Stella
From the moment I say the name ‘Dominic’, I realise that it was a mistake to tell Richard.
I mean, arguably it was a mistake to agree to not see one of my best mates, but we’re several mistakes on from that now.
Richard is sitting across the table from me, our untouched plates of food getting cold as he stares at me.
‘Dominic?’ he repeats coolly.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying not to get flustered. ‘Dominic. The friend I went on a date with a while back? You’d asked me not to see him any more, but circumstances conspired and I ended up having him over to dinner the other week, and I thought I should mention it, just in the interest of honesty.’
Richard picks up his fork. ‘So, just to clarify, I asked you not to see him again and you invited him to your house?’
Something sparks in my chest. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My friend. And I was wrong to say that I would stop seeing him, that was disingenuous of me. I should have explained that he’s a good friend who’s been there for me over a really hard period of my life, and that I don’t want to cut him out.’
Richard cuts up his steak. ‘I see,’ he says.
Dinner is frosty. I try to keep a conversation going while Richard gives me one-word answers.
Part of me thinks that I should tell him to grow up, that I was honest with him eventually and that I’ve apologised, and that I shouldn’t really have to apologise for spending time with a friend, even though I should have been honest about it.
But what if he breaks up with me? I can’t afford to get my own room at this place, if they’ve even got one available that I could book.
I could go back to London, but it’s late and I don’t know when the last train is, or how I’d get to the station.
Visions of waiting at reception until a rural taxi can be summoned to take me for the 5 a.m. train fill my head.
‘Room for something sweet?’ asks the waiter, hovering by our table and apparently not picking up on the absolutely terrible vibe emanating from us. ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’
Richard shakes his head.
‘No, thank you,’ I add.
Richard signs the bill, which I want to pay for, given that my admission ruined the evening, but I’m not sure this is the moment to try.
We walk back to the room through the grounds. The air smells sweet and there’s dew on the grass. We get back to the room and he closes the door behind him, then he takes a deep breath.
‘I don’t want to fight,’ he says resolutely.
‘Me neither,’ I say, pleased, surprised at his change in tone.
He stretches up, like he’s trying to release the anger from his body. ‘So, we just agree, you don’t see him again, I forgive you for what you did, we move on. Okay?’
I look at the floor. ‘I don’t think that’s a compromise. That’s me doing what you tell me to do.’
He looks aghast. ‘You’re not serious?’
I mean, it’s very clear that I’m serious. ‘You should meet him,’ I venture.
‘I don’t want to meet the man who was fucking my girlfriend. What kind of a cuck do you think I am?’
‘We haven’t ever fucked!’ I shout back. ‘I’ve told you that. Multiple times.’
‘Yes, and your honesty throughout this entire saga has been faultless,’ he snaps.
‘I wouldn’t have needed to be dishonest if you’d been reasonable,’ I fire back.
‘Do you have any idea how lucky you are? To be with me?’
I recoil slightly at this. ‘You’re a great guy and you’re very generous, I know how fortunate I am—’
‘You’re damaged goods,’ he says. ‘You realise that? Most men wouldn’t be able to look past that, but I thought – you’re attractive, you’re mature, you know how to run a family – I thought you’d understand how lucky you were. I thought you of all people wouldn’t do what Sophia did.’
Sorry, damaged goods? Damaged fucking goods, what is this, the eighteenth century?
Having a child doesn’t make me damaged. I go to storm out of the room but he’s between me and the door and he doesn’t move.
I wait a moment, assuming he’ll give way, assuming he won’t want me to feel trapped.
But he doesn’t. He stands, steadfast, in the way, not letting me past. Shit.
I retreat, realising that this might be more of an inflammatory situation than I’d previously thought. I pretend to start to cry.
‘Give me a minute,’ I say, going to the bathroom, playing for time.
Almost on autopilot, my shaking fingers reach to dial Dom. He doesn’t pick up on his usual fourth ring and I’m about to hang up when he answers.
‘Hello?’ he says, surprised to hear from me.
He starts saying something but I just spill it out, turning on the extractor fan so that Richard won’t be able to hear.
‘I just need you to tell him that there’s nothing between us and there’s no problem, and then I can get out of here and get home, okay?’
I hear the sound of a door closing on the other side. ‘Call the fucking police,’ Dom says, his voice low. ‘Stella, I’m not joking, call them.’
‘No,’ I say, doubting myself even as I say it. ‘It’s not that bad, it’s just. . . please?’
Dom’s voice sounds strangled. ‘Okay,’ he says.
Then I go out into the bedroom, brandishing my phone. ‘It’s Dom,’ I say quietly. ‘I thought you might want to hear it from him, okay?’
My heart thuds. Was this a good idea? Is this just going to make him angrier?
I thought maybe talking to another man rather than to me might appease him, but his face is expressionless.
I can’t tell if I’ve actually just spectacularly fucked it up.
But at least this way, I think darkly, Richard knows that someone knows where I am and who I’m with.
I have witnesses, if he does anything. .
. I shut the thought down. I’m going to be fine – this is going to be fine.
We’re having a row and we’ll fix the row, and then I’ll calmly tell him that I’m not ready for a relationship, which is patently fucking true because every man I get involved with turns into a complete psycho. Right?
Richard takes the phone from me. ‘Hello?’ he says, his tone even.
I can’t hear what Dom’s saying down the other side. But Richard sounds calm. Friendly, even.
‘I get it,’ he says. ‘I just think, well, you know what it’s like. We’re possessive, aren’t we?’ He even manages a little laugh. ‘All right, well, look, maybe we’ll have a drink when we’re back in London. All right. Good night.’
He hangs up the phone and I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn and smile and apologise.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at me. For what feels like hours.
He stays completely still, staring at me.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he raises my phone, throws it across the room, at the wall, where it hits the pretty Cotswolds stone and smashes, glass splintering from the screen, and lands the floor.
My first thought is for all the pictures of Rose that I’ve taken and not backed up, the ones of her licking the spoon while we baked, rolling around in the garden, pulling up daisies.
I stare at him, dumbstruck, expecting him to apologise for his loss of control. But he doesn’t. My skin feels tight, every single fibre of my body is telling me that I need to get the fuck out of this room.
‘What was that?’ he asks, slowly, quietly, in a tone far more menacing than a shout.
‘I thought it might help for you to hear it from him. I knew you didn’t believe me and I thought—’
‘You thought I’d want to talk to him? Are you fucking stupid?’
I don’t know how to answer this but he’s getting closer and there’s nowhere for me to go, no door between us, no exit route.
‘I’ll ask again,’ he says, closer now, far too close. ‘Are you fucking stupid?’
‘Richard, I don’t think you mean to but you’re scaring me right now, can we just take a beat? Just get some air maybe? I might go for a quick walk—’
I try to push past him but he’s too quick and he’s got me against the wall, not exactly pinning me but somehow trapping me.
‘Richard, please,’ I try again, unable to comprehend that I’ve ended up in this situation. ‘Please?’
He’s looking down at me, almost smiling now, and I’m trying to work out if I can push my way past him, or knee him in the balls, or scream, when there’s a knock at the door.
‘Security!’ a man’s voice shouts. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Just fine,’ Richard calls back, putting his finger to his lips, telling me to stay silent.
‘I need help!’ I yell, sounding stupid and pathetic and mad. For a second I don’t know if they’ve heard me. There’s no reply from the other side of the door.
All I can see are Richard’s eyes blazing with anger and all I can think about is that I’m fairly sure he’s going to hit me – and I’ve never been hit by a man before – and all I can hope is that he’ll stop hitting me before anything serious happens.
And then the door clicks and two men push their way in, and Richard jumps backwards away from me. I’m across the room in seconds. The two security guards look at the smashed phone, my flushed face, Richard still fixed to his spot.
‘Is everything okay?’ they ask again.
I shake my head.
‘Do you want to come with us?’
I nod.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Richard says. ‘I’m not paying nine hundred quid a night to be treated like a criminal.’ He storms out of the room.
No one seems quite sure what to do. So I pack my things while the two blokes, both very nice, middle-aged men who apparently haven’t ever had to break up a fight between a couple in all their years of working at the hotel, help me pack.
My hands are shaking so Glen, the bigger one, unzips and rezips my suitcase for me.
I shove in everything I can, then pick up my phone. Only then do I start crying.
‘They’ll be able to fix it, I’m sure,’ Bill, the smaller one, adds.
‘Do you think I’ll be able to get my photos back?’ I say, between sobs. ‘My photos of my baby?’
Both men look horrified. ‘You’ve got a kid with him?’
I shake my head and, for the first time in a long time, am very grateful for Gavin, who is a shit, but not a shit who has ever scared me, even for a minute. ‘No, not with him.’