by S. R. Jones
When her husband comes out of the bathroom, she doesn’t move, and he doesn’t say anything more to her.
What secrets are you hiding, Mrs. Madison?
I’m determined to find out.
Because for some reason, I’m determined to save her.
Chapter Two
Abigail
A map of the United States lays open on the dining room table, but I ignore it, too scared to make that leap into the unknown. Instead, I stare out the window at the lights twinkling across the city. From up here the place looks like a magical wonderland, all lit up and shining, but it’s become my own special hell. Soon dawn will be here and I’ll have run out of time to make a decision.
Sighing, and putting off the moment of reckoning, I leave the table and walk across the room. At the far end there’s a stunning credenza, its lacquered wood shining under the chandelier. Four photographs sit atop it, staring at me. The first picture shows Nick and I on our wedding day. My dress had cost more than I made in a year and I beamed out at the camera, the luckiest girl who ever did live.
Nick stood next to me, arm around my shoulders, his own smile not quite reaching his eyes. Even then, it seemed, he had his doubts.
My Prince Charming. Handsome, urbane, wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. I’d pinched myself daily to be suddenly living this gilded life. Now I pinch myself for a different reason, praying it will wake me up from the nightmare my life has become.
Viewed from the outside my life seems perfect. When I walk down the street I attract jealous stares from women who probably work two jobs, and have a husband they barely see, all so they can afford a row house in Queens.
Yep, from the outside, I live the dream.
Stunning penthouse apartment?
Check.
Handsome, super wealthy husband?
Check.
Walk in wardrobe full of designer clothes?
Check.
Furniture costing more than most people’s entire homes?
Check. Check. Check.
On the surface, I’ve got it all. Whereas in reality, the only thing I have that I care anything about is Boo. The little dog comes up to me now, sniffing at me, and I stare at the reason I must leave. The reason I need to gather my courage and get out. He’s my best friend and my baby, all wrapped up in one scruffy bundle. Nick hates him. Thinks having a crossbreed is somehow lowering our status. The other day I caught the bastard kicking Boo. He’s only a small dog, and Nick could kill him if he does it again.
Ice cubes crack in the glass sitting behind me on the dining room table. I glance at the brandy before turning back to the pictures. One of Nick with his business partner of old, Jonathon, stands in a silver frame. Johnathon looks stern, the bad cop of the partnership. Nick simply looks nice. Back then, I’d believed him to be a good guy. My very own hero. I’d thought him my angel and savior, but he turned out to be my torturer and jailer.
My heart pounds as I contemplate what I am about to do. My head spins and my vision blurs. Crap, I hope I don’t faint. Needing to take the edge off this panic, I walk back to the dining table and pick up the glass of brandy, letting the smooth alcohol slip through my lips. It burns a fiery path down my throat and gives me a shot of courage.
I’ve got one chance at this. One shot. If I don’t take it, then I’ll never get away. I’ll spend my life in this gilded cage. Trapped, only to be dragged out now and again to entertain our friends, or to reassure his family that their once wayward son now lived a wholesome life. Behind closed doors, my hell would burn on and on.
I’ve gone from being nobody to becoming the wife of a millionaire, and yet I’m desperate to leave it all behind. To run away from this life, where I am trapped among the power and opulence of the top five percent. Not the one percent, we aren’t quite in those high echelons, but some of Nick’s friends are and he’s greedy for it. We still have influence and wealth beyond most people’s though.
In reality, of course, I have no power. Few of the wives in our circle do. We inhabit a strange world, one alien to most people. Segregation seems to be the name of the game. Couples start out all hot and heavy but then within a year or two, certainly once the wife has popped out a kid, things sour. The men can’t keep it in their pants, and have far too much opportunity to spread it about. Maybe it isn’t the way for all super-wealthy men, but among the finance and real-estate circles we move in, it certainly is.
Only last week, I’d been to a dinner party where the men dined in one room and the women in another. The women often holidayed together, their husbands claiming no time for such fripperies. Not me, of course. I could probably bear a life like that. But Nick doesn’t let me out of his sight for a minute, never mind a long weekend. So…dare I do this? Can I leave?
The map mocks my indecision and I curse aloud. The sound echoes in the empty room. “Jesus, Gabi. Just fucking do it, do it or put your bags away, go to bed and wait for him to come home and hurt you all over again. Kill Boo this time.”
I try the stern pep talk but my stomach still churns. Then I think back to the other day. The prostitute, him coming all over me with the sneer on his face. I think back to two days before when he punched me so hard in the back I thought he’d damaged my kidneys. I have to go, and it has to be now.
Mind made up, I sit at the table and force in a calming, deep breath. I take the red thumb tack and hold it between my thumb and index finger. Another slug of the brandy for courage, and I raise my arm, close my eyes, and circle my hand above the map, so I have no clue where it will land. Then I bring the pin down onto the map, the thick tablecloth underneath absorbing the impact.
Scared and kind of elated, I open my eyes and blink twice.
Sausalito.
Wow, California. It’s kind of ironic that the one place I’ve always wanted to visit is San Francisco, and now I’m going to be running there.
Part of me longs to go home, despite home being grimy, depressing, and where Mum lives. The first place Nick will look for me though will be back in England. He’ll try all our London friends, and my very few friends from Before Nick, as I now think of those heady days. Next, he’ll try searching for me back in the small Yorkshire village I herald from. He’ll have Mum questioned, and since she drinks herself senseless most days, any contact with her will lead him right to me. Worse, even if I don’t contact her, she’ll surely know if I’m back in the old neighborhood.
London is right out because he has far too many friends in the Chelsea set. I’d be spotted way too quickly. No, England is too dangerous, it is where he’ll expect me to be.
One thing Nick might not expect, though, is me staying here. I know very few people in America.
We moved when he got his current role for a large company. A job flashy and well paid enough to make him sideline his own business. He leaped at the chance to be a big corporate somebody, and I also think he relished isolating me further. His controlling behavior, which began mere months after we married, and got worse during our time in London, ramped up once we arrived in New York. I’d no social circle here to fall back on, and he made damn sure I wouldn’t ever get one.
Our maid, Candice, and a homeless boy I befriended called Jay, are my only friends out here.
The strains of La Boheme reach me from the state of the art sound system and the aria makes my eyes well up.
Dare I? It’s either run and have a chance, or stay and die a thousand tiny deaths a day until he snuffs me out completely. I’ve found my backbone because of Boo. He’s given me the strength to leave I never had when it was only me getting the beatings.
If I leave though and he finds me, I’m dead. And my plan isn’t foolproof. It goes something like this:
Make Nick think I’ve gone to the UK by going to the airport. Take a car that Jay gets for me from God knows where. Drive to Sausalito as per the map’s instructions. Buy a ticket to the U.K. and create a scene at the airport so I get noticed on the security footage. Then…go and get changed, leave the
airport and go with Jay.
For about the hundredth time, I question my plan. Perhaps I really should simply head back home. I could go to the police. Hire a lawyer. But then my funds would soon run out. Nick’s are infinite.
“Fucking hell!” I swear out loud, relishing the chance to do so without gaining a glare from Nick.
All I need is the breathing space to get my head together, so I can make some longer-term plans. These days the pressure cooker of living with Nick means I’ve not made a sensible decision in months. I spend every day on eggshells waiting for him to explode.
With a sigh, I pull one of three burner phones out of my rucksack and turn it on before placing it back in the front zip compartment. I fire up my usual cell, wait until it is ready, then look up flight times from New York to Manchester in England. I’m leaving a trail I hope Nick will follow.
Done, and knowing it will show on the Wifi history, I put the phone back in my Mulberry purse.
I check my passport and the money belt, which holds some of the funds I’ve been siphoning off from my housekeeping allowance and from selling my things, for the past months.
An ankle pouch holds another three grand, and I put that around my lower leg, and pull my boot cut jeans back down to cover it.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I take one more sip of the brandy. I daren’t get drunk. I need my wits about me, but without a certain amount of liquid courage, I’ll never do this.
Again, I waver. My need to leave keeps coming up against the realization that if he ever finds me, I’ll be dead. Or made to wish I were dead. Nick doesn’t like losing his possessions, and I’m his ultimate toy.
I had purchased a new suitcase, with cash a few days ago and filled it with some of my clothes yesterday, after Nick left for his boys’ weekend.
He never normally leaves me alone, so I can’t turn down this gift from the gods. I shudder to think of the poor working girls dragged in to entertain Nick and his debauched crew out there. Some will hurt for weeks.
Okay, focus, focus, focus. I drag my mind back to my plan. The case is with Jay, along with the rest of my money, which is hidden in various places in the case. If Jay betrays me for the cash, I’m done for. But something tells me he won’t. I helped him get on his feet. Paid his rent for a few months until he could bring in enough cash from working to take over. Without me, he’d still be on the streets.
At the time I’d done it purely because I hated to see the skinny young man sat out in the freezing cold New York night. But we’d bonded over coffees as we met weekly for me to smuggle him the rent I’d taken out of Nick’s charity account. We quickly became true friends, and I believe Jay will help me now.
I check my mini-rucksack next. There’s a pair of blue Nikes. A casual t-shirt with some stupid slogan on it. A loose fit pink cotton cardigan. Bright pink lipstick and jet black mascara. Things I never normally wore. My normal make-up regime consists of soft smoky eyes, pale lips, and brown waterproof mascara. I always wear waterproof these days, as I never know when I might cry.
I pick up one of the beauty bags and walk out of the dining room. I head into the kitchen and grab a trash bag from under the sink. Our chef, Rodriguez, had given me an odd look when I’d granted him a last minute night off, but I couldn’t have anyone here. I’ve also given Candice two days off and told them not to bother Mr. Madison on his stag weekend. I pray they’ll obey me and not call Nick as my orders are going directly against his.
I carry the trash bag and my items and head into the opulent hallway. The place gives me the creeps, truth be told. At night, in particular, the white marble looks ghostly under the recessed lights, and nothing but corridors and doors lead from the huge space. I climb the spiral staircase and once on the upper floor of our apartment, I head for the master bath.
Upon entering my favorite room in the whole damn place, I let myself take my fill of the astounding levels of luxury. Marble stretches as far as the eye can see. To my right a love seat nestles against the white wall. To my left there’s a marble vanity with his and hers sinks. A shower big enough for a whole family comes after the love seat. The piece de resistance lies in front of me. Across the marble stands a step, and above it there’s an indoor terrace with full length windows on three sides providing stunning views out over the city. A clawfoot bath dominates the space.
Knowing I’ll miss that damn bath, I cross to the mirror and assess my reflection. My long auburn hair, subtly highlighted with caramel blonde, screams money the way it shines and flips about when I move my head. My plucked and groomed eyebrows are a nice, rich shade of auburn, too, and they match my hair. I’ve not worn my hair its natural, dark brown, since being a young teen back home in Gravensthorpe.
The minute I grabbed myself a Saturday job in a local hairdresser’s, I’d dyed it all shades under the sun. Once I decided to run away from home to the bright lights of London, aged only eighteen and full of idiotic confidence, I’d gone for a stack of caramel highlights, and kept it up ever since. Now, I’m poised on a precipice, about to go back to my roots, literally, as I face running away from life a second time.
Once more, I’ll be packing my life into a couple of bags, and taking off, no memories, no keepsakes. Maybe Mum had been right, and there is something wrong with me deep down? Maybe, I truly am unlovable. How the hell else do I keep ending up in these messes?
Not wanting to put it off any longer, I pull the scissors out of the beauty bag and cut my hair. I make sure to put the trash bag in the sink, opened, so it catches all the hair. I’ve seen Sleeping With the Enemy. No mistakes like that ring in the toilet for me. As my hair fills the bag, I watch in amazement as my face changes. Once I wrangle the short strands into a passable elfin crop, thanks to my time at the hairdresser’s, I put the scissors away and stare at myself. All that luxurious and damned expensive long hair is gone. In its place there’s a short, darkish crop, with lighter ends, which looks, frankly, a horrible mess.
Not about to let something as minor as losing most of my hair get to me, I take the dark hair dye out and massage it in all over. I also swipe some across my eyebrows. After the dye has done its magic, I rinse, condition twice and fluff my new cut up, adding a touch of serum to the ends. It’s so short it will be dry in five minutes. I make sure I put everything I’ve used into the trash bag. Tie it, and then place it at the top of the stairs. I’ll put it in my rucksack and take it with me to dispose of out of the house.
Now for the fun part. I move into our bedroom and take out the wig I purchased a few weeks ago to match my own hair. Real human hair, and a custom job, I paid cash for it so Nick can’t trace it. It’s been hidden in my closet, and I got the sweats every time I thought about it.
Nerves zipping through me like livewires now, I put on a cashmere sweater, my Armani jeans, pull on Prada boots, and finally, the wig. I adjust it in the mirror until it looks right, and then with brisk, familiar movements, I do my rich-girl make-up. I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. Yep, just like the old me, no clue of the short hair underneath.
I make sure the bedroom looks as it should. Nothing out of place, and then I close the door quietly behind me.
Walking down the long hallway, I wonder if all this is my fault. If I’d been older when we’d met, would I somehow have sensed the evil lurking beneath Nick’s handsome exterior? I’d been all of nineteen years old when we got together. For me, he’d been this incredibly sophisticated man who showed me a whole new world.
I’d been temping at Nick’s firm, after teaching myself to touch type and fooling the temp agency into taking me on their books. The company’s finance director asked me to take minutes for a meeting the day I met my future husband. His secretary had been away sick. I’d shaken like a leaf as I sat trying to keep up with what they were saying. At one point the finance director, a portly man in his fifties, had stopped speaking and asked to see my notes. He’d taken the pad and frowned as he read.
“Why aren’t you using shorthand?” he’d dem
anded.
“I don’t know shorthand,” came my stupid reply.
He’d started bellowing about why the fuck did the agency insist on sending morons to them, and they should start to use a different one, when I’d mortified myself further by letting big, fat tears run down my burning cheeks.
Nick had taken one look at me, halted the meeting, and guided me out of the room by the elbow. He’d whisked me up to his private offices, where he’d given me a brandy and talked to me in soothing tones. I’d looked up to him from then on. Seen him as my knight in shining armor. I’d been naïve, and so fucked up from all the shit Mum had spent years filling my head with that he couldn’t have found a better victim.
A moment of madness washes over me as I walk down the hallway. A photograph that Nick loves, and I hate, dominates the wall here. It’s of a woman, stick thin and pale as snow, clothed in a tight, shocking red dress. She’s laid on a bed of lime green leaves, her arms stretched upwards, her glassy eyes facing the camera. A man in a dark suit stands over her, his foot on her neck. Fucking piece of misogynistic trash.
I take my boot off and smash the heel into the frame, loving the sound of the glass breaking. Something surges inside me. A feeling so foreign, so rare, it takes me a moment to decipher it. Power. I feel power in that moment.
Smiling a little, I put my boot back on and head into the study where I spend an age trying to get into Nick’s password-protected work file. He doesn’t particularly lock it down from me because he thinks I’m too stupid and down trodden to ever turn on him. He’s paranoid about the hired help. So, on the seventh attempt, the nickname of his Grandpa who left him the money, I’m in. I don’t know what’s on here, or what I’m looking for, but I copy the whole lot onto the USB port I took out of the box he keeps in his drawer.
Done, I turn it all off. Close the drawer and put the key back under the Orchid plant. Nick loves Orchids and they are all over the house, I won’t ever own one again, I decide.
