“Managed to unhook himself from the elastic of your knickers, did he?”
Skye glared at him.
Martyn was panting at the effort of having made it out into the street. The cut on the back of his head had been glued, a patch of dark hair neatly shaved away. It didn’t please her at all to see him in this state, though Skye didn’t experience much in the way of pity, either. Her days of caring about him had long since passed.
“I’ll need to call one of my friends to pick us up, but we’ll have to walk back to the outskirts of town again. Do you think you can make it that far, or—”
“Of course I can,” he bit back, only to wince as he stubbed hisinjured foot against one of the crutches. He refused her offer of help, sweat leaking into his eyes as they made their slow way through Chora. Many of the shopkeepers were busy redressing window displays that had presumably been damaged by the earthquake. Had the mini-market in Ano Meria survived unscathed? Were the children OK? Iris and Ajax would likely have experienced tremors before, though for George, the experience must have been a frightening novelty.
She should be there with them, in the village. Not here, with him.
The distinctive green cross of a pharmacy came into view ahead. Skye left Martyn on a bench while she went inside with his prescription, collecting the drugs and buying two bottles of Coke at the same time.
“I thought we could both use some sugar,” she said, unscrewing his cap.
Martyn took a long sip, suppressed a belch, then looked at her.
“The Rolex,” he said. “I need it back.”
Wind whipped along the alleyway in a whistling screech.
“I don’t have it,” she said.
Martyn sat back, brows heavy above narrowed eyes.
“It didn’t very well up and leave the house on its own, did it? Try again.”
The mocking tone, that phrase he’d thrown at her so many times before:This wine you bought is no good, try again;Your outfit makes you look like a slut, try again;That apology sounded false, try again.Somewhere along the tumultuous path of their relationship, she had gone from being everything he’d ever wanted to lacking in every conceivable way. By the time she’d fled, nothing Skye had done was deemed acceptable, no matter how hard she’d tried. Martyn would not stop until he reduced her to nothing.
The incident that had convinced her to leave had begun withgood intentions. It was a Friday evening, and Skye was in their open-plan kitchen, preparing a meal. She’d planned each element with great care, defrosting two Wagyu steaks that had been languishing in the freezer for weeks and serving them with garlic fries, chargrilled peppers, and fresh greens from Epsom’s fanciest deli. She dressed the table, setting out flowers, candles, and the best crystal glasses before opening a bottle of vintage Barolo.
Martyn arrived home on the dot of seven.
“In here,” she called.
“What’s all this?” Martyn pulled at the neck of his navy sweater as he came into the room and unfastened the top shirt button underneath. He had flown a music mogul and the man’s various entourage over to Ireland that day—an “easy enough hop,” he’d told her, which was why Skye had felt confident in going all out. Her husband was less liable to be in a bad mood when he’d only be required to travel short haul.
“This is dinner,” she said brightly, passing him a glass of the wine. “Steak done the Japanese way, and there’s even dessert. It’s only chocolate mousse, but I made it myself. I know how you hate the shop-bought ones.”
“Where did the steaks come from?” he inquired, strolling toward where the pan was still sizzling.
An icicle slid down the length of Skye’s spine.
“The freezer,” she said as casually as she could. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
Martyn stared at her.
“I was saving those,” he said. “For my father, remember? I promised him lunch after golf on Sunday.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning it,” Skye said. “I’m sure we can—”
She let out a yelp as Martyn threw his wine, the glass crashing against the cabinets and breaking into hundreds of pieces. Skyetried to run, but he was on her in a second, dragging her up and pushing her back against the worktop. Clawing frantically behind her, Skye’s fingers closed around something small and hard. She swung her arm around in desperation, only to miss. Martyn bellowed, knocking the object away. The small patterned bowl skidded across the tiles, smashing apart as it hit the wall.
It was the last thing her dad had ever made for her.
A sudden fury surged through Skye. She screamed as loud as she could, writhing and shouting as Martyn forced her from the kitchen and up the stairs. There was an extra room at the far end of the landing that he used as a gym, and having flung her inside, he slammed the door shut and bolted it from the outside.
Skye lay among the dumbbells, breathing hard, her sobs coming fast as his footfalls receded. There were scratches on her neck, her wrists sore to the touch. A whirring noise filtered up through the floorboards, followed shortly by the sound of Martyn returning. Skye pinned herself against the wall farthest from the door, turning her face away when he entered.
