The Time Rip (12 page)

Not just the month; the year.

She froze in place, eyes widening in horror. How could she have forgotten and how would she possibly explain it? There was no way he would miss that. No one would, let alone him.

She tried to force herself to think through the problem, but her mind continually skittered away from it. Instead, she found herself going over minor issues of space for her flower stall. Eventually she decided that until she could think of something to tell him, she would have to put off going back.

With this temporary solution in mind, she peered out the window, craning up to see the sky. It was bulging with rain once more. Not a day for jeans or soft pumps, and since she was not going to see Jeremy anyway, she settled on a short red mini teamed with hold up stockings and mid-calf length boots. The boots had a three-inch stiletto heel and coupled with the short skirt, could look tarty. With this in mind, she donned a ratty old tee shirt and then pulled on a roll neck jumper for warmth.

She swept her hair back in a ponytail and decided not to bother with make-up; the rain would only wash it off. Taking a last gulp of coffee, she snatched her coat up and bolted out the door.

Back in 1908 it was another beautiful day. Jeremy managed to get on with several jobs around the house as well as doing more work in the walled garden. Although he was disappointed not to have seen her the previous day, he was confident that once Freya turned up for her accounts he would straighten everything out and discover where she had acquired her time device.

By lunchtime, she had still not showed up and he was past believing she had used the device by accident. At first, he had wondered if she had tried to come back to him and been unable to, but he soon dismissed this thought.

It was far more likely that she knew how the device worked and had remembered her accounts had the date on them, or possibly thought he might have seen her diary. She was obviously not going to come back.

He cursed silently, thinking of her empty flat. The only other alternative, that she was stuck in time somewhere with a dodgy device, was enough to make his blood run cold.

Whatever way it had happened, he would go back to 2008 and try to find her. If, God forbid, she were lost in time somewhere, her flat and life in 2008 were as good a place as any to begin trying to figure where she might be. He would call Daniel then and have him track every damn last device that had ever gone missing if need be.

If he found her in 2008, he would have to admit that she knew what she was doing with the device, and had simply been careless with the diary and accounts.

By the time Freya arrived in London it was getting on for nine in the morning. Traffic had been heavy, but she eventually reached Portobello Road and began to unpack her stall from the van.

Her friend and fellow stallholder, Gus Celino, greeted her as she began to set up the metal buckets that would hold her flowers.

“Freya! Didn’t see you Saturday, everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure, just had some accounts to get through.”

“Ah, accounting time so soon?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She sighed a little; everything seemed to come back to the accounts. She found herself half wishing she had never given them to Jeremy. Not that he had given her much choice in the matter once she had gone to see him. She unloaded flowers from the van.

“It’s no wonder you are looking glum today, and what of the infamous Martin?” Gus raised eyebrows towards her, wandering over, hands tucked into the change pocket he wore slung around his hips.

“Martin. God, do not remind me. He’s become a real pain in the neck.” Freya kicked one of her buckets into place.

Gus shook his head at her, “You need to make things more plain to him, yes?”

“Yeah, now you sound like Janet,” she sighed again, “He’s not my most pressing problem at present though.”

“No? What is the pressing problem?”

“Oh, just a miscalculation on my part. I’m sure I’ll sort it all out.”

A customer chose that moment to wander up to Gus, and Freya went back to unloading her flowers, ready for the day’s business.

By late morning, Freya was thoroughly fed up. The stall had been quiet and she had come up with no solutions to the problem of her accounts. Instead, her mind dwelt on happier issues. She thought of Joe and his cows and chickens. She wanted to see him and hear all about his veggies and funny views on life.

She stood still, growing increasingly damp in the drizzly rain. Some stallholders had awnings or used umbrellas when it rained, but Freya simply allowed herself to get wet.

In cold weather, she added a thick waterproof coat with a hood against the rain, but in the summer she was content to let it soak slowly through her old mackintosh and into her clothes. Her flowers didn’t mind the rain, and the hassle and expense of awnings had never seemed worth it.

She continually caught herself up daydreaming and had to force her mind back to the problem of Jeremy and her accounts, but no solutions were forthcoming and the problem began to take on gigantic proportions.

Feeling mentally drained, she glanced at her fellow stallholder, “Gus, I’m going to take a break. Will you watch the stall for me?”

“Of course, Freya. Go, it is not busy today. The rain is keeping the customers away.”

“Thanks, Gus. I owe you one.”

Hands in her pockets, Freya wandered away through the market. Portobello Road was jam packed with stalls. Striped awnings stood back-to-back and tall metal shelving racks formed aisles made cramped by overflowing summer bedding plants and herbs.

She walked between narrow rows as drifts of ivy and lobelia reached down from upper shelving racks to brush her head with raindrops. Water clung to small delicate petals and shone like diamonds. The flowers, brightly coloured miniature gems half hidden by leaves.

The smell of plants took her back to childhood. Running in the park after Nathan, crying out for him to wait for her, his arms scooping her up to hug her close and spin her round; she remembered his laughter and smiled. Good times.

There were stalls selling just about everything here. Jewellery nestled on beds of rich black velvet in glass cases, and china was stacked in regal array in front of tea-sipping headmistress types, while red-faced green grocers bellowed their wares.

Freya picked past upturned orange boxes and cabbage leaves. She breathed in the bustle and belonging of this place which, in some ways, was more homely than home.

She was not aware when she began to relax; only that she was suddenly calm. Her chaotic thoughts were finally silent leaving her in blissful peace. Her mind, blank as a missed slide in a projector show. She wandered aimlessly through the market, glad for the respite.

“Freya!”

She started at the sound of her name, and felt her heart sink as she looked up. She saw Martin bearing down on her, and tightened with stress, instantly. There was no escape. She would just have to make the best of it.

“Hi, Martin. What are you doing here?” Freya tried to sound cheerful; tried not to grit her teeth at the unwanted intrusion.

“Why didn’t you call me? I left a message on your machine.” His voice was both a demand and a whine, shattering the last remnants of the peace she had briefly felt.

That
answer-phone message. What to say now? Come on, Freya, she told herself, be assertive; be diplomatic. Martin, your message was inappropriate, you are a schmuck, I hate you and I want to hang you by your ankles off a bridge. Hmm, perhaps that would be going a little past what diplomacy called for.

“Uh, I’ve been a bit busy.” And that wasn’t any better.

“I know you’re shy, but there’s no need to be, around me.” He stood close enough that she could smell toothpaste on his breath when he spoke. It was not a terrible smell; she just did not want to be that near to him. It felt like an invasion of her space.

She gritted her teeth, “I am not shy, Martin,” she said. They were walking past a pet stall now and the smell of dog biscuits and rubber was strong in the air. Freya had the horrible feeling that she was going to associate it with him for some time to come.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know, lots of girls are shy. It’s okay, I understand and I don’t mind waiting for you to grow up a bit, but it might help if you spent some time getting to know me better.”

Freya was at a loss for words. She felt her mouth drop open but was too shocked at the insult to respond to it. Grow up a bit. How dared he speak to her like that, and how was she supposed to be diplomatic when he was being so smug and patronising? Anger added to the knot of tension inside her.

He was pressing closer. Invading her personal space. “It’s not the end of the world for you to have feelings for me, you know.” He watched her closely.

A separate, analytical, part of her mind noted that when Jeremy had looked at her in that way, anger wasn’t what she had felt. On Martin, those assessing glances made her want to both punch him and get as far from him as she could.

She felt herself cringe away from him and something snapped. Rage blasted through her, cold as ice, taking her by surprise and waking her up.

Enough was enough. It did not matter if she lost a business contact. Martin had gone a long way beyond irritating and had crossed the line into creepy stalker territory.

Since subtlety and politeness clearly had no effect, she would no longer bother wasting any on him. Instead, she would do whatever it took to make him see reason, or get rid of him if it came to it. She would even get an injunction to keep him away from her if necessary, but first she would do as Janet had suggested, as any reasonable person would do.

She stopped and turned toward him slightly; drawing herself up and making her voice matter of fact.

“Martin, you’re being rude and obnoxious. I know you think that I am interested in seeing you, but you need to understand that I don’t feel that way about you.”

“It’s
okay. I know what it’s like for you girls. You don’t want to appear too keen. I understand that.”

Freya huffed, irritation making tense lines of her figure. “I’m not being coy or trying to play games. I’m just not interested in seeing you.” A brilliant line of Janet’s came into her head and she added, “What would your mother say if she knew how you are behaving?”

He laughed delightedly. “Oh, Freya, you are lovely. Okay, we’ll play it your way for now,” he said. He then began to bore her with an account of the football game she had missed, told her that he didn’t really mind eating the pizza by himself, and finally spoke of his mother and her flower decorations for his cousin’s wedding.

Freya stalked beside him, trying her hardest not to hear to any of it while seething silently. It was intensely frustrating that her attempts to be firm had so little effect on him. So much for diplomacy. Perhaps he would believe her if she kicked him in the shins and shouted that she hated his guts.

They had begun walking again and she tried once or twice, in vain, to interrupt his monologue so she could tell him to shut up and get lost. It was no use though, he seemed determined not to let her speak.

She eventually decided she would have to get lost herself, and sought a way to give him the slip. She watched him through narrow eyes until he threw his head back in laughter at some joke. Then she ducked round a stand of shirts, cast a quick glance around to ensure she was unobserved, crawled under a blue and white striped wall, and found herself in a tight corridor between back-to-back plastic awnings.

A moment later, she heard his puzzled voice calling her name, but with adrenalin at full flood she had no time for laughter and raced nimbly away.

When she judged herself to be far enough away, she crawled back through to the other side and made haste to lose herself in the crowds. In her rush, she went flying over an upturned crate, but luckily there were not many people around and she landed against the corner of a building. It stopped her falling over completely, but she skinned her palms against the rough brickwork before righting herself.