Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-one
A whirlwind.
That was the word people used, and it fit. Skye’s romance with Martyn had torn through her life, upending everything she’d carefully built until it was changed beyond all recognition, until she had changed beyond all recognition.
“Find someone who loves you more than you love yourself” was what her dad had always said, and in the beginning, Skye believed she’d found that in Martyn.
Nothing ever seemed to be too much trouble for him where she was concerned.
He was thoughtful and attentive, stocking his bathroom with the moisturizer and shampoo she used, swapping his washing capsules to the sensitive-skin kind so the bedsheets wouldn’t irritate her, and generally making sure that she was comfortable, considered, and coddled in a way she hadn’t been before.
Nobody, she reasoned, would go to so much trouble for someone they didn’t love, and although things moved quickly, the acceleration of their relationship didn’t ring alarm bells.
The one time she’d joked about “playing it cool,” Martyn had merely pulled a face.
He had already told her about his sister—the skiing accident four years previously that had claimed her life—so when he said, “When you know, you know. What’s the sense in wasting time? ” it had made a strange kind of sense.
Three months to the day after their first official London date, Martyn asked her to move in with him.
His house in Epsom was bigger and more conveniently located for both their respective places of work—plus, he said, it was only a temporary solution.
Eventually they’d buy a far larger place together.
Skye was reluctant to sell her little flat, with its artwork and trinkets and memories of her dad, but he wore her down with promises; love was a currency that he doled out as readily as pennies into a fountain.
The day she parked her rented moving van in his driveway, Martyn got down on one knee and presented her with a diamond ring.
“You’re the only one I want,” he said. “Forever.”
Skye had come so far already—how could she say anything other than yes?
“I don’t want to wait,” he demurred when she tentatively pushed back against the idea of a “quickie wedding” at the local registry office. Skye had always imagined a big tent, a live band, dancing and games, and a multitiered cake, though Martyn made her see things differently.
“We’d only be sad all day,” he told her. “No dad there to give you away, no little sister to make fun of me in a speech. Obviously I’ll agree with whatever you want, but doesn’t it make more sense to do something just for us?”
The power of his persuasion had won, the pattern of their relationship spooling out in the same way it always had.
She didn’t need to unpack all her belongings, simply store them until they found their “forever home”; it was silly to pay insurance on two cars when she could just as easily be added as an extra driver on his; Scotland would’ve been nice for their honeymoon, but he’d already gone ahead and booked the Maldives.
It was not in Skye’s nature to provoke, nor did she want to cause unnecessary upset or appear ungrateful.
It was easier to go along with his suggestions, and after a while, the balance of control tipped solely over to his side.
He was in charge of the food shopping, the bill paying, their weekend plans, and trips away; he chose the restaurants they ate at, which radio station they listened to, and what they watched on television.
No request was unreasonable, each stipulation presented to Skye as being in her best interests, not his.
Soon he was dictating her wardrobe, her makeup style, how she did her hair, and her reading choices.
The fast-paced psychological thrillers she loved were dropped off at Oxfam, replaced by a stack of Booker-nominated tomes, clothbound classics, and biographies of the powerful businessmen Martyn admired.
Their first notable argument occurred one Friday evening in the run-up to their second Christmas as a couple.
Skye had finished her final pile of grading for the year and was rewarding herself with a bath and an illicit copy of a real-life magazine, featuring such stories as “I Married My Ghost” and “How I Dropped Three Dress Sizes Doing Headstands.” Such a tawdry publication would’ve been condemned to the bin by Martyn, but he was away, flying a group of rich property developers back to the Middle East.
Submerged beneath lavender-scented bubbles, a rare glass of red wine propped beside the tap, Skye was relaxed enough not to be unduly concerned when she heard the sound of a key in the lock downstairs.
“Is that you?” she called, picturing her husband slipping off his shoes, hanging up his coat and scarf, putting his wallet on the hall table.
“Where are you?” came his bark of reply. A thread of unease wound its way through Skye. She slid farther down in the tub, water lapping at her collarbones.
“Up here,” she replied, careful to keep her own tone light.
Feet sounded on the stairs, and a moment later, the bathroom door was pushed open.
Martyn appeared in the gap, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes flinty.
He was dressed smartly in a crisp white shirt and navy trousers, his square jaw clean-shaven, and dark hair brushed forward.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Is that a trick question?”
“It’s seven o’clock,” he said. “Why isn’t dinner on?”
Skye pushed herself lower in the water, as if retreating could quiet the discomfort.
“I didn’t know that—” she began. “I thought you were in Dubai overnight.”
“Canceled. A meeting ran over, so they decided to do a weekend in the city. Left me sitting on the bloody tarmac for three hours. Honestly, these people.” His features curled into a scowl. “You would’ve been aware of all this if you ever bothered to check your phone.”
“Ah.”
Skye’s phone was charging in the kitchen, silent mode activated so as not to disturb her peaceful evening.
“Sorry,” she said meekly. “I’ll remember to keep it with me in the future.”
Martyn dropped the toilet seat with a deliberate clatter and sat, elbows on his knees, watching her with a stillness that made her skin crawl. He hadn’t bothered to close the door behind him, and a cold draft drifted into the room. Skye watched the steam filter out into the landing.
“Do you want to get in with me?” she asked.
“No,” he said flatly.
“I’ll get out, then—”
“What’s this?”
Too late, Skye spotted the magazine on the floor. She lunged for it, but Martyn got there first. The story she’d been reading was one about a woman who’d had her own whirlwind romance, only to later discover the man she loved was a wanted serial killer living under a false identity.
“I found it in the staff room,” she said, hating that the apology was already lined up in the back of her throat. “I know it’s silly, but it’s just a bit of fun.”
“A bit of fun,” he repeated coldly. “Rotting your brain is amusing to you, is it?”
“That’s a bit judgmental,” she said, instantly regretting it.
Martyn got to his feet and ripped the magazine in half, then in half again, every movement precise, controlled, deliberate.
Torn bits of paper floated down onto the mat.
Skye brought her knees up to her chest. The bubbles were beginning to disperse, the water rapidly cooling, though she didn’t want to move.
He stood over her while she cowered, soaking wet, naked, at a loss for what to do next.
“I won’t be much longer,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you go downstairs and fix yourself a drink? There’s a bottle of red open in the—”
He moved so fast that she had no time to react, his hand swinging around in a great arc that sent her glass spinning off the edge of the bath.
Wine spread like blood into the water, and Skye gasped as a piece of broken glass sliced into her thigh, another catching her ankle.
She tried to collect the pieces, only to cut open her hand and then her wrist, each of the wounds trailing red-ribbon streams. With a cry, she lurched upright and out of the bath, only for her foot to slip on the torn magazine.
Martyn caught her as she fell, but she wrenched herself away from him.
“Get off me,” she cried, pawing desperately for a towel.
“You’re injured,” he said, all trace of anger gone, color draining from his face as he took in the state of her.
There were tiny slashes everywhere, eyelash-thin nicks on her chest and arms. Skye picked up a roll of toilet paper and pressed squares of it against the deepest cuts while Martyn hovered, biting his lip.
“I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I love you.”
Skye ignored him and pushed her way from the bathroom into their bedroom before slamming the door behind her. The full-length mirror on the wardrobe door caught her, dripping and pale, hair slicked to her scalp, thin trails of blood running down her legs.
Martyn knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Go away.” Skye turned from the mirror.
“I didn’t mean it.”
She sighed.
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine, but what choice did she have?
What was the point in prolonging the argument?
All she’d heard growing up were arguments, her mum snapping at her dad, him biting back, the vitriolic exchanges, the clunk of the whiskey bottle against a tumbler, the tearful promises followed by days of silent resentment.
It wasn’t how she wanted her marriage to end up.
Skye unlocked the door and let her husband take her in his arms. She did not move away when he unknotted the towel nor when he laid her down on the bed and kissed every injury he’d caused. She believed him when he told her it would never happen again.
But it had.
So many times.
Each one worse than the last.