Chapter Forty-Five
Forty-five
What becomes clear, as the night deepens, is that Jack has no intention of letting me out today.
He’s passed the door several times—presumably to check that I am still incarcerated—but, though his footsteps have slowed on his approach, he doesn’t speak.
Not even when I plead with him, my voice a genuine stutter of fear, of desperation.
I hate how pathetic it makes me sound. I hate that he has so much power.
More than anything, I hate that I made such a monumental mistake.
That I believed he could love me for who I am.
I have laid out the contents of my pockets on the floor, my sanitizer and my wallet, in case there was anything I could use to make my escape. I even retrieved the old key to Freddie’s flat from his box, which I’d left here on my first night, and tried to jam it into the lock. It’s far too small.
I can’t stop thinking about what he said.
Mum. Why her, of all people? Because he wanted to own me so completely that when I lied—told him she was the most important person in my life—he decided she was a threat?
As much as I don’t want to believe that the man I have been sharing a bed with could be capable of such depravity, it’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
Any love I felt for that man has evaporated. I’m filled only with a burning hatred so strong I could—and do—scream. For everything he has put me through. For making me believe that I could be someone worthy of his time. His attention. His love. But it wasn’t me he wanted. It’s never me they want.
It was exactly the same with Freddie. When it became too difficult to ignore his blatant disregard for our relationship, when I’d tried and failed to bring him back to me, ramping up my performance, acting as Marcie would have done, all to no avail, I decided the time had come to confront him.
I was out of all other options. I waited until he left the office. Then I followed him.
I just wanted to find a quiet place. A place far from the prying ears of our colleagues, so that we could talk.
Properly, this time. When he hurried down an alleyway, I waited ten seconds, then followed.
He was on the phone—leaving a voicemail, from the sounds of it.
And I knew, just by his tone, that it was a message for her.
I drew closer, hoping to hear more, throwing caution to the wind in a way I never will again.
And what I heard was horrible. It confirmed my worst suspicions.
There was someone else. I was not enough for him.
Ten minutes later, Freddie was dead.
Now, suddenly, the answer comes to me. While Freddie’s great love was at least alive, Jack is still caught up with the love he lost. And in order to escape, I realize I will have to slip into the role she vacated, turn myself into her one last time.
The stakes are higher than ever. Any slipups could be fatal.
I’m going to have to put on the performance of a lifetime, pretend I’m still utterly, irreversibly in love with this man whom I feel only revulsion for. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
He’s gone to bed. About an hour ago he hovered by the door, and I cried, screamed, begged for release. There was no answer.
At some point—I’m not sure what time—I drag myself away from the door, over to the bed, and collapse into it.
I must fall into an uneasy sleep, because when I wake the key is rattling in the lock, and I only have time to sit up, clutching the blankets to my chest, as Jack enters the room.
I’m sleep fuddled, but not enough to forget my plan.
The new plan. Jack stands in the doorway, staring at me, and I’m off the bed in a second, rushing over to him and clutching at his arm.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Jack. I need to explain.
Please, will you listen? It’s not what it seems. I love you, Jack.
” Voice low, earnest, intense, I don’t move my eyes from his.
“I don’t care about Mum. I never have. She treated me terribly after Marcie.
She never cared about me. I see it now. No one cares about me like you do. I love you.”
This final declaration gives him pause. Once again, he searches my face for the lie and finds only desolation. Devotion. Predictable, the way his eyes soften. He is arrogant enough to believe that I could possibly still love him after everything he has done.
“I understand why you’re so angry, Jack. It makes total sense. I’d be angry, too. But I promise you I didn’t invite that woman over. If I’d believed half of what she was saying, would I still be here? She was jealous. Of you, of the life you gave to Alice. It was so obvious.”
Jack looks like shit. Haggard from whatever he indulged in last night. He rubs his hand over his face as though trying to make sense of what I’m saying. Because it does make sense. He knows my argument is solid. Of course it is. I came up with it.
“I’m so confused, Iris. You’re driving me crazy. I don’t know what to do.”
I tighten my grip on his arm. “Let me out. Let’s go back to the way things were. She’s nothing. She’s so unimportant. What matters is you and me.”
Nothing for a second. Then a slow nod. I reach up on my tiptoes to give him the softest kiss on the cheek. He doesn’t pull away, so I plow on. It’s working. Just a little further now.
“You’re a good person, Jack. You care about people. That much is obvious. Just look at how much you’ve looked after me for the last few weeks. You deserve to be happy. You’ve been through so much, it’s time to let me look after you.”
And, because he is an idiot, he believes me. I can tell from the way he draws me into him, presses a kiss to my temple that I must fight the urge to wipe away. The door stands open behind us.
Timorously, tremulously, I ask the question: “Can I come out?”
He sighs, long and low, and then nods. “I’m sorry.” His voice is choked. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I croon, though of course it is nothing of the sort. I fight the urge to run down the corridor as we exit. But Jack’s hand is still on my arm, and there’s a warning in the tightness of his grip. We don’t go downstairs. Instead, he leads me through to his bedroom.
I have to endure sex with him. I’d half expected it, but it doesn’t make the experience any more pleasant.
He’s domineering again, and I allow it. A perfect, submissive doll who doesn’t ask questions, who pretends he is a master of pleasure, when in actuality his violent thrusting is giving me carpet burn.
It’s only when I rise, announce that I am getting in the shower, that I realize he doesn’t intend to leave me alone for one second.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, and he rises, too.
I turn away from him and roll my eyes. Showering—particularly for someone with my standards—is a very personal experience, but I grit my teeth and acquiesce once more.
In the shower, while I am pretending to enjoy the way Jack rubs soap into my shoulder—about as unpleasurable as the sex—I plot my escape.
I broach the subject when we are dressing.
“Jack.” That slow, timorous voice that I have grown to hate.
I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this weak, sniveling little girl who bows to his every whim.
“I’ve been thinking. It’s the group tonight.
The first one since I had my little…moment about Mum.
I think it might be useful for me to go.
Only if that’s OK with you, of course. I just feel that it might help me process it all a little better than I have been?
” I raise the pitch of my voice at the end of the sentence so that it sounds like a question.
A servant seeking approval from her master.
To remind him of how much power he has over me.
I can practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he computes this question.
I know what he’s thinking: It’s a risk—a big one—to allow me to go, but I assured him of my feelings, didn’t I?
I made a point of drawing attention to what a good, good person he was.
One who has simply lost his way in the world.
One I’m willing to help back onto the right path, if only he’ll let me.
If only he’ll grant me this one small favor.
A slow, glorious nod, and I turn away to hide my smile.
“But I’ll come with you,” he says, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Annoying, but again not entirely unexpected.
“Great!”
Jack calls in sick to work and forces me to watch yet more drivel on TV.
For someone I assumed was fairly cultured, he does watch the most unbelievable crap.
But I interject at all the right moments, follow the lead on the canned laughter, and feel him loosen beside me as he takes in this relaxed, giggly woman.
The one who laughs at the same jokes as him, and likes the same shows as him, and has sex with him whenever he so desires it.
The hours tick down. Jack follows me to the loo, and I let him. At lunchtime, we go through to the kitchen—together, of course—and I see my phone isn’t where I left it. I make us lunch as he sits at the breakfast bar, conscious of his eyes on me. I don’t break character. Not once.
After lunch, we go back to the sitting room. Watch a film. And then the sky is darkening and the session is almost upon us.
I stand, stretch, note the way his hand hovers midway toward me, as though to grab for my wrist should I try to run. “We should think about heading off,” I say. We. There has never been a we. I see that now. Now there is only him, and only me, coming at this from opposite ends of the playing field.
And then he is unlatching the door, still holding me firmly by the arm, and we step out into the night.
I clutch him and give him a bright, sunny smile. “I’m so pleased we’re doing this together,” I say.
The community center has never looked drabber, and I’ve never been more pleased to see it.
Jack steers me toward two available seats and we sit.
Rita’s eyes follow us across the room. Her lipsticked mouth purses as she takes in the intimacy between us.
Frankly, she can have him. I’m done, dusted, fed up.
If she wants locked doors, mediocre skills in the bedroom, and shit TV, she can be my guest. He does have a big house, so I suppose that’s his one redeeming feature.
I turn to give Jack a small, encouraging smile, and he leans gently against me in response.
He has no idea what’s coming. What I’m about to reveal about him, in this forum where he will not be able to retaliate. My smile grows wider.
And then, from behind, there is the unmistakable sound of the vacuum of air created by the swinging door. I frown, do a quick count. Everyone’s here. Well, Matt isn’t, obviously. Surely Fiona hasn’t had the audacity to fill his seat already.
But, sure enough, she’s turning, fixing her welcoming smile to her face, and spreading her arms. I turn, too. And the world stops turning for a second.
Because walking into the room is Greg. Freddie’s Greg. The Greg who figured me out, who outed me to Freddie. The Greg who disliked me the moment he laid eyes on me. The Greg who suspected everything.
My heart gives a nasty little skip and I sink into my chair, ducking my head. I should stand, leave, but Jack—as if sensing this sudden urge to bolt—wraps his fingers round my arm again. And then it’s too late. Because Fiona has pointed to the chair, and Greg has sat down, and he has noticed me.
His eyes widen with shock, then darken with dislike, and I can’t breathe.
Fiona’s prattling on about the type of group we are—her usual introductory crap—and doesn’t notice how the atmosphere has soured.
“And could you tell us what brings you to the group today, Greg?”
“That’s a good question,” he says, in that deep, gravelly voice.
He looks at me, and I know then what’s coming, with a certainty that sends bile rising in my throat.
“I lost a colleague—a good friend—a few months ago. I’ve been OK, generally, but I saw the advert for this group, and I thought I’d come. I’ve found things hard without him.”
Fuck Fiona and her fucking marketing strategy. The leaflets and the online adverts and the book she wrote. Causing problems left, right, and center.
“Freddie didn’t have a very good end to his life. He was terrified, actually. It’s a hard thing to come to terms with: that someone was so unhappy just before they died. So I think I came to try and get closure.” And the way he looks at me then…as though he is about to get his wish.
“Thank you, Greg. Right,” Fiona says briskly. “Introductions!”
He hasn’t acknowledged the connection yet, and I can only hope that he doesn’t intend to.
I’ll have to navigate this very carefully.
Jack’s looking at me, as though he can sense my discomfort.
Which he probably can. My whole body is vibrating as I wait to speak with a tongue that feels suddenly too heavy for my mouth.
We go through Rita, and Jack, and even Charlie speaks, and then it’s my turn.
I swallow, hard. “I’m Iris. I lost my mum a couple of weeks ago.” I try to leave it there. Try not to look at anyone, but I see in my peripheral that Fiona has raised her eyebrows.
“Anything else to add, Iris?” she says eventually.
“And”—a deep, steadying breath—“I lost my fiancé. A few months ago.”
“And his name was also Freddie, wasn’t it?”
I want to stuff every page of Fiona’s stupid book into her stupid mouth to shut her up, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I raise my eyes to Greg’s and see understanding dawning there.
And his voice cuts across the circle like a machete. “What’s your rule on someone pretending that they had a closer relationship with the person they lost than they actually did?”
Fiona’s eyebrows rise an inch. “I’m not sure I follow, Greg. Are you saying you didn’t lose your friend?”
He clears his throat, and though I can’t look at him, I can feel his stare burning through the side of my face.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that there’s someone here who is pretending they were in a relationship with someone when they weren’t.
” He points at me. “She barely knew Freddie at all.”