Marnie is flirting something fierce with Maxwell, stripping her dress off one shoulder and running her fingers over her glowing blemish-free skin as she describes some incident, probably imaginary, for his delectation.
I remember how different her face looked when it screwed into a tight ball of horror, staring at Seb’s mother while she explained in a calm but trembling voice the photographs and statement she’d given to the police.
The rush of relief had been exquisite. Then Allain leapt into action, installing brick walls in a few seconds flat, cutting off my escape.
I know how hurt she was when I turned on her. I can still see the sting of disappointment in her eyes.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have minded so much if I’d explained. Marnie needed me to lay a complaint with the police, a show of solidarity and force to stop the woman in her tracks.
“No one will believe her, love,” she’d told me, cuddling me close to her as though she thought her touch was something I craved. “Just back up our story, explain that she stole the jewellery box, and let me handle the rest.”
It had seemed easier in theory than it proved to be in action. In theory, I wasn’t forced to stand in her living room, making the accusation in her home, in front of her, in front of her son. Still, I’d rallied.
I needed to get it right because that was how I got free the first time. I used my tiny slice of leverage to say, no more. No more men. No more entertaining. No more insert-appropriate-euphemism here.
The police hadn’t listened to her story, hadn’t acted, but I got the right result in any case.
Then Seb started his vendetta and my brief glimpse of a normal life fell apart. All the changes I’d fought for and won, I rescinded in order to get away, to get to Kingswood College where my bully could never find me.
Only during the holidays but I never realised how many days that was until I was on the wrong side, wishing they would hurry and be over so I could go back to the safety of school.
Maxwell clears his throat, coming to stand next to me. “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited a guest along today as my plus one.” He checks his watch. “The young man was very excited to meet you.”
He touches my elbow and I resist the urge to jab it back into his ribs. Guess my trip down memory lane is over. Back to the grind. I glance over at Allain and Marnie, beaming, looking for all the world like a loving family who’ve been blessed with so many riches.
All my recollections are bittersweet because I think today, I’m leaving. Finally making the cuts I’ve wanted to for so long and getting out for good.
But I can’t exit without making sure this lovely couple, this rich couple, this deceptive couple won’t just hunt around for a younger version of me to start the same shit all over again.
I’m leaving but I need to pick my moment because I want to take a select few along for the ride.
* * *
My no alcoholrule is overlooked when Marnie pours a bottle of her favourite new red. There’s a gleaming tray of glasses at the ready and she asks me to do the honours like she’s bestowing a favour. I pour for everyone and when I try to pick up my water glass again, she frowns.
“It’s only one toast, darling. You can go back to your G and T afterwards.”
So, I pour one for myself, nostrils twitching at the strong aroma. There’s the sound of the side gate sliding open then shut again, and I turn to glance up the expanse of the manicured lawn.
Maxwell’s boy, I guess, because the man waves to him in greeting.
His shape is so similar to Seb’s that I have to glance away, suddenly fighting tears. The muscles in my hand tense.
My wine glass stem snaps, jolting red liquid over my sundress, the droplets joining with the printed flowers that already look so much like blood that my brain buzzes in excitement, then settles when it feels the wetness, the way the winter breeze instantly turns it cold.
“Go change,” Marnie says, taking my elbow and twisting me towards the house. Her eyes roll as she turns back to the crowd with an apology. “Honestly, this crystal is so delicate. I need to get back to Italy and have a new set blown.”
Then she’s off on the tangent, talking about her last trip to Murano and watching the master craftspeople at work.
The stem broke off mostly in one piece. There’s a jagged edge to it, sharp enough to cut through skin, through fat, maybe even through bone.
Nerves dance with a new urgency, my skin pulsing as it waits for the first tender cut.
Forget your thigh, cut your face. Not so fucking pretty then.
My fingers clench tighter, my adoptive mother casting a worried glance my way. Not worriedforme, gosh no, don’t be silly. Worried that I might upset her guests, her friends, her husband, the people in her life who actually matter.
I drop the bowl of the glass, hearing it smash against the concrete bollard that fixes the jetty to the land. The piece left in my hand is a sword, a knife, a weapon. I raise it to my cheek, pressing against the skin there, dimpling in until the first drop of blood wells from the pinprick.
