The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,41

guilty conscience. Brian’s would take more time.

I grabbed a bottle of pinot noir and poured myself a large glass.

28

low

Revealing Freya’s pregnancy secret to Jamie had not turned out as I’d hoped. I thought Jamie would feel jealous and betrayed, that the ruse would blow up their friendship. I imagined Jamie calling Freya selfish and insensitive, a lying, duplicitous bitch. Her outrage would drive Freya back into my waiting arms. But somehow, Freya had explained away her deceit, had charmed Jamie and won her over. To my chagrin, their friendship seemed to have deepened with the baby news. Jamie acted like an excited aunt. And I was the one left feeling envy and betrayal.

I knew from my parking-lot surveillance at the Blue Heron that the two women met for lunch regularly. I’d also seen them walking into the coffee shop on a number of occasions when I just happened to be driving by. Freya had gone to a yoga retreat for a couple of weeks, but she spent most of her holiday texting with my employer. Jamie stood with her elbows on the counter, tapping away at her phone and giggling. When I joined her behind the till under the auspices of fetching a dustcloth, she hurriedly tucked her phone away, but not before I saw Freya’s name on the screen. Upon Freya’s return, Jamie asked me to man the shop for a couple of days so she and Freya could take the ferry to the mainland to buy baby paraphernalia.

Freya still hated me, perhaps more now than ever. On top of squatting on her property and sticking my nose into her dish-throwing business, I’d broken her trust by revealing her secret. There was no point trying to contact her. She would only reject me, hurt me, crush my fragile spirit. Sometimes, I was still angry over her cruel words and my smashed pinch pots, but mostly, I just wanted her to let me back in. My logical mind told me to let her go, to move on, but my heart pined for reconciliation.

In order to maintain both my distance and connection to Freya and Max, I spent most of my days at the library in town. Our family PC was in the kitchen, and I required privacy (or at least anonymity) for the internet research I was doing. In the afternoons, I sat at one of the library’s four computers and googled Maxime Beausoleil and Freya Light. I didn’t read the toxic news stories about Max’s deadly hit, the contentious lawsuit, Freya’s fall from social media grace. They were all lies, Freya had told me, all skewed to make the gorgeous couple out to be villains. Instead, I selected “Images,” and pored over numerous photos of the attractive pair at galas and fundraisers, at Trader Joe’s or leaving the gym. I sifted through pictures of Max on the ice, of Freya’s endorsement deal with a short-lived vitamin water company, my emotions rocketing from longing to loss, from adoration to misery.

The three to four hours I spent gazing at their images online each day makes it sound like an unhealthy fixation. But I was getting on with my own life, too. For my November birthday, my parents had given me a high-end digital camera. It was secondhand but still in great condition. Though I had never explained the demise of my potting career, my family recognized my need for a creative outlet. And they provided for me.

Vik had taken some professional concert photos. We talked about perspective and lighting and use of space. I was mildly enthusiastic. Maybe reigniting my love for photography would be a way forward for me. I was already thinking less about Freya, spending less time staring at her likeness at the library or on my phone. Photography was an excellent distraction. At least it was supposed to be.

How could I have known it would lead me back to her?

29

jamie

Over the next few weeks, I became Freya’s personal assistant. We took a trip to Seattle to pick out baby furniture. We painted the walls of the planned nursery a pale buttery yellow. (I did most of the painting; Freya didn’t want to breathe the paint fumes, and Max was away dealing with some business.) I bought Freya baby books, and when she wouldn’t read them, I read them myself and provided a verbal summary. There were back rubs and foot massages; casseroles and spur-of-the-moment ice cream deliveries. I still felt the ache and longing for a child