‘Why? Why, you stupid little slut? How could you do it?’
‘I didn’t,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t do it!’
He pushed her into the bath and forced her head under the tap. Icy water beat on her face. ‘You’re like a sow. You’re like a bitch on heat. You just can’t say no, can you?’
She couldn’t draw breath to explain. He’s trying to drown me! She fought him in terror, snorting and choking until he dragged her from the bath and flung her across the room. She staggered and hit her head on the washbasin as she fell.
He’d gone. The water rushed on and on. She lay curled up, too scared to cry. In the end she got to her feet and turned off the tap. Oh, God, what am I going to do? She stood dripping, clutching the washbasin. In the end she peeled off her silly little dress and wrapped herself in a towel before creeping to the spare room. She lay shivering and hugging herself on the narrow bed. The room was dark and spinning.
Footsteps. She tensed. The light snapped on. He yanked the covers off her.
‘You’re my wife and you’ll bloody well sleep in my bed.’ He dragged her to the other room. ‘You want sex? I’ll give you sex.’
‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t hurt me, Barney.’
He forced her down on to the bed.
‘Don’t! Don’t!’
He slapped her across the mouth. ‘Shut up! Just shut up and let me do it.’
At last it was over. Isabella lurched to the bathroom and threw up. She spent the rest of the night lying beside him rigid with terror. Sometimes she drifted asleep only to be jerked awake by the sound of him stirring. She wept inwardly. I want to go home. I want my mum and dad.
Morning came. Isabella lay trembling as Barney got up and went to the bathroom to shower. Would he say anything? He came back and began to get dressed. He wouldn’t even look at her. She steeled herself. ‘Barney, we’ve got to talk.’
‘There’s nothing to say, is there?’
‘If you’d just let me explain!’
‘No!’ He caught her arm and pulled her to him. His face was inches from hers, taut with rage. ‘Just do one thing for me, Isabella. Spare me the details.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she wept.
He let her go. She listened to his footsteps going down the stairs, then leaving the house for Morning Prayer.
Oh, God, help me! She lay sobbing. Did he really think she’d had it off? No, she’d told him last night she hadn’t. She might be a lot of things, but she wasn’t a liar. He knew that. Dear God, if this was what he dished out for a drunken smooch, what would he do if she actually slept with someone? His warning came back to her: I can’t make you faithful to me, but I can make you very, very sorry if you’re not. All she could do was show by her actions how truly repentant she was and wait for him to calm down and forgive her.
She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her right eye was black. Oh, God! Her reflection stared back, ashen. I hit my head on the washbasin when I fell. I’d had too much to drink and slipped and hit my head on the washbasin. It’s the truth! Tears rolled down her cheeks. But how could she explain the swollen lip? This can’t be me. This can’t be happening. But somehow it was. She had slid overnight into the shameful ranks of women whose husbands beat them up. She was a useless liar, but she was going to have to learn fast. Her tears dripped into the shattered glass in the sink.
He preached the next day on forgiveness. No one observing his sweet gentle manner would have guessed how far he was from putting his words into practice.
Days passed. The house had never been cleaner and tidier. Meals had never been so carefully prepared. The ironing basket was empty. Isabella waited and waited to be forgiven. But still Barney wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t look at her even. He was courteous, as though she were a new housekeeper. If he saw her weeping he left the house.
Their wedding anniversary came and went uncelebrated. Isabella was sick with misery. She sat alone in the empty house, sobbing in the middle of the varnished sitting-room floor. She had earned enough money to buy the Persian rug she had always wanted. But she knew she’d never buy it. She would need the money for something else now. She was leaving. She would go home to her parents. Now, at once, without even packing. She would take her credit card, catch a train and go.
She went to the hallway and dialled for a taxi to take her to the station. Someone at the other end had just picked up the receiver when Isabella heard the sound of Barney’s key in the door. She hung up guiltily. There was no time to run.
‘Who were you ringing?’ he asked.
‘No one. The clock. The speaking clock,’ she gabbled. ‘I wanted to know the exact time.’
He caught her by the wrist. ‘That’s easy enough to check.’ He picked up the receiver and pressed the redial button. They waited, listening to the clicks then the ringing tone. Isabella was trembling. God help me! Let me think something up. Quickly.
‘Dixon’s Taxis,’ said a tiny voice.
Barney hung up and turned to her, face rigid with fury.
‘Oh, God, Barney –’
‘So he’s a cab driver?’
‘No! I wasn’t –’
He hit her. She crumpled to the floor.
‘Don’t! Oh, God, don’t hurt me, Barney!’
He picked her up and flung her across the hall. She screamed in terror.
‘Why? Why?’ he was shouting. ‘What have I got to do? What in God’s name have I got to do to make you –’
‘It’s not what you think! I was getting a taxi to the station. I swear to God! I was just going home. Don’t hurt me!’
She could see him clamping his arms tightly round himself, trying desperately to restrain his hands.
‘Going home? Then why lie? Isabella, what am I supposed to think if you lie to me like that? I can’t . . .’ For a moment his face trembled, but he regained control. ‘Look, I don’t mind if you go to see your parents. It’s all right. You don’t have to sneak off. I won’t try to stop you.’ He was making his voice gentle, as though soothing a frightened dog. ‘It’s all right, Bella. Are they expecting you?’
She shook her head. It throbbed where he had hit her. No visible marks this time. He was learning.
‘Why don’t we both go?’ he suggested.
She nodded.
‘We could both use a break,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can find a couple of days. OK?’
She managed a smile.
‘Don’t.’ His voice cracked. ‘I’m not a monster, Isabella. Don’t make me into a monster!’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
He reached out to her. She saw he wanted sex. It was his way of putting things right. She sobbed as he undressed her. It was too late. There was no putting this right.
*
I can’t write this, thought Annie, wiping away a tear. She laughed at herself for caring so much about made-up characters. I need a change, she decided. She picked up the first notebook. I’ll start from the beginning and do it properly, she thought. It felt different, somehow, knowing she was writing it for Will to read. Would he like it? At one point she inadvertently leant on the wrong key and the computer obligingly swore for her in Will’s voice. Annie shrieked and pressed it again. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ repeated Will. How on earth had he made it do that? She continued to type until he came in from work.
It was Friday. Annie had spent the whole of the previous day typing furiously and was feeling in need of a change. How am I going to end this book? she wondered. It might go either way. Will phoned in the middle of the morning to ask how much more she had done.
‘I’ve been reading it between patients. I love it. If you give it a sad ending you’re in serious trouble, honey child.’
‘You’ll just have to be very nice to me, then, won’t you?’
He chuckled. ‘All set for tomorrow?’
‘Nearly,’ she mumbled. She’d done a bit of half-hearted packing ready for their trip to Oxford.
‘Listen, the car’s playing
up. I’ll get it sorted out after work. That way we can leave straight after my surgery tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘OK,’ said Annie, experiencing another pang of dread about braving the Penn-Eddises.
‘So don’t worry if I’m late in.’
‘I won’t. Thanks for telling me.’
‘My pleasure, honey. Get back to that computer.’
He rang off and she obeyed. She decided to see if she could save Barney and Isabella’s marriage. Perhaps she should trust Will’s instincts about the book and write a happy ending, after all.
CHAPTER 29
‘I’ve got to talk to the Bishop,’ said Isabella, as the door opened.
Mrs Hibbert had just got in from a hard day at the office. She was usually a generous-spirited woman, but found herself giving in to a little pettiness at the sight of her least favourite clergy wife on the doorstep.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment like everyone else.’
‘Is he in?’ demanded Isabella, stepping forward.
Mrs Hibbert, holding firmly on to the edge of the door, was forced to admit that he was. ‘But he’s seeing someone. Perhaps I can take a message?’
‘Yes. Tell him from me he’s a waste of fucking space. He’s supposed to be pastor to the pastors, but he leaves my husband to –’
‘Excuse me,’ cut in Mrs Hibbert, two angry spots appearing on her cheeks. ‘I happen to know my husband phoned Barney only last week to see how things were going. Barney assured him everything was fine.’
All the fight went out of Isabella. Tears gathered in her eyes.
Damn, thought Mrs Hibbert. She foresaw a messy pastoral session when all she wanted was to kick off her shoes and curl up with the paper. She sighed. ‘I take it that’s not true?’
Isabella shook her head.
Mrs Hibbert’s better nature impulsively took over. She held out her arms and Isabella plunged into them sobbing. Well, at least she’d spared her husband the ordeal of having an attractive young woman weeping into his purple shirt. She led Isabella to the kitchen and made her some tea. ‘I think you’d better tell me about it, my dear.’
So Isabella did – Barney’s workload, the rows, his stubbornness, the awful nightclub incident. ‘He won’t forgive me,’ she sobbed. ‘He won’t talk to me even. It’s over between us. I can’t take any more.’
Mrs Hibbert liked Barney and was inclined to see it from his angle. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘A year.’
Mrs Hibbert patted Isabella’s hand. ‘Isn’t it a wee bit soon to be saying it’s all over?’ Isabella bawled. ‘I know it’s hell, my dear, but nobody said marriage was easy. Have you tried counselling?’
‘He won’t.’
‘You’ve suggested it?’
Isabella was silent.
Mrs Hibbert wanted to shake her.‘“For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer” – they’re pretty serious vows. God doesn’t expect us to be perfect, but he does ask us all to try.’
‘But does he expect me to stay with a man who beats me up?’ burst out Isabella.
Oh, no, thought the Bishop’s wife. Her heart sank. Not that. Not Barney. She was a solicitor and had encountered many women whose nice, intelligent husbands put them in hospital. She took Isabella’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You poor child. No, I don’t think God expects that.’
‘But I love him so much!’ cried Isabella. ‘If only I could get him to talk or understand, then maybe he’d change. Maybe . . .’
The Bishop’s wife leant back with a sigh. She knew she should say, Get out now while you’ve still got a shred of confidence and self-esteem. He won’t change. They never do. Spare yourself years of hell . . . She shook a mental fist at God. Why don’t you do something? she wanted to shout. Her eye fell on a crucifix above the cooker and she heard her husband’s voice reminding her sternly that God already had. Then why doesn’t it make a difference? There should be a way, she thought. If your death and our faith mean anything at all, there should be a way. And as she stared, a plan began to form in her mind.
*
‘Barney,’ said Isabella, several evenings later, ‘I think we should talk.’
His jaw tightened. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s forgotten.’
She steeled herself. ‘It isn’t, though. Don’t you think marriage guidance –’
‘No!’
Her courage wavered, but she forced herself on to the next tactic. ‘Um, someone rang. A woman.’
He reached at once for his Filofax. ‘Yes?’
‘She wants to talk to you. She’s thinking of leaving her violent husband.’
‘What’s her address?’ he asked, unsuspecting, biro poised.
‘She . . . she says she’ll meet you in the church this evening. At seven thirty.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘That’s now! Why didn’t you say earlier?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What’s her name?’ he asked, slipping in his dog-collar.
‘I forgot to ask.’
He tutted in exasperation and hurried off.
She waited ten eternal minutes, then followed, heart pounding, solicitor’s letter in hand.
The church door creaked as she let herself in. He was up near the chancel and turned expectantly at the noise. Her heels clipped as she walked up the aisle to where he stood waiting.
‘She hasn’t come,’ he said.
‘Yes, she has.’ She handed him the letter.
‘What’s this?’ He turned it over, puzzled, then saw his name and opened it. ‘What . . .’ His face drained of colour.
Tu es homo.
He ran his hand through his curls, tried to laugh in disbelief. ‘. . . inform you of my client’s intention to file for legal separation . . .’ She knew what he was reading and her tears spilled over.
‘You can’t do this!’ He took a step towards her and she cringed back. He stared in shock at her terror. ‘Bella! You can’t! Why didn’t you tell me you felt like this?’
‘I tried!’
‘Look, we can work things out. Don’t do this to me! I know it’s been tough, but things will change.’
Her sobs echoed in the empty church. ‘It’s over, Barney. Unless you talk things through, it’s over.’
‘I’ll talk. Dear God, I’ll do anything! This is terrible!’
‘You’ll come to counselling sessions with me?’
He struggled visibly. ‘Yes. OK.’ He stared down at the letter as though he might cry. He’s nothing but a big baby, she thought wearily, as she dried her eyes. There was a long, long silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Just tell me he’s got the tiniest little willy you’ve ever seen.’
She could have laughed in relief. ‘I’m sure he has.’
‘You mean you were too drunk to notice?’
‘I mean I’ve no idea. We didn’t do it, remember?’
His eyes went round.
‘Barney, I told you at the time we didn’t!’
‘Oh, God!’ He wheeled round and took some hurried steps towards the altar.
‘Is this what all this has been about?’ she shouted at his trembling back. ‘Is it?’
He turned to her, hands out, imploring as she strode up to him. ‘Bella, please . . .’
‘You useless stupid bastard!’ She punched him on the nose with all her might. Blood dropped and flowered on his blue clerical shirt. He staggered. The altar rails caught him behind the knees and he crashed backwards into the chancel. Silence. Isabella registered dimly that his shoes needed resoling, then ran from the church.
She reached the house panting, rushed upstairs and grabbed a suitcase. She flung it on the bed and began tossing clothes into it. A moment later Barney burst into the room, wild and bloodstained.
‘Bella, I’m sorry!’
‘You’re too late!’ she screamed. ‘I’m leaving.’
He swept the suitcase off the bed and pulled her into his arms. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. Please don’t
leave me!’ He tumbled her on to the bed. ‘I’m nothing without you.’
‘Get off, you bastard!’ She wrestled, but it was useless. ‘You always do this!’ she shouted. ‘You think sex is a bloody aspirin!’
He was tugging her clothes off, weeping, begging with her not to leave him.
‘Oh, all right. All right, you stupid, fat, useless . . . useless . . .’ she raged as he entered her.
His tears dropped on to her face. He came with a shuddering cry. She pushed him away at once and got up.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, clutching at her.
‘For a pee, you twat.’ She locked herself in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath wondering what to do. I hate him! He rapes me, he beats me up! Then it struck her. He said sorry. He actually said sorry. Bloody hell. For once he’d admitted he was wrong. What’s more, he’d cried. He’d said he needed her. Surely this was a basis for a new start?
She unlocked the door. He was waiting on the landing as if to block off her escape. She sighed. ‘You’d better soak that shirt in cold water.’ He stripped it off. She went and lay down on the bed.
A moment later he joined her. ‘Bella, will you forgive me?’
Her mind seethed. Why the hell should I? You wouldn’t forgive me, you bastard. But God seemed to be waiting, hanging on her answer. ‘Oh, all right,’ she snapped.
‘What was I supposed to think?’ he pleaded. ‘You came back drunk with no knickers on.’
‘I went out with no knickers on,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you heard of the visible pantie line? Get that wheedling look off your face.’
‘So long as you haven’t seen him again . . .’
Isabella blushed. The little git had taken to waiting in his sports car outside the shop, trying to give her a lift home. She’d been dreading Barney finding out.
‘For God’s sake, Isabella, tell me,’ he begged. She saw all his fears leaping back.
‘He hangs around wanting to drive me back from work,’ she admitted.
‘Does he. Right.’
‘No!’ she cried in alarm. ‘Barney, if you lay a finger on him you won’t see me for dust.’
The Benefits of Passion Page 31
