘Richard Hannay. He’s agreathero,’ she continues. ‘Those manly, all-action men, who always save the day. Don’t weallwant one of those in our lives? Wouldn’t those of us who are married to a man want someone like that to rescue us from any given situation? Is herealistic, though, as in can we really expect that from a real-life person?’ She steps forward and whisks the book out of my hands. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think you should be reading that. I think it should be banned. I think it might give people ideas and lead to divorce.’
‘It’s different,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘Because it isn’t specifically a romance.’
‘Oh,’ she says, with great sarcasm. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realised. I’m obviously wrong in my assumption that people lust after James Bond and Jason Bourne and all those other famous film action heroes.’
I stare at her.
Oh. My. God.
I’m having an epiphany. Oh, fuck. I think I’m going to have to apologise. To one of the most annoying women I’ve ever met.Themost annoying woman, actually.
She’s so bloody right. I’m an idiot. I’ve landed us in this entire challenge on a really stupid premise.
‘Erm, oh fuck,’ I say.
‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I was an idiot.’ I think my vision has been extremely clouded by my divorce and my wife citing Freya’s heroes.
‘Have you perhaps now understood that you were beingridiculous?’
‘Erm. Yes.’ I wrinkle my face. ‘Sorry again?’
‘Sorry? Because of yourdickheadednesswe’re about to do an army assault course that you are going to enjoy and I am going to hate, having also suffered a succession of ridiculous dates, and you’resorry?’
‘Yep,’ I confirm.
‘You owe me so fucking big it’s beyond belief.’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
She shakes her head and does some more flouncing as she leaves the room ahead of me. If I’m honest, it’s a strangely alluring flounce. Those army fatigues suit her bizarrely well, and the way her hair swooshes manically around her head as she tosses it is actually very cute. And, what,whatam I thinking?
She mutters something, and I lean forward to hear better.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I said:Stupid fucking dickhead.’
‘Fair enough.’
