He takes a long swig of his beer, then starts tapping his silver wedding ring against the glass bottle. The lion tattoo on the back of his hand is supposed to represent strength, courage and wisdom. I don’t see any of those things in him. Once, perhaps. But not anymore.
‘Why was she here?’ he continues.
‘She stopped by for a catch-up.’
‘You mean a check-up.’
That catches me off guard. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘My phone is linked to the doorbell camera, remember? And she’s over here daily. Sometimes twice. We’ve got all-new white towels and those blades have vanished – the ones you don’t thinkI know are hidden in the tampon box in the bathroom cabinet. You went too deep again, didn’t you? You bled out and called her for help.’
My voice cracks ever so slightly as I deny it. ‘I didn’t call anyone for anything.’
Drew offers a humourless laugh and continues tapping the bottle. The clink is growing louder.
‘But she was here,’ he continues. ‘And she’s been back every day since, to make sure you haven’t killed yourself.’
‘She helped me,’ I concede.
‘Oh did she? That’s so kind of her. So neighbourly.’
To my surprise, I find myself jumping to the defence of a woman I have hated since I was six years old.
‘Yes, she was kind to me.’
‘Kind?’ he repeats. ‘She was beingkindto you? Jesus, Joanna!’
He only uses my full name when he’s angry.
‘Have you forgotten why you’re like this in the first place?’ he argues as he slams the bottle of beer down, its contents frothing over the rim. ‘You’ve lost all perspective.’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ I say, but I can’t deny that I’m conflicted. However, I can’t admit that to him because he won’t understand. He wouldn’t even try.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he snaps.
‘I’m not!’
‘I can see it in your eyes,’ he yells. ‘You don’t know who you are anymore.’
Drew’s normally pallid complexion is now puce, and spit flies like bullets from his mouth when he speaks. He moves towards me, and before I can defend myself, he grabs my arm so hard that I yelp. He pulls me off the chair and yanks down my jogging bottoms to reveal the bandages I’m still applying twice daily to my injuries. He tears them off to uncover the patchwork of scabs and scars beneath.
‘Look at yourself!’ he roars, and I’m too frightened and crying too hard from the pain of his grip to say anything but ‘Please let go.’
He grabs the back of my head and pushes it down towards my thigh. I whimper.
‘Look at yourself!’ he repeats. ‘You’re a mess. You’re a fucking mess. And it’s all because of her. You’re no use to me, no use to anyone.’
He’s never behaved like this before. He is furious: his breath is as hot as his skin. I’ve only just pulled up my joggers when he forcibly moves me to the kitchen window and pushes my face so hard against the Venetian blinds that I feel like the metal slats are going to slice through my cheek.
‘Andher,’ he snarls. ‘Every day I have to look at that house opposite, knowing who is really living under that roof. And you have the gall to say “she was nice to me” when it was her who made you like this.’
‘Let go of me,’ I whimper, and finally, he does.
‘If it wasn’t for her and if you did what you were supposed to do, we wouldn’t still be here and that copper would be alive.’
‘I had it under control,’ I protest.
‘Don’t kid yourself. He didn’t know everything, but he would’ve got there in the end if it wasn’t for my intervention. I did it to protect you, and how do you show your gratitude? By making friends withher.’
