It’s the Journey, Not the Destination
It’s the Journey, Not the Destination
‘So what happened afterwards?’ asked Flick, as Maggie finished telling her the story about the night of their engagement dinner. ‘When you woke up the next day?’
As Maggie turned off the engine, the car fell silent.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Sitting beside her, in the passenger seat, Flick was incredulous. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’ Maggie nodded. ‘When I woke up the next day, it was like nothing had happened.’
After over seven hours on the road, one ferry and five hundred and fifty kilometres later, a dusty red Fiat and its passengers had finally arrived at its destination: the beautiful hilltop town of Taormina.
Spectacularly perched on a mountainside, high above the sea and with a view of Mount Etna, this was one of the famous stops on the Grand Tour, the journey made by nineteenth-century aristocracy, who came to learn about art and history and archaeology.
Fast-forward a couple of hundred years and following in their footsteps were Flick and Maggie. Minus the crinolines, parasols and footmen, they’d pulled into the large gravel forecourt outside their hotel, tired and weary from the long journey.
And they weren’t here to educate themselves, they were here to catch a con man.
‘But I don’t understand . . .’
‘At the time, neither did I, it was the weirdest thing.’
Maggie rested her hands on the steering wheel, her mind flicking back.
‘I was bracing myself for an argument, to find him still in a bad mood, rehearsing what I might say to make it all better, but when I walked into the kitchen the radio was on, fresh coffee was brewing and he was at the stove, cooking me breakfast, all cheerful and happy—’ She broke off, back in the moment.
‘And when he saw me he gave me the biggest smile, like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. ’
‘He didn’t mention the night before?’
‘Nope.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘It was like it had never happened. And I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t want to bring it all up again.’
‘How weird.’
‘To be honest, I was just so relieved that the man I knew and loved was back. That everything was normal again.’
Parked in the shade of a row of large cypress trees, with the windows of the Fiat buzzed right down, a welcome breeze blew through the car.
They both knew they needed to check into the hotel, go through the whole paperwork and passport process yet again.
But for the moment they remained sitting in the car, not yet ready to drum up the energy needed.
‘But it wasn’t normal, was it?’ Maggie spoke quietly.
For so long she’d deliberately locked these memories away and reliving them now was both painful and illuminating.
‘I should’ve said something. Called him out on it. Had a conversation about what had angered him so much and made him so upset. Maybe if I had done, I wouldn’t have got myself into such a mess.’
But Flick wasn’t having any of it. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ she retorted. ‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t get yourself into the mess, it was him.’
‘But I let him, didn’t I? I was the one who allowed it.’
Resting her hands on the steering wheel, Maggie let herself be transported far away from the summer heat of Sicily, back to the kitchen of her old flat. Despite the summer heat, she felt herself go cold.
‘“Eat up, babe, your eggs will go cold.” That’s what he said. And then he gave me a kiss.’
She turned to Flick, smiling, but it was the saddest smile Flick had ever seen.
‘And you know what’s the worst part?’
Flick shook her head.
‘I kissed him back and told him he made the best omelette and I ate my breakfast like a good girl.’ Maggie’s eyes flashed with tears, but she refused to let them fall.
‘And afterwards I convinced myself that I must have drunk more champagne than I thought the night before. That I’d remembered it all wrong.
That I must have said something, or done something, but it didn’t matter now, because everything was good between us again. ’
She sniffed sharply. She was damned if she was going to cry another tear over Him.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
‘But that’s just it. I do blame myself. I ignored that voice in my head that told me something was wrong . . . I told myself everything was fine, that we loved each other . . . and for a long time I didn’t realize what was happening to me, until it was too late . . .’
As Maggie spoke, Flick felt a mixture of guilt and tremendous responsibility.
She was the reason Maggie was having to relive all of this.
If it wasn’t for her turning up at her caravan, digging for information about a Theo C.
Stratin and asking her to tell her story, she wouldn’t be having to go through all of these painful memories.
She wouldn’t be here now, reliving all of this.
And for a moment, she allowed the doubts to take hold.
Had she been right in pursuing him? Involving Maggie?
Dragging her halfway across Europe on some madcap scheme?
Because listening to Maggie talk, to hear about her experience in these unscripted interviews on the road, where she spoke about what had happened to her, it was clear to Flick that this wasn’t about the money.
It was about much more than that. But then she always knew that, didn’t she?
‘. . . because what I didn’t know then, is this is how it all starts.’
‘You mean the deception?’ Flick felt herself snap back. ‘Defrauding you out of your life savings?’
But Maggie shook her head. He’d stolen so much more from her than that.
‘No. I’m talking about the coercive control. The emotional abuse. The breadcrumbing. The gaslighting.’
She turned to look at Flick. Only now was Flick really beginning to understand what had happened to Maggie.
‘I didn’t even know what those terms meant before He walked into my art gallery.
I’d probably heard of them, read them in a magazine article, but I’d never experienced them, never thought that could happen to me.
You don’t, do you? You think you’d be wiser, stronger.
I wasn’t some naive young girl – I was in my forties; I owned my flat, ran my own business; I’d been married, had relationships .
. . It was only afterwards, when I went to the police and they gave me some leaflets, links to support groups and websites . . .’
Looking down at her lap, Maggie began picking an invisible thread on her dress.
Flick watched her, ignoring the impulse to tell her it wasn’t her fault.
That fraudsters were heartless. Master manipulators.
Experts at lulling their victims into a false sense of security and trust, at convincing everyone that they were something they’re not.
‘I started reading up on it and recognized the patterns of behaviour, the description of the silences and bad moods, the mind tricks and constant threat of him taking away his love and affection. I started living on eggshells, feeling isolated . . .’
‘But what about your friends? What about George, what did he say?’
Maggie looked embarrassed. ‘I stopped seeing most of them,’ she admitted, raising her eyes to Flick’s.
‘I’d make excuses, say I was busy. Pretend I’d forgotten to return their calls.
I didn’t want to risk a repeat of what had happened that evening, it just felt easier this way.
Looking back, now I realize it was his way of isolating me from my friends.
After a while, people assume you’re busy and stop trying to meet up.
They think you’re newly engaged and planning a wedding, that you’re in some kind of love bubble. ’
‘Gosh, Maggie, I’m sorry. What a mind fuck.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
She smiled then and Flick felt an urgent need to reassure Maggie that the experience was more common than she thought, that she was determined to write the exposé to broaden awareness and warn others so it wouldn’t happen to them.
‘You know, if it’s any consolation, you’re not alone.
I’ve been doing my research and I’ve read about this happening to lots of people.
Both men and women. The victim is desperate for affection from their abuser, it becomes a vicious cycle.
That’s how they get away with the lies and deceit for so long. They’re unscrupulous.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Maggie nodded. ‘And all the time they tell you they love you. And you want it so much to be true, you believe them.’
There was a pause and Flick reached out her hand, squeezing Maggie’s in hers.
‘He’s not going to get away with this. We’re going to find him and make him face up to what he’s done. I promise.’
Maggie nodded, grateful for her kindness and confidence, and thought about her phone burning a hole in her pocket, about the text she received out of the blue from Him last night.
She hadn’t told Flick that he’d made contact.
Neither had she replied. It had been such a shock to hear from him, she was still processing it.
Deciding what to do. Though, of course, there shouldn’t be any decision to make.
She needed to tell the police. To tell Flick.
‘Actually, there’s something else—’
‘Buon pomeriggio, signore, e benvenute nel nostro hotel.’
They were interrupted by loud Italian voices and, turning, saw two uniformed porters striding towards the car, ready to welcome them to the hotel with huge smiles and a silver tray on which balanced two tall glasses.
‘Wow, hi.’
‘Thank you so much.’
As they both quickly clambered out of the car, they found themselves being presented with chilled lemonade cocktails, as their luggage was swiftly removed from the boot.
‘Sorry, what was it you were saying?’
Flick turned to Maggie, a drink in her hand, her head spinning. She felt like she’d just stepped into some five-star fairytale.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
And together they were whisked across the gravel courtyard to reception, in a whirl of scented blossoms, delicious cocktails and handsome Sicilian men in uniform.
Whatever it was, it could wait.