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A dark shadow appeared behind Mum, and a face bobbed into view. ‘Hello, Liv.’
‘Oh, Freya.’ I dashed my hand across my cheeks and sniffed. ‘You freaked me out for a minute. I hadn’t realised you were there.’
‘I was in the kitchen, making a cuppa.’
I tried to get my act together, calm down. ‘I love Mum’s hair; you’ve done a great job. Is there nothing you can’t turn your hand to?’
‘Missed my vocation, clearly,’ she said with a smile, as she leant onto Mum’s wheelchair, her small pale grey eyes studying me. Freya was around fifty. Her fair hair was a mass of frizzy curls, and her skin was pale, and almost line-free. ‘It was only a little trim,’ she continued, her voice soft and musical. ‘Just to keep it neat and tidy, aye, Martha?’
‘Oh it is that,’ Mum said, stroking her hair. ‘Nice and tidy, just how I like it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, knowing how good Freya was to Mum. Always popping round to see her even when she wasn’t getting paid. Taking Mum shopping, or for a coffee at the nearby café. She was a good friend to her.
‘My pleasure,’ she said, bobbing out of view. ‘We have great fun together, don’t we, Martha?’
‘We do indeed,’ Mum said, looking up. ‘Freya knows how to cheer me up.’
I felt a pang of guilt. I wasn’t good at cheering Mum up, and had just managed to make her cry. ‘Mum,’ I said, wanting to say sorry.
‘You’re breaking up, love. I can’t—’
And then she was gone, and I realised my fists were clenched into hard balls, my nails embedded into my flesh.
Why couldn’t Mum understand that Sophy had to pay for what she did?
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