few more drinks.
Fortunately, he smiled back. “Not really, no.” He finished off his pint, and then looked at our hands again and said, “But something tells me you’re not quite ready for one, either.”
I shook my head. I thought and thought about it, and eventually all I could manage to say was, “I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“Was it bad?” he asked.
I nodded. I’d only ever really talked about it when the police interviewed me, and even then I’d only really answered their direct questions, I didn’t volunteer any details about what happened. They tried to get me to talk about that in the hospital. I learned about which bits I could tell them, things I could say that would keep them happy, reassure them that I was recovering, in the hope that they’d let me out and leave me the hell alone. When they did let me out, they were supposed to sort me out with counseling, but it never happened. I wouldn’t have gone, in any case. All I wanted to do was run, run fast and never look back.
I didn’t think for one minute I was going to talk about it now, but it started to come out of my mouth as though someone else was saying it, and I was just sitting back and listening. “I was attacked.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Did they find the person that did it?”
I nodded. “He’s in prison. He got three years for it.”
“Three years? That’s not long.”
I shrugged. “It’s just time, isn’t it? Three years, thirty years. They might never have found him at all. At least it gave me long enough to escape.”
Thursday 25 December 2003
Christmas Day, I woke up to bright sunshine. Lee wasn’t in bed next to me. From downstairs I heard noises of pots and pans banging along with my headache. I looked across to the alarm clock—half-past nine.
I tried to feel excited, and happy, and Christmassy, but for the time being my head needed nursing.
I fell asleep again and when I next opened my eyes Lee was there with a tray full of breakfast. “Wake up, beautiful,” he said.
I sat up and tried to ignore the way my head felt. “Wow,” I said. Toast, juice, and, because I clearly hadn’t had enough to drink in the last twenty-four hours, champagne.
Lee pulled off his jeans and T-shirt and climbed back into bed next to me, pinching a piece of toast and munching on it. “Happy Christmas,” he said.
I kissed him. Then I kissed him again, until I nearly kicked the tray over, and after that I sat up and drank some juice.
“I was out of order last night,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “Out of order? Why?”
He looked at me steadily. “I was mad jealous that you’d gone out wearing that dress. I’m sorry, it was wrong.”
There was a long pause, broken only by him munching.
“Why do you have a thing for red dresses?” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t really have a thing for all red dresses. Just yours. And you in it.”
“I saw you in town last night,” I said. “You were having an argument with someone in an alleyway.”
He didn’t say anything, just put the tray down by the side of the bed.
“It looked like a drug deal. Or something. Is that what you do? Deal?”
“There’s no point in you asking me these questions, Catherine. You know I’m not going to answer.”
“Your job scares me,” I said.
“That’s why I don’t talk to you about it,” he said.
“If you got hurt—like, seriously hurt—would I even find out about it? Would someone call me?”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“But what if you do?”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” he said again. He took the empty glass out of my hand and put it on the table next to the bed, then pulled me down onto the bed and kissed me.
“Lee, I’ve got such a pounding headache.”
“I’ve got something that will make that better,” he said.
It didn’t make it better, of course, but it was worth a try.
Saturday 22 December 2007
I let go of his hand and had a drink, letting the coldness of the wine sink into me. I felt a bit queasy, and wondered if it was the wine, or the subject matter.
“I think I’m a bit pissed,” I said with a smile.
He looked at me appraisingly.
“Well, you are a bit pink . . .”
“Shall we go home?” I said. Suddenly I didn’t really want to be out