changed with the years, but he had refined his technique considerably.
I got home from the bar and Simon was already in a nasty mood. He looked at his watch and said I should have been home 13 minutes ago. 13 minutes! Like he had timed it. I told him the buses were running late. He told me I should have called and I said, yeah I should have, but I said it really sarcastically. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but he got up off the chair and came at me fast. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so hard I cried out in pain, and told me to watch how I spoke to him. But he didn’t hit me, so it’s no big deal. It was just words. Words don’t leave marks or bruises.
It wasn’t all a living nightmare. Earlier passages attested to Simon’s sweetness, his charm, how much he truly loved her. It was clear for the first time in her life that Allison felt adored and treasured. It must have been intoxicating to a young woman with little life experience. It had been for an older woman; Nina knew. Allison wrote about a moonlight stroll on the lakeshore, dancing to music of wind and waves, and Nina felt sick remembering how Simon had courted her.
I think what he loves most about me is my sense of style, how I’m not like all the other girls. I’ve got such a thing for the 60s and 70s, the fashion, the way women wore their hair. Simon loves my new haircut. He said I looked like a movie star. He thought I was so creative. I showed him the magazine where I got the idea from and he said I was more beautiful than the model.
The magazine.
Was it possible the magazine Allison referenced was the same issue of Vogue Simon had shown her—the one Nina had used to model her hairstyle? She had never checked the date on the cover, so it could have come from another decade; it could have belonged to Allison.
Nina spent too much time on the bed, flipping pages, reading passage after passage, forgetting for a moment she had broken into Simon’s home. She began to skim the pages, taking in what she could as quickly as possible, aware it was not in her best interests to linger, but unable to pull herself away. Certain entries stuck out like a lighthouse beacon sending its danger warning.
I told Simon I didn’t feel like he was paying enough attention to me and he snapped and said I was being too sensitive. He says I’m always nagging him about this or that. All of a sudden I’m defending myself when I was trying to talk about my feelings. I guess I just have to do better. It’s my fault. I know he hates it when I criticize him. His father criticized him constantly so it’s hard for him to hear. I’ll be more careful next time. And he’s right. I am too sensitive.
All I am is a failure. I can’t do anything right. Can’t fold his shirts right. Can’t cook a good meal. I’m not adventurous enough in bed. I feel like I’m constantly saying sorry. And when I tell him how he hurt my feelings, he just says I misunderstood him. I don’t know what to think. But I think he’s probably right.
Okay, that was a first. He hit me. And it hurt. Really, really hurt. But in fairness I did call him a son of a bitch. That’s because I wanted to go out with Heather and Marie and he wouldn’t give me any money, and I wasn’t about to ask them for cash. He said we were running low and couldn’t afford a night out, but I worked for that money. It’s mine! Right? Anyway, he punched me. Closed fist and all. And afterwards he was so so apologetic. He actually threw up, he was that upset! He was crying, crying, crying, telling me how sorry he was, begging me not to leave him, that he didn’t mean for it to happen. He gave me two hundred dollars and told me to go out and have the best time ever. Said don’t worry about him and that he’d be fine. But I couldn’t go out, not with him so upset. He’s never lost his temper like that before. Something must really be bothering him. Anyway, I didn’t think I had enough