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‘Fancy dress? You mean costumes?’
‘Yes, costumes. Wait until you see what you’re wearing,’ Freya said with a laugh.
‘I’m dreading it already.’
‘OK, well, wish me luck with the viper-tongued fashion designer,’ Freya said, taking her car keys from her handbag.
‘Good luck and call me. Let me know how it goes,’ he said.
‘Don’t forget, extra nudity in that script and, hold that thought until later,’ Freya said. Her suggestion was clear.
‘I certainly will.’ He kissed her lips.
‘Bye,’ Freya said. She opened the door.
‘Bye,’ Nicholas replied.
Freya stepped out onto the wooden porch and sucked in a breath. Winter wasn’t a favourite season of hers and the past month, it had been uncharacteristically cold. The next week threatened to bring snow and she knew the kind of snow they got in the US wasn’t the light dusting usually experienced in the UK.
Nick had mentioned chains and snow shoes and bulky clothes. The only good thing was snow meant Christmas had to be getting closer. She loved Christmas!
As she left the house, the photographers began to take pictures. It was one of the downsides of living with a Hollywood actor. However, she had found that by taking them an early-morning cup of tea, dressed only in a nightshirt and robe, all other photographs they took were infinitely better. And once people had seen one photograph of her in her night clothes, they weren’t really interested in another. Besides, she didn’t feel duty bound to protect her image like Nicholas did.
‘Boys, is it really necessary? You’ve had me in my Mickey Mouse pyjamas this morning. And they weren’t even my best pair,’ Freya called to them as she walked down the steps towards her car.
‘But they were very nice. I liked the ribbons,’ Donny, one of the photographers called back to her.
‘Hey Donny, if you want raw photos, I’d stick around because Nick’s dressing up tonight,’ Freya informed him.
‘Will there be leftover takeout?’
‘Don’t push it.’
She got into her red Ford Expedition and shut the door behind her. How her life had changed.
In the space of a year, she had met Nicholas Kaden, become engaged, sold her photography business in England and moved to America. She smiled as she remembered the impromptu holiday to Corfu to visit her best friend Emma – that break had changed everything.
Emma’s life had been altered forever too. She was now a wife and mother and little Melissa Susan Petroholis – two months old – was making her presence felt in the world, usually in the early hours of the morning.
But that holiday had been important for another reason. It had helped Freya leave her life as Jane Lawson-Peck completely behind. Her father, Eric Lawson-Peck was a billionaire businessman with companies all over the world and fingers in lots of pies. But he was also a monster. He had beaten Freya throughout her childhood and his treatment, coupled with the extravagant way her parents had led their lives, had culminated in Freya spending nine months in jail after setting fire to their home. She had been just eighteen.
Thankfully, that nightmare was now all in the past. Nicholas knew everything and accepted her for who she was. He also accepted her for the size she was.
Freya’s weight had always been a battle and a battle she really wasn’t interested in fighting. She loved food, she hated exercise. It was a lethal combination. She was a size twenty. She sometimes lost a few pounds, sometimes gained a few pounds but ordinarily she stuck and that was her. Take it or leave it.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to change and she was getting towards feeling comfortable with that.
Despite being devastatingly handsome, Nicholas had certain confidence issues too. He had beaten testicular cancer some years previously but had only felt able to share this information with the world after he met Freya. She had given him the strength to go public and, since broadcasting the news, they had set up the Nicholas Kaden Foundation. It raised money towards cancer research and bought vital equipment to assist in diagnosis and treatment.
Freya started up the car and drove down the gravel driveway towards the photographers at the gate.
They moved out of the way as the electronic gate swung open and she waved at them as she headed off up the road.
Now home for Nicholas and Freya was Mayleaf, a small town on the outskirts of Hollywood. When Freya had first arrived in Los Angeles, they had lived in one of Nicholas’ enormous houses in the thick of things. Freya had hated it. Despite having lived in the hustle and bustle of London, the noise and activity of life in Hollywood had not even compared.
The house itself had been a fortress. It had been full of cameras and alarms and surrounded by an electric fence. Freya hadn’t been able to live like that, so they had house-hunted.
Freya had known exactly the type of house she wanted to live in. It had been a picture she’d held in her mind from childhood when she’d been like the princess in the tower, desperate to escape. The house she saw in her mind was large and white with a big, covered, wooden porch outside the front door. It had a garden, with mature trees, a lawn and a swing. Inside it was modest, but most importantly, it was homely.
