‘Will you be okay if I go and put the kettle on?’ he said, the sound of his voice making me jump. ‘And pass your clothes through, I’ll put them in the wash.’
‘All right,’ I said, a gravelly whisper. I was about to lose my voice completely. It reminded me of when it had happened, the next day when the police were trying to interview me, and I couldn’t speak. I’d been screaming for three days. They had to wait days before my voice came back enough for me to be able to talk to them properly. By that time, of course, he’d done a lot of talking too.
I dressed in the T-shirt and the trousers he’d left for me. They felt peculiar, so baggy that I had to hold the waistband up as they kept slipping off. I felt half-naked, especially as my arms were still on display. The scars were bad. I didn’t want him to see them. On the back of the bathroom door was a towelling robe, navy blue. When I put it on, it went round me almost twice, and reached almost to the floor. That would do.
I met him in the kitchen. The washing machine was swirling round with my clothes inside it. There was a faint smell of some sort of disinfectant. He put a cup of tea on the kitchen table and I sat there, my bare feet feeling the strangeness of the tiled floor. I’d never taken my socks off inside his flat before, let alone my whole set of clothes.
‘Do you want to talk?’ he said.
‘I don’t think I can,’ I whispered.
‘Can you tell me what they said on the phone?’
I considered this, testing the words out inside my head before I let them out. ‘She said he’s being released on the 28th.’
‘The man who attacked you?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘Okay. Well done,’ he said, as though I was a star pupil who’d just completed a complicated maths equation.
‘She said he was going to an address in Lancaster. She thinks he won’t come down here.’
‘Does he know where you live?’
‘I don’t think so. I moved. I moved three times. There’s only one person other than the police who knew me then – Wendy.’
‘Do you think Wendy might be in any danger?’
I thought about this for a moment, then shook my head. ‘I don’t think he knows we became friends. I never spoke to her until the day she found me. After that he was arrested. She did testify at the trial, though. ‘
I drank some of my tea. It hurt the back of my throat, but it felt magical. I felt myself calming down almost straight away.
‘You’re going to be okay,’ he said, gently. ‘You’re safe now. He’s never going to hurt you again.’
I tried to smile. I wanted to believe him, I wanted to trust him. No, I did trust him, after all, I was sitting in his kitchen wearing his clothes and a robe. ‘You can’t promise that.’
He considered this, and replied, ‘No, I can’t promise you that. But you’re not on your own with this any more. And you can choose to turn away from this evil man, and keep on getting better and stronger every day until you’re not afraid any more, or you can let him carry on hurting you. It’s a choice you can make.’
I was smiling, despite myself.
‘Are you going to stay here tonight?’ he asked.
I thought of the options. I wanted to go home and start checking the flat, but at the same time I was afraid. I was afraid of going home. I was afraid of being anywhere without Stuart.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘No, I don’t mind. You need your comfy bed,’ I said, indicating his shoulder.
‘You freaked out last time you slept on my sofa.’
‘I think I’m less likely to freak out on your sofa than I am if I woke up and I was in your bed.’
‘As long as you’re sure. Are you hungry?’
I wasn’t, but the casserole he had put in the oven hours ago was still simmering away, so we ate it from bowls on our laps, with chunks of bread to dip in the gravy. It was hot and spicy and it stung my throat. But it tasted good. He’d brought the bottle of wine that I’d never got around to opening, and we drank that.
‘Probably not a good idea really,’ Stuart said, finishing his first glass of wine.
‘What isn’t?’
‘The alcohol. You’ve had a rough evening, and I need to be wide awake to cook Christmas lunch tomorrow.’
‘It’s nice, though.’
He turned to me and smiled. I thought he looked bone-tired, his eyes shadowed. ‘At work today I just kept thinking that tonight I was going to come home and get drunk.’
‘Why?’
‘Last Christmas was a bit crap, to be honest. I’m trying to get over it. Of course, getting pissed isn’t the answer, but I thought it might help.’
‘What happened last Christmas?’
He poured himself some more wine and topped up my glass, although I’d only had a few sips. ‘It was when it all started to go wrong with Hannah.’
‘Your fiancée?’
He nodded. ‘I did Christmas dinner. There were four of us – me and Hannah, and her brother Simon and his girlfriend Rosie. Simon was my best mate at uni, that’s how I’d met Hannah. We’d just about finished eating and Han got a call on her mobile. She wasn’t supposed to be on-call, but she told me it was an emergency and she was going in anyway. Simon had a real go at her, told her off, she told him to piss off and got her coat and she was gone. Simon was just so mad, I couldn’t work it out, I kept telling him to leave it. It got really awkward, they left a bit after that and I was on my own until she came home again, three o’clock in the morning. I fell asleep on the sofa waiting up for her.’
He turned to look at me, frowned at the memory. ‘Shit Christmas, it was, really. Turns out she’d promised him she was going to spend Christmas Day with him, the man she was seeing. Simon knew all about it. He was on the verge of telling me, apparently; that’s why Rosie made him leave. She didn’t want to spoil my Christmas.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Not till July.’ He leaned back on the sofa, finished the glass of wine. ‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ he said decisively.
He washed up the bowls while I watched the late news, then he fetched his duvet from the bedroom and wrapped it round me. It was huge.
‘I’ve got a sleeping bag in the wardrobe,’ he said. ‘You have this.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I caught his eye for a moment and I felt my heart quicken. If he’d tried to kiss me again I don’t know what I would have done. But he just smiled and went back to the bedroom. I listened to him pottering around the flat, turning off lights in the kitchen and turning on the light in the hallway, and I lay back on his sofa under the warm soft pile of duvet that smelled of washing powder and, faintly, of his aftershave. I never thought for one moment that I was going to be able to sleep. I lay there and thought about not sleeping, right up until the moment that I slept.
Saturday 17 January 2004
Sylvia’s party was at the Spread Eagle, a favourite pub that had been the scene of many great nights out over the years. Sylvia had had an on-off relationship with the manager, more off than on, but they’d managed to stay friends in between arguments.
We got a cab to the Spread Eagle, and Lee was in a foul mood.
‘Look, we don’t have to stay long if you don’t like it. Seriously. Just an hour or two, okay?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
If it hadn’t been for the fact that he looked so good, I might just have told him to fuck off. I couldn’t decide if he looked best suited up, shaved and smelling divine, or if I preferred him in jeans and in need of a wash. He was halfway between the two extremes tonight, jeans and a navy blue shirt that made his eyes look brighter and bluer than ever, and – at least – clean. And as we headed for the door, bracing ourselves against the racket that was emanating from within, he took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
It was all because of that stupid dress.
When he emerged from the shower, towelled dry and boldly naked, strolling into my
bedroom with that swagger of confidence that only a man with his sort of physique could pull off, I was wriggling into my black velvet dress.
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’
He slipped his hands around my waist, pressing the length of his body against me.
‘Clearly,’ I said, amused.
‘Why not the red one?’
‘Because we’re only going to the Spread Eagle. It’s a pub. And not a very posh one, either. I can’t wear a red satin dress, I’d look seriously overdone.’
He looked into the open wardrobe, then, and took the red satin dress from its hanger, a bright shiny jewel amongst all the blacks and purples. I thought for a moment he was going to throw it across to me, but instead he sat on the bed, undoing the buttons at the back of it, one by one.
‘Lee?’
It was as if he’d forgotten I was there. He stood up beside me and buried his face into my neck, running his tongue along my skin, breathing into my ear and making all the hairs on my whole body stand up on end. ‘Wear the red one,’ he said softly.
‘Lee, I can’t. Really. What’s wrong with this one?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. But you look good in red.’
‘I look alright in black, too,’ I said, contemplating our reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door. ‘Don’t I?’
He ran a hand up the top of my leg, round to the front, making me melt. Then the other hand pulling up my dress – and before I realised it, he’d pulled me over to the bed and pulled my dress back up over my head. I fell backwards onto the duvet, laughing, as he blew raspberries on my bare tummy and wrestled me out of the sleeves.
I let him undress me. I let him devote all his attention to my body for another half-hour, then, when he’d dressed and gone downstairs, I put the black dress on again and was ready just as the cab arrived outside. He didn’t speak to me all the way to the pub.
Tuesday 25 December 2007
When I opened my eyes on Christmas morning, the sun was shining in through the window, onto my face, making me think it was summer. I could hear Stuart in the kitchen, rattling pans, and I suddenly remembered it was Christmas, and that Alistair was going to turn up in a few hours’ time.
He noticed me sitting up. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Happy Christmas.’ He’d got his jeans on, and a frayed grey T-shirt. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I’d better get up,’ I said, still snuggled in the duvet up to my neck.
He came and sat on the sofa next to me, wincing a bit when his shoulder twisted. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, his eyes on me, ‘I can ring Alistair and cancel if you like.’
‘What? Cancel Christmas?’
‘If you’re feeling like you’d rather be on your own, you know. After yesterday. I’m sure he’d be okay.’
I smiled at him. ‘That’s kind, but I’ll be fine. Really.’
I pulled the duvet up a bit, suddenly conscious of how little I was still wearing. Memories of being sick and having a panic attack last night were coming back to me. ‘Better get dressed, then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do you want me to go downstairs and find you some clothes, or are the ones you had on yesterday okay? They’re all clean.’
I thought about going downstairs to my flat, and being on my own while I scouted out something to wear. If it hadn’t been for the sunshine, I think I would have needed him to come with me. I looked at the window, the sunlight streaming through. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this.
‘I’ll be alright, I think. I’ll just go and get dressed and then I’ll come back up.’
‘Bring some stuff back with you,’ he said, getting up.
‘Stuff?’
‘You know, toothbrush and stuff. I mean, if you wanted to stay tonight.’
I wasn’t going to stay tonight. In fact, he’d be lucky if I ever managed to leave the flat again. I was going to be spending at least the next two hours checking, I thought, carrying my work clothes, neatly folded, and my shoes balanced on top, down the chilly stairs.
The flat was okay. Cold, because normally I’d be at work by now and the central heating goes off at six. The curtains were fine, the way I’d left them; everything in the flat was as it should be. I worked my way round, checking, thinking how peculiar it was doing this wearing nothing but Stuart’s T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, loose around the middle.
Once I’d managed to check three times, I had a shower to warm me up a bit and washed my hair back into some sort of reasonable shape. I looked through my wardrobe, wondering if I actually possessed anything any more that didn’t make me look as if I was in my fifties, or trying to hide in a pile of shapeless fabric.
In the end I found a black fitted top that I usually wore under my suit at work, a black skirt that was short enough to be quite daring. And some black tights. I looked like a trainee ninja. Finally, at the back of the drawers, a pale pink cashmere cardigan. At least that would cover up the scars on my arms. Instead of buttoning it, I tied it at the waist.
I looked sadly at all my sensible shoes, all perfectly suitable for wearing under trousers, all just right if I ever felt the need to break into a sprint, but not exactly alluring.
Hell, I didn’t need shoes anyway, I was only going upstairs.
I rubbed my hair dry with the towel and found some make-up, just a little, I didn’t want to scare him, after all. After all that, I had a look in the mirror. I looked very strange, and very thin. Not like me at all. If he does come looking for me, I thought, he’ll be lucky to recognise me.
I didn’t want to think about that. I found a bag and stuffed a few essentials into it, toothbrush, joggers and a T-shirt, clean underwear. Just enough so I didn’t need to come back downstairs later, if I didn’t want to.
I put the bag right by the door so it would be handy, and started checking.
Saturday 17 January 2004
The Spread Eagle was full of people, most of them friends of Sylvia’s from the Lancaster Guardian. The noise levels were immense and there was even a DJ, although the music was actually being drowned out by the shouts and laughter. Judging by the noise and the state of those present, they’d been drinking for most of the day.
Sylvia, who was holding court at the bar, looked even more beautiful and exotic than usual in a magenta skirt and an emerald-green silk blouse that matched her eyes, open to a low enough button to reveal a good portion of cleavage and a glimpse of cherry-coloured bra. When she saw me, she gave a shriek, peeled herself away from the men in suits either side of her, and tottered over to give me a cuddle. She smelled of expensive perfume, gin and pork scratchings.
‘Oh, my GOD! Can you believe this? I’m actually fucking going to the DAILY MAIL!’
There was a bit of mutual jumping up and down, and then I remembered Lee, and stepped aside.
Sylvia stepped forward with her best coy smile, gave Lee her hand and made a delicate little curtsey. ‘Hello again, Lee.’
To his credit, Lee gave her one of his smiles and kissed her on the cheek. This clearly wasn’t enough for Sylvia, who put her arms around his neck and honoured him with a cuddle. He looked at me over Sylvia’s shoulder and gave me a wink.
After that, he seemed to relax. I flitted about the pub, talking to various people I knew, drinking far more than I should have, accepting drinks from people I knew vaguely and some I’d never seen before in my life. From time to time I caught sight of Lee, and each time he seemed fine, talking to Carl Stevenson mainly, who’d been Sylvia’s editor when she first joined the paper. Later on, I saw him in a group with Sylvia, who was partly talking to him and partly to the rest of the crowd. He saw me looking and gave me a smile and another wink.
So much for an hour, I thought to myself, watching with amusement as Lee stood at the bar, chatting away animatedly to Len Jones, the chief crime correspondent. He was the one who had pursued Sylvia relentlessly, back in the summer, despite the existence of Mrs Annabel Jones who had more than once threatened to castrate him wi
th a pair of nail scissors.
I sidled up to Lee at the bar and snuggled under his arm.
In response he gave me a beery kiss just above my ear.
‘Ah, you never said this lovely young vixen was yours!’ said Len, raising a sloppy pint in my direction.
‘Hello, Len,’ I said.
‘Cath, my little sexpot. How are you? And why haven’t you been to talk to me?’
‘I came over just to talk to you now, in fact,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all to do with the fact that I was hoping Lee might buy me another drink.’
He took the cue and shouted over the bar, handing over a tenner and getting me a vodka in exchange, while Len muttered something about going for a piss.
‘You having a good time, then?’ I asked, loudly, in his ear.
He nodded, meeting my eyes. I was getting very good at reading him. I could tell pretty much exactly what he was thinking, and it made my legs feel weak. Without taking my eyes off his, I put my hand deliberately on the front of his jeans and felt how hard he was. I gave him an appraising squeeze, watched his eyes close and his skin flush, then let him go and swallowed some of my drink.
‘You are such a fucking tease,’ he growled into my ear.
‘Wait till I get you home,’ I said.
His look told me he wasn’t prepared to wait that long.
To be honest, I was enjoying the teasing part of it all a bit too much. I went to have a dance with Sylvia, who’d taken off her Louboutins and was dancing barefoot on the grotty bit of laminate that passed for a dance floor.
I saw him watching us, and Sylvia saw it too, pulling me over and giving me a good full-on snog.
‘You’re such a bloody minx, Sylvia!’ I shouted at her, when she finally let go.
‘Give over,’ she shouted back. ‘No chance of a threesome before I fuck off down to London, then?’
I laughed and cast him a glance. The look on his face was priceless. ‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘what do you think he’d say if I asked him?’
She snaked an arm round my waist and we both turned to have a good look at him. ‘He’s fucking lovely!’ she yelled.
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