Only Hope (Gold Hill)
Prologue
Alison stands frozen in her living room as the scene unravels. She can’t sit down for this. Knowing what was coming, she’d turned off her phone, pulled all the blinds and locked her doors. Is it paranoia to think the whole city is watching her or is it reality? The blinds and locks are farcical; there will never be enough privacy, never again.
She watches herself, sliding one long elegant hand down her husband’s chest. Her gaze catches on her fingernails, perfectly shaped but a dark glossy maroon she’d never wear. Her husband’s suit is tailored and expensive; it looks just right. She certainly hadn’t picked out that tie though, hanging slack around his neck as though he’d pulled it loose as he walked in the door, a public man coming home to himself. To her.
She listens to herself, her speech low and graceful, the way her carefully modulated tone barely even hitches over the bright red smear as she slips those glossy nails up to straighten his collar. The subtlety is exquisite. There is a pause in the action, a refocusing, the slow sway of her hips as she turns to climb the stairs alone. No accusation, not even a hint she’d noticed. His shoulders slump, not at the reprieve, but at his wife’s absolute lack of mistrust. Or is it backbone? It hasn’t been made clear yet.
She scrunches her eyes closed and when she opens them it’s on the same man. The stranger. Her husband. Slipping inside his mind now, everyone can see him. In the backseat of a luxury car, his hungrily focused gaze turning wild with ecstasy, losing himself between the parted thighs of a voluptuous blonde, with an urgency to be inside her that Alison has long forgotten.
The contrast between them is crystal clear. Alison is all cold elegance and refined restraint. The woman - Estella Grant, wife of a violent gangster - despite being dangerously alluring, looks deliciously warm: all forbidden curves and welcoming cries as she pulls Alison’s husband in deep. Even Alison is enamoured by the hungry tilt of her throat. She seems ravenous. Alison, by comparison, is as brittle as bones.
Her fist moves before she even knows she’s doing it. The arc of her arm belies her pedigree; should a society wife really be able to throw a punch like that? The full wineglass in her clenched fingers lets fly. It smashes into the television screen, shattering the image of the entwined couple like a bullet, merlot dripping across the carpet as blood. The remote is nowhere in sight so Alison rips the plug out of the wall, sinks to her knees and - mindful of the waiting neighbours - swallows her endless screams.