I’m getting the hang of photographers, I think and I wink at Lorraine.
Finally I’m back in my normal clothes, everyone is clearing out except Nina and Lorraine and the journalist is waiting. We’ve talked before, she’s a nice woman: Stephanie Robson, clever, one of those people who treat your words with respect and quote you accurately because she tapes everything. But she works for a tough newspaper which takes no prisoners. Neither of our jobs are easy here.
‘You guys don’t have to be here, do they?’ says Stephanie.
‘No, no,’ I say as if I’m totally relaxed. ‘I’ll tell you what, ladies, why don’t you go downstairs and grab a sandwich in the bar and I’ll be down when we are finished here.’ I smile at both of them, a slightly insincere smile because I know that Lorraine wouldn’t even want to get into the same lift as Nina. But they exit anyway and I’m left alone.
The interview rolls along swimmingly for a while. And Stephanie asks one of those questions I always find impossible to answer.
‘What keeps you going, Freya?’ she says. ‘You’ve moved house, you’ve got small children, you’ve got a daughter in secondary school, you run a business, you travel. How do you manage it all?’
This time I have practised.
I say, ‘I’m grateful in the morning.’ I look her straight in the eye, because it’s true. And I almost hate myself for saying this, ‘I do yoga in the morning. It’s completely fabulous.’
Well, it might be if you actually did it.
It’s over, I think, glancing at my watch. I’ve nailed it.
But I haven’t.
‘And Freya, I hate asking you about this as I know you haven’t spoken about it before, but you had a horrible experience this year, can you tell us about it?’
Nina.
That bitch. You should fire her. No! Kill her.
Relax, Mildred, I sigh, thinking: if it has to happen, it’s got to happen my way.
I get up and go to the coffee thermos that’s been there all morning and that everyone has been ignoring in favour of flat whites and Americanos. The stuff’s probably awful at this stage but I don’t care.
‘Want one?’ I ask Stephanie.
She nods cautiously, probably wondering if I’m going to bail on her and not answer.
I get us two coffees and take a deep drink of mine.
‘I didn’t want to talk about this and I’ll tell you why,’ I say. ‘In the past four months, since I was mugged, I’ve met people who’ve been victimised in every way and they are doing their best to get on with their lives. Compared to some of what people on this planet go through, being shoved onto the ground of a parking garage is nothing. Yes, it was horrible. Yes, I was scared.’
Stephanie is watching me now, fascinated as her story unrolls before her.
‘But I kept it to myself.’
‘Why?’
I smile. ‘You ask all the right questions. Because I didn’t want to make my experience on a par with what some people put up with just because I’m “famous”.’ I make air quotes with my fingers. ‘Also, if you make a career in anything that involves the media, I’ve been told ...’ I pause. This one’s for you, Nina, I think. ‘... that happiness sells. I’ve been told that people don’t want to hear about problems but when I was devastated and couldn’t work, I got fed up with all the “happy” Instagram feeds and blogs. I felt so awful that I could no longer look at people who might be pretending to be happy because I had to pretend to be happy too.’
‘Can you tell me about the attack?’ she asks.
‘I got shoved to the ground, got my collarbone broken when I tried to stop my fall, I got contusions, and yes, I was terrified. I think he was on drugs, No, nobody’s been caught and no, I don’t want all addicts hung, drawn or quartered. I imagine the person who mugged me was broken too. He broke me for a while but my family and some really good friends and my support group put me back together.’
‘And ...’
‘That’s it, Stephanie,’ I say, getting up and collecting my stuff. ‘I honestly didn’t know you knew this. That’s all I’ve got to say. Don’t make the headline “My Mugging Hell – Viking Chef Flattened”. Please.’
Suddenly, we both laugh. We know that’s pretty much exactly what it will say.
‘What’s next, then?’
