The Venus Trap

by Voss, Louise

  I don’t usually swear, but knowing that he’s going to make me destroy every single photograph of Richard makes me feel like screaming every obscenity I’ve ever heard.

  ‘She’s a sweet girl. Very pretty. Looks just like her mother,’ he says, a tone of pride in his voice that makes me want to rip out his throat. He picks up one of the ten by eight prints, Megan’s school portrait from last year, and examines it carefully.

  ‘So can I keep them? All of them? She’ll be just as upset if the photos of her dad are gone . . .’

  I’m pushing my luck, I know. He throws the photo down onto the bed.

  ‘No. Those have to go. Even if Megan’s in them too. Do it.’

  Tears well in my eyes. ‘I can’t.’

  Claudio stands up. ‘You will.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘If you don’t, then I’m going to dump all the albums, and every single photo in the flat. It’s your choice. OK? And then . . .’

  I drop my head, not waiting to hear what the ‘then’ is. I’m trying to think how many of those photos are digital, and in folders on my computer, but when I look up again, I realise that I ought instead to have been thinking about Claudio, his ever-decreasing patience with me, and I see what the ‘then’ was. Because he is standing there, and from somewhere he has produced the missing belt from my towelling dressing gown, which he has wrapped around his hands and pulled taut. And he is bringing it closer to my throat . . .

  I squeal in terror and back away as far as I can.

  ‘You need to start meeting me halfway, Jo. I’ve got the impression lately that you don’t take me seriously,’ he says, his face now so close to mine that I can see the broken veins around his nose and his bloodshot eyes. ‘That’s a mistake, Jo. One thing you’ll learn about me is that I’m utterly loyal to my loved ones. I will be the best thing that ever happened to you. But you have to take me seriously, because if you don’t, I think you’ll find yourself in very deep trouble. After all—’

  He presses the belt hard against my throat, pushing my head back against the headboard, confirming what I already suspected.

  ‘Let’s not forget that I’m a man with nothing left to lose.’

  Under Claudio’s watchful eye I rip up every single photograph with Richard in it into four pieces. Once, twice. Rip, rip. Quartered and destroyed. Holidays, birthdays, Christmases, parties, dinners.

  All those memories.

  My photo albums are desecrated and my heart is broken. But I don’t cry, and I don’t say another word.

  Finally, when it’s done, Claudio scoops all the bits back into the Bag for Life. ‘Well done, darling,’ he says softly. ‘That’s a big step forward. It can’t have been easy, but you know it’s for the best. Later today you’re going to call your daughter and tell her that you miss her, and you’re fine, and you hope she’s having a wonderful time. Just so that she doesn’t worry about not having heard from you. She’s left you a couple of voicemails on your phone, so I think it’s important that you get back to her.’

  He leaves, locking and bolting the door behind him. I sink back on the pillows, reeling.

  They’re only photos, I repeat inside my head. Only photos. I’m still alive. Later I will hear Megan’s voice, and probably Richard’s too. I have to find some way to communicate that I need help.

  The trouble is, I no longer have any trouble believing absolutely that Claudio will kill me if I don’t do what he wants me to.

  And I can’t do what he wants me to.

  I am fucked. Deeply, seriously fucked.

  Chapter Thirty

  Day 4

  I can’t believe how devastated I am about the photographs. In my mind I see each and every torn-up scrap, trying to piece them back together and take a mental screenshot before the memories are gone forever—although it feels as though they’re already gone. It must be like having Alzheimer’s, that slow, jagged forgetting, then mixed-up flashes of incorrect remembering. Already I’m getting it confused in my head—that one of Megan blowing out the candles on her birthday: was that her third birthday, with Richard standing behind her in his Manic Street Preachers t-shirt, or was that from her fourth?

  I think he has broken me, not just my heart. I feel broken.

  The only thing I can think to do is to read my diary again. It’s the closest thing I have to being able to talk to friends and connect with family, to remind myself that as much as I had a past, I have to believe I have a future.

  Lester helps, too. He wriggles out from under the bed, where he hid when he sensed all the tension in the room, and curls up on my stomach. He is a blessing.

  I force myself to count my other blessings: I have a daughter who needs me and a mum who loves me, even if I hardly ever see her. I have an ex-husband who still cares about me, and I have known love. I am healthy. I have friends.

  I am fortunate. I am fortunate. I am fortunate.

  1st January 1987

  I thought Mum would pick up the telephone immediately. I visualised her, drink in hand, the gas fire spitting on all three bars, Big Ben and fireworks on the television. But it rang for a long time before there was an answer. I congratulated myself on my restraint at allowing more than four rings, when John was waiting for me—ME!—in the bar. I just hoped Mum wouldn’t start rambling on and on about previous New Year’s Eves with Dad. John might get bored of waiting and go back to the party—that would be a disaster.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ I muttered into the receiver, my breath hot and wet against the cold mouthpiece. Perhaps Mum had been invited round to one of the neighbours’ houses. But eventually she picked up, and I pushed in my ten pence.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded out of breath.

  ‘Happy New Year, Mum!’

  ‘Oh! Jo—Happy New Year, darling. Are you having a nice time?’

  ‘Lovely thanks, I—’

  But Mum wasn’t listening. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart, all right? Give me a ring and I’ll come and pick you up, if Mr Barrington-Brown can’t give you a lift home. Night night!’

  And she was gone! I gaped at the receiver in surprise. Mum usually had to be prised off the telephone—she’d talk for hours given half a chance. Something seemed odd. Could she have had company? She’s never mentioned a boyfriend. But, now that I think of it, Mum had been a bit brighter of late, and she’d started to spray perfume behind her ears before going out like she used to in the old days when Dad was still alive.

  I decided I’d ask her soon (although I’m writing this a week later, and I still haven’t! I don’t know why it’s so hard, but it is. It’s impossible to imagine another man sitting at the head of the table; another man in Dad’s bed—but I want Mum to be happy). No need to worry about it at that moment; I needed to go to the loo, comb my hair, get more lipstick on, and then—John! What a perfect way to start a new year. My mind raced ahead: I was meant to be staying the night with Donna anyway, so that would mean I’d get a lift there with all the Barrington-Browns, and maybe John would whisper for me to sneak out at night and over to his bedroom in the stable block, and we could listen to records and cuddle until the sun came up . . . What if he hated my big breasts, though? What if he found them repulsive, with their large pale nipples, and my plump tummy underneath? No—there was no way he could ever see my boobs; I’d only risk taking my clothes off if it was pitch, pitch dark. Maybe I’d have the op first, before I let him anywhere near me. But I’d have to explain why I was in hospital if I was going out with him . . . and, either way, he’d expect to see everything, surely. Gill and he had gone all the way, Donna told me they had. She’d apparently heard them at it, by listening underneath John’s window one night. I really wish she hadn’t told me that.

  At that point I almost lost my nerve completely and ran away, thinking I could just lurk at the back of the function room waiting for Donna and Gareth to stop snogging. I
couldn’t go through with this. John was way out of my league. How could I go out with someone that experienced when I hadn’t even kissed a boy properly before? I pushed my way through the heavy fire doors and back out into the freezing car park, moving from one leg to the other, taking one step back towards John in the hotel bar and then another one forward towards the safety of the heat and noise and crush of people in the function room.

  This might be your only chance, said a voice in my head. If you don’t go now, you might always regret it. Dad would want you to go. Go. Go now.

  I went—as, deep down, I always knew I would.

  Thirty seconds later, I was in a warm, quiet, badly decorated bar with paintings of hunting scenes around the walls and fake tapestry benches and chairs. There was a strong smell of furniture polish and cigarette ash, which emphasised the fact that John and I were the only people in there, apart from a tired, overweight barman with great puffy bags under his eyes. The hotel’s residents had seemingly vanished off to bed at the last chime of midnight.

  All I could focus on were John’s amber eyes, boring into me. When he handed me the rum and black I’d asked for (no ice, because I was still freezing), our fingers brushed. His felt hot. His skin was dark like Donna’s mother’s and his hair was black and shiny—he and Donna look so different, not like brother and sister at all. The backs of his hands and his wrists were covered with downy soft black hairs too, and I wanted to stroke them gently with one finger, like you stroke a kitten.

  I didn’t know what to say to him.

  ‘Are you upset about Gill?’ I blurted eventually, thinking I’d prefer to get it over with, if all he wanted was a shoulder to cry on. I waited for a look of grief to pass over his features, but he merely shrugged.

  ‘Not really. To be honest, I’d been thinking of chucking her for a while. She was, you know, kind of nagging me a lot.’

  She was mad, I thought. Imagine having John as your boyfriend, and not appreciating him? I just about managed not to say ‘I wouldn’t nag you.’

  ‘Nice girl and everything,’ he added hastily. I thought about Gill, with her haughty face and customised pencil-skirts, and decided that ‘nice’ wasn’t the word I’d have used. ‘Stuck-up’ was more like it. Then I started fretting that John only went for that sort.

  ‘Yes, she seems very nice,’ I said obediently.

  John laughed into his beer, his teeth clashing on the edge of the glass. I was pleased to notice that despite what Donna had said, his teeth didn’t look remotely mossy.

  ‘Mind you, she had a right strop with me just now. Threw a pint glass against the wall. I’m surprised you didn’t hear her screaming at me.’

  What did you do to her, I wanted to ask, that she would do that? But I also sort of didn’t really want to know. I didn’t know what to say. I changed the subject instead.

  ‘So—Donna and Gareth? Do you reckon it’ll last?’

  John laughed again. He’s got quite an evil sort of laugh. ‘Gareth? Nah. He’s never had a relationship for longer than a month.’

  I saved this nugget of information up to tell Donna. Poor Don.

  ‘She really likes him.’

  ‘Shall I tell you something?’ John said, leaning in close to me. At first I thought he was drunk and slipping and instinctively reached out my hands to push him upright again. The scent and proximity of him was so heady; he had a beautiful, mellow, musky smell. Then I realised that he was actually leaning his head on my shoulder, intentionally!!

  ‘What?’

  ‘I really like you.’ He looked up at me playfully, and I felt heat sweep through my cold body, from feet to head and back again.

  He really likes me, he really likes me, he really likes me, I couldn’t believe it . . . ! I couldn’t prevent a huge grin from pushing my cheeks into apples, and had to put my hand over my mouth to hide my Dracula fangs. It was the best moment of my life.

  ‘Do you?’ was all I could manage. I dared to meet his gaze back again. He is, without doubt, the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen; better looking than David Essex or Harrison Ford or anyone. I could feel the side of his arm leaning against my bare one, and it felt hard and sinewy and male, more man than boy.

  He glanced from side to side, as if he was about to tell me a dark secret, then very slowly moved his face towards mine, so near that I could see a cluster of blackheads around the creases of his nose and between his eyebrows, and the faint greasy sheen of his nose. For some reason the fact that he wasn’t completely perfect endeared him to me even more. Then he kissed me, so softly, on the lips. I just sort of froze, my drink clutched so tightly in my hand that it might have shattered if I hadn’t forced myself to put it back on the table.

  ‘Do you mind me doing that?’ John asked, a smile curving his mouth and in his eyes.

  I shook my head, hardly daring to look at him. I was half-expecting him to recoil with horror at any moment and cry ‘Oh my god, it’s you—Jo! What a nightmare—I thought you were Sandra/Tracy/Helen/Lisa . . . .’ But instead he brought his hand up to the side of my face and cupped my cheek with it. Then his other hand, which was chilled and damp from holding his pint, came up to my other cheek, and I swear I will never forget the strangeness of one hot and one cold palm against my skin. I closed my eyes as he kissed me again, more firmly this time, holding his lips against mine, licking them gently until it seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to part them slightly, allowing that warm tongue to slip and flutter inside, joining mine with a shock which felt electric in its intensity. His arms slid round me and in a moment we were pressed together, my boobs against his chest. He moaned faintly and pushed me against the tall back of the bench. It was uncomfortable, but I couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Jo, you are so lovely . . . .’

  I can’t believe what I said then. I just can’t believe it. I said: ‘I’m a dirty little cow.’ It took us both aback. I went bright red and John’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.

  Damn, damn, why did I say that? I thought I’d ruined everything.

  But he was so kind. He said, ‘No you aren’t. Or if you are, you’re a lovely dirty little cow . . .’

  ‘You were snogging Gill less than two hours ago,’ I said. I didn’t want to sound accusatory, but it sort of came out that way.

  ‘She was kissing me, as it happens. But like I said, it’s over now. I was wondering—well—would you like to come ice-skating with me sometime?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’ I immediately wondered what I could wear to go ice-skating. Perhaps black leggings with my long purple jumper? That came down almost to my knees; that would do . . . .

  Then John kissed me again and for once in my life the perennial debate about what to wear seemed to fade into insignificance.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Day 4

  I wake up later that morning to the noise of Lester scratching in his litter tray in my bathroom, the diary’s pages creased and stuck to my swollen cheek. In a flash it comes back to me, the lost photographs. What Claudio tried to do last night. How do I know he won’t try it again? What he said about calling Megan.

  I need a new strategy. I will talk to Megan as instructed—in fact, that will help my resolve, like a novice marathon runner spotting a loved one in the crowd at the twenty-five mile mark. Her voice will keep me going.

  I will be normal to her, and then I’m going to pretend the effort of it has made me lose my mind. I will tell him I love him, but I won’t get dressed, or bathe, or eat anything. I will rub my hair into a giant tangle. I won’t use deodorant or clean my teeth. I will make myself ill.

  I climb out of bed, switch on the light, and start by doing as many press-ups as I can manage—not many, in my weakened state: four full ones, then another dozen on my knees. My head still aches but I don’t care. Then I hook my feet under the base of the bed and try a few sit-ups. When I close my eyes I a
m transported out of this gloomy bedroom and back to the neon lights and bass-boomy music of the gym. I see Sean’s patient, amused face and kind eyes. I feel his hand pressing gently on my thigh to encourage me, and the slippery Lycra of his top when, after we’ve become a clandestine couple, I slide my arm briefly round his waist. It wasn’t allowed when he was working, but I couldn’t keep my hands off him.

  Oh, how I wish I’d never set eyes on that man. Had I not, I’d still be with Richard and therefore, had I been in Pizza Express at all that day it would have been with him and Megan, not Whore of Babylon Gerald, and even if Claudio had been in there our encounter would merely have constituted a brief hello.

  I flip over onto my hands and knees and perform the series of leg raises that are meant to tone your hips and thighs. I push myself as hard as I can, as sweat drips down my face and off the end of my nose onto the carpet. Then I do more sit-ups. My head is swimming and black spots float in front of my eyes—I’m far too hungry to be doing vigorous exercise but I keep going.

  The energy I’m expending seems to be generating a new emotion in me, overriding the pain in my head and the fear in my chest.

  Fury.

  I swear, if he’d come in right then I’d have torn him limb from limb, or at least tried to. I want to scream and kick things, but I don’t want to risk alerting him as then I’d have to see him and the sight of him makes my stomach heave and my throat constrict. It’s him who’s making me sick.

  I take one of my pillows off the floor and whack it as hard as I can against the wall, again and again, imagining I’m holding that saucepan again and that the wall is Claudio’s stupid head. On the fifth whack, the pillow splits down the seam and I’m enveloped in a huge cloud of soft soundless bees whirling around my head like my panic personified. It’s a release, of sorts, and I sit back down on the mattress, spent. I hang my head down between my knees to attempt to combat the dizziness.