Page 2

I did drama at school when I was about fifteen. I remember thinking, “Honestly, hun, when is a Shakespearean tragedy gunna be relevant to my life? That was ages ago.” It turns out men are ridiculous in every time period.

Harry just stands there, back to the wall, texting. I don’t know what to do. Do I sit? Do I stand with him? I hate being so anxious that every stupid choice becomes like running at one of those “maybe” doors on Takeshi’s Castle. Good luck is falling in the mud, bad luck is breaking your face. But we’re going to keep watching anyway, aren’t we?

Speaking of watching, I can’t even remember how to walk. You know when you’re so self-conscious you’re like, “Am I walking like a human? How do humans walk again?” and then you realise you’ve also forgotten how to breathe. So you breathe deeper, and now your underwire is digging into your chest and just exacerbating things.

Honestly fuck tight skirts, and underwire, and men, and courtrooms and all of this bullshit. Can’t I just get a gun, a girl bestie, a car, and ride off the edge of a cliff or however it was that Thelma and Louise did it? I hate men, but they do have some uses. I don’t know what to do with them for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes of the day, Netflix, I guess? After losing a solid twenty minutes to trying to scrub yourself clean, and I should factor in preparation time because God forbid a woman gives a man shaver’s rash. Other way round? Totally acceptable. He gives you shaver’s rash because “it’s designer stubble, babe” and yeah, whatever. And we’re the sensitive ones? Honestly.

Harry clears his throat. “Sawyer.” And I lock back into the room. Like emerging from cold water, I dutifully follow him. Partly because that’s the role and partly because, despite his ridiculous walking pace, I don’t know where the fuck I’m going in this giant grey monstrosity of urban public space planning. I’m glad to be away from the main waiting room though and the piss-stinking peasant pageantry.

This doesn’t look anything like The Bill. It’s all very underwhelming, actually. More like a conference room than some court, and there aren’t even any of those curly wigs. Disappointing, to be honest. It’s like going to London and not seeing one of those tall fur hats. The suits speaking are so dull. This is painfully boring. And shockingly short. Did I fall asleep? I quickly try to recall everything I heard but all I got was “firearms… organised crime… risk to witnesses… intimidation… complex investigation” and then something about “registered address… complying with bail conditions… no prior convictions… good character” so I guess it’s going well, probably? Good character is, presumably, good?

I can only assume I’ve glazed over and/or the important bit is coming because my twat-sense tingles when Harry squeezes painfully just above my knee, forcing my focus.

The judge, or magistrate, or grand magus or whatever the fuck he is, I guess, has now heard enough, so he starts his pompous monologue.

“We have considered… nature and seriousness… substantial grounds for believing… a risk of further offending, interference with witnesses and obstruction… bail is refused. You are remanded in custody until your next appearance at the Crown Court.”

Remanded in custody, so he’s staying in jail until the court date? Shit. Tell your face. Be upset. Think of something sad. I never met the Queen! Okay, gangster wife drama, sell it babes.

“Love you, babe!” I holler across the room as they walk him back out and I blow a dramatic kiss. The hair comes in clutch because now I only have to hide one side of my face to make it look like I’m shedding a tear for my dear sweet cunt of a fella.

“We’re gone,” Harry informs me, when he’s clearly much more gone than I am, practically forcing me to jog to find him. Not cool. Harry isn’t even through the metal detector before he’s got a cigarette in his mouth. I catch up to him on the plaza and spark up. Playing shaken.

“I told you, didn’t I? Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.” And he forces me into a hug. My nose squished against his breastbone, forced to inhale the stench of old Marlboro Lights and “everyday” Whisky whilst the starched cotton grazes my face. Watch him slap me for getting foundation on his tie, now. “We’ll see you right, don’t you worry about that.”

Does this man not realise the more he tells me not to worry, the more bloody worrying it is? With Dan gone, where does the money come from? With Dan gone, can I disappear? Maybe if I promise to keep my mouth shut. I can just sit on the pier at Cromer with some chips and listen to the waves.

“Get in,” he tells me. I do as I’m told, of course. Naturally, every fibre of my being is screaming at me not to. What I do know is that I do not want to be alone with this man. My stomach sinks. I know exactly how Harry can be.

Dan is a piece of shit, but Harry is a monster. I don’t know how Harry will be now that Dan is out of the picture. And I still don’t know what effect Dan’s behaviour in prison will have on me.

I don’t know if it’s anxiety, car sickness, still needing a nervous poo, or the fact that I’ve barely eaten since last night. But I need to throw up. I need to cry. I need to hold my shit together. More than all that? I need out.

One

Sawyer

The pillow feels so soft against one cheek, whilst the sun slow-roasts the other, its light hitting my eyelids just hard enough to irritate me out of my slumber. I roll onto my front and just stretch. Kicking the duvet off the end of the bed I roll onto my back and lie spread-eagled, taking a deep, healing breath.

I’ve always loved sleeping naked, but I’ve avoided it for so long. For a split second I just rub my bare cheeks and calves on the sheets and enjoy the softness. It feels like I’m on holiday, okay so there’s no swim-up bar, and it’s no Marbs. But that feeling of relaxation and freedom. Until you realise your departure date is creeping ever closer and you have to mourn the holiday you’ve not even finished yet.

I haven’t got a damned place to be, or a damned thing to do today, and it feels so, so good. There’s going to be no madness, no drama, no “is it bullshit, police, or hospital” panic before answering the phone. No “be back in a bit, babe” with a kiss on the cheek that makes my skin crawl as if I’ve seen a cockroach in the house.

No judging what mood he’s in by how he pulls onto the drive. Just me, and every tragic thing I feel like wasting my day with.

“Alexa! Play Craig David.”

I sing along, out loud. All the way to the en suite. My whole body just feels light. Maybe I should feel guilty. But I don’t. Does he shed a tear for me? Doubtful. I mean a real one, not those performative snivelling “I’m so sorry, babe, it won’t happen again… until next time” ones that just give a girl the fucking ick.

Brushing my teeth half hum-singing along to Rise and Fall I almost laugh at Dan’s misfortune. Sure, it might be my downfall too, but he was living a hell of a lot higher than me. I don’t have so far to fall. He does. And I hope it fucking sucks.

I wonder if he’ll have such a hard time keeping hold of his temper surrounded by convicts, and without Harry’s reputation stopping people from smacking him about. Or worse.

Instant guilt. He’s a horrible prick. But he’s still Dan, who I met at the barbecue, who I swooned for. Who charmed me, courted me, wined and dined me. Who showed me the glitz and glam and gave me the status and did all of that. Who moved me in with him to his lovely house, bought me nice things.

But let’s be honest, golden boy was gold-plated. My neck soon went green. And brown, and yellow, and purple.

I absolutely shouldn’t wish the same violations on him. But I can’t admit there wouldn’t be some sweet irony in it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even him. Don’t ever let someone steal your shine. It happening to him doesn’t undo what happened to me. I won’t lower myself to him.