Chapter Four

Tom arrived right on time the next day. Thankfully, I had managed to reacquire my good mood.

He greeted me with another cheek kiss, but this time I met him halfway. Although he kept his hands to himself, my hand found its way to his upper arm. I didn’t squeeze—although the temptation was strong—but I could still feel that he was well toned and muscular. Luckily, this time the kiss did not turn me into a grinning idiot, even though I was proud of myself for initiating contact.

We headed to the beach via the hill and walked along the promenade; walking on the sand is too hard on his leg. We walked the length of the village, all the way to the old mill, before heading away from the waterfront and walking back to the center via the main thoroughfare. We talked about everything and yet nothing important, just light and fun conversations about books and food and hobbies and music.

I’d pause every now and then to snap a picture, mostly of people on the beach. I’d been photographing the landmarks around there for three years, so I had more than enough pictures of them already. I spotted the women from the bar walking on the sand, but they stayed a good distance behind us, so I didn’t feel the need to draw Tom’s attention to his stalkers.

The school summer holidays were over, so there were just a few preschool age children on the beach with their parents, building sandcastles, paddling in the gentle waves, even one trying to fly a kite easily three times her size—with a little help from her mum.

“That looks like a nice camera,” Tom noted.

“Thanks. It is.”

“What kind of quality is it?”

“Fifty megapixels, which yes, I know is overkill. I like to edit my shots sometimes and that’s easier with higher definition.”

“Mum tells me you sell some online?”

“I do.” I hadn’t really wanted to get into that for some reason. I guess I need to work on my self-confidence.

“You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“Sure.”

I don’t know if he picked up on my reluctance, but he dropped the subject and we moved on to discussing recipes. I put the camera away then, as if I could put the conversation away with it.

By the time we had doubled back and were approaching the center of the village, Tom’s limp had become quite pronounced.

“Fancy a coffee?” I asked as we passed a café.

“Love one.” He grinned at me, so we took a table outside on the pavement.

I ordered a latte, and Tom opted for a black coffee.

As we sat down, he stretched his bad leg out—the right one—and rubbed it close to the knee. I’d seen him do this a few times in the pub but I hadn’t commented because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

We sat there for about an hour and chatted, watching the world go by. Then we headed home—and to the forty-odd steps that led up to our street.

As we approached, I wondered how to best handle the climb. Should I skip up to the top and wait? Should I keep pace with him and pretend nothing was wrong?

I chose option two in the end. I walked in the middle while he used the handrail at the side.

The steps weren’t particularly high. The risers were shallower than the average house staircase, and there were three landings where we could pause. Needless to say, Tom slowed as we went on. On the third landing, he bent over and rubbed his leg again. So that I didn’t look like I was waiting for him, I turned around and looked out to sea.

From the steps there was an unobstructed path straight down to the beach. I grabbed my camera and snapped a few pictures while Tom rested.

He unclipped his folding walking stick from his belt and fitted it together, using that in his right hand while he grabbed onto the railing with his left.

We made it to the top, but he continued using the stick on the final leg of the walk, which slowed us down quite considerably. I didn’t mind.

We didn’t talk again until we got to Diane’s house. Mine was just a little farther down, on the opposite side. Although I was tempted to offer him some more tea and cake, I refrained because I wasn’t going to make him walk any more when he was clearly in pain.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

“Sounds lovely.”

***

We soon fell into a routine where Tom would come for me around lunchtime every day and we’d walk together. I always brought my camera, but since we almost always went the same way, I hardly ever took it out. I suppose I brought it as something to occupy me when Tom was flagging so he wouldn’t worry that I was getting impatient waiting for him.

His pain level never seemed to improve, so I had to assume that the pain came from the pins in his leg, the muscle loss, or the scar tissue. I wanted to ask but I didn’t want to pry. He did inform me that he had booked his operation for mid-October; his surgeon was popular and that was the first slot available.

While we walked we discussed dozens of topics and yet nothing of consequence—until one day about two weeks after our walks began. We’d walked on the sand that day, which was harder on his leg. He needed a break before we’d even gone halfway around our usual route. He sat down on the floodwall between the promenade and the beach. I pulled my camera out to begin snapping pictures.

“Why don’t you do something more with your pictures?” Tom suddenly asked me. “Mum showed me your e-store. You have real talent.”

I looked over to see him staring intently at me. I felt vulnerable before him, although not in a scary way. I let the camera drop to my side and sat on the wall beside him.

“I’m afraid,” I admitted.

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” I confessed. “Nothing. Everything.” I sighed, knowing that I wasn’t explaining this very well.

“Is it because of him? Your ex?”

“In part.” I nodded and looked down at the sand.

“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

I was surprised to realize that I actually didn’t mind. I hadn’t spoken to many people about what happened, and only in detail to my therapist.

“He destroyed my confidence, what little there was. For ten years, I lived in constant fear.”

“He hit you?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you leave?”

It’s the question everyone asks, as though the violence happens in a vacuum. I let out a slow breath, ordering my thoughts.

“The abuse started long before the fists flew,” I tried to explain. “I think you could even make an argument for my parents laying the groundwork. They were never violent or even angry, but they were often disapproving and distant. I wanted to study art or art history, they wanted me to become an accountant. To get a nice, steady job with the possibility to become chartered and rise to the top. So I did, in the pathetic hope that they would one day approve of me. Really, they might just as well have slapped ‘victim’ on my forehead.”

I put my camera away in my shoulder bag, knowing that I wasn’t going to need it for a while.

“I met Darren while at university, and he just swept me off my feet. They call it ‘love bombing,’ and to someone who’s never known much love or affection, it’s pretty heady stuff. He was amazing, the world’s best boyfriend. In simple terms, he got me addicted to his affection.

“Then the small put-downs began. ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ ‘Are you sure you should have dessert?’ ‘I never realized you were such a goof.’ And of course you adore the man and you want to please him, and really, the things he was asking for weren’t huge. An outfit change, to eat more healthily, to be more serious—and you want to do what he asks because you love him.

“Of course it progresses. The insults become bigger, affection is withheld until you comply, your self-confidence tanks. You still want to please him, not only because you adore him, but because you’re starting to believe that no one else would want you. When you confront him about the hurtful things he says, he gaslights you, making you doubt your own reality. Somehow he ends up making himself the victim and you the bad guy, and you end up apologizing to him!” I picked some imaginary lint off my jeans.

“The fights get worse because the fear of losing his love isn’t a big enough threat for you to give up the parts of yourself that he wants you to, so the fear starts. Violent rages, yelling, throwing things, then storming out. Somehow it’s all painted as your fault though, as if you provoked it. Then one day he slaps you. Just a slap. He’s stricken, devastated that he could hurt you, and somehow you once again end up comforting him and feeling that it’s all your fault. Why can’t you just do things his way? Why can’t you get anything right? Why do you have to . . . blah, blah, blah. That little niggling voice of self-doubt that we all have becomes his voice, and it’s always there—even when he isn’t.

“Of course the violence escalates but it doesn’t happen every day, not even every week. Well, I got slapped at least once a week, but the pain isn’t what hurts about that. Having your face slapped is humiliating. The worst beatings though, they happen maybe once a year. Twice if it’s a stressful year. But then the point isn’t to hurt you, not really. I don’t think he was a sadist. The point is to control you, and fear is great for that. I think he realized that the longer he went between beatings, the more fearful I became, knowing that it was only a matter of time. So I became more obedient.”

I shivered, although I think it had more to do with my story than the breeze coming off the ocean.

“I jumped at any little negative thing he said, like the table not being set to his standards. He was very particular. If the table got jolted and a knife moved a few degrees off center . . . well, the whole point was that I never knew what the consequence would be. He might just shake his head in disappointment and wonder aloud how I could be so stupid. He might threaten me, put his hands on my neck, and tell me all the things he’d do to punish me. I might get a slap or punch in the stomach . . . or it might be the last straw that unleashes a beating that keeps me indoors for weeks while the bruises heal. I could never predict how he’d react, because he didn’t want me to.

“By the time you’re in that deep, you know you can’t leave. He’d kill you. It didn’t stop me trying, though. I wasn’t allowed any money of my own and I had to account for every penny I spent, so I’d buy an item or two at the supermarket that I didn’t need. Things he wouldn’t question, like yogurt, or an extra package of toilet roll, then get a refund for cash. Laundry soap was good, because it’s fairly expensive. I had almost eight hundred pounds saved but I knew it wasn’t enough to get away.”

“What about your parents?” Tom asked.

For the first time during the story, tears pricked my eyes. I swiftly wiped them away, shaking my head.

“They loved Darren. Adored him! According to them, marrying him was just about the only thing I ever got right.”

I squeezed my eyes shut as I remembered how alone and useless I’d felt.

“I’m sorry.” He reached out and took my hand, resting it gently on my knee. I clutched it gratefully.

I swallowed down my self-pity and straightened my spine. His simple gesture lent me strength.

“So that’s why I don’t show my photography. Despite how far I’ve come since he died, I’m still terrified of being judged and found wanting. What if I’m not good enough? What if they laugh at me? What if I’m humiliated all over again?”

“I didn’t realize,” he said sadly.

“You couldn’t have.” I squeezed his hand and tried to give him a reassuring smile.

Tom edged closer and put an arm around my shoulders. I found myself resting my head against him. I shed a few silent tears, but they soon dried up.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Tom asked as I sat up.

He removed his arm from around me. I missed it instantly.

“Of course.” I wiped my eyes one final time.

“I . . . uh . . . I think I know a little bit how you feel. It’s not the same thing, I know, but . . . I haven’t driven since the accident.”

I took a moment to think. “Are you allowed to?”

“The pain and mobility aren’t really an issue. I could still operate the pedals. I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“But that’s different,” I argued. “You were doing a dangerous stunt that went wrong. Of course you’ll be gun-shy afterward.”

“I hardly see how that makes my fears more acceptable than yours. But anyway, it wasn’t a stunt,” he said softly.

“But I thought . . . ?”

“Some tabloids said that because it makes it sound more interesting. Honestly, if it had been a stunt, I might not feel this way. I might not be happy about doing car stunts again, but the idea of getting behind the wheel probably wouldn’t terrify me.”

“What were you doing?” I asked.

“Just setting the scene, really. We were filming a shot for the beginning of the movie of me driving along a coast road with a helicopter alongside. They started with a close-up of me driving, then panned out to the beautiful scenery behind me. Then they circled around behind me so I would disappear into the distance along the coastline.” He swallowed. “The car suddenly slid on a patch of something slippery. I overcorrected and hit the crash barrier. I went straight through, and then the car went end over end down the embankment. Luckily it wasn’t very steep. My leg got crushed when the front hit the rocks and pushed the engine back into the passenger compartment. I came to rest upside down at the bottom. There was a small fuel leak from somewhere—or maybe it was oil. My memories of the crash and being rescued are kind of hazy. Something ignited it, and my trapped leg began to burn . . .”

“Oh God!” I couldn’t imagine how that must have felt, to be trapped, disoriented, with no hope of escape. No wonder he was still afraid to drive!

“Anyway, the chopper radioed in for help immediately. The medics on the crew were there in minutes. They managed to put out the fire, but they needed the Jaws of Life to pry the car open and get the engine block off me. A movie crew just doesn’t carry that sort of equipment. I think the emergency services were quick too, but hanging there upside down . . . it felt like an eternity.”

His hand was sitting on his thigh. More than anything, I wanted to reach out and put my hand over his, to offer a little comfort.

“I think not being keen to drive again is probably a normal reaction,” I said sympathetically.

“Thanks, but that doesn’t help me get behind the wheel.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled at me. I leaned in so he could put his arm around me again.

I didn’t ask if he’d spoken to anyone about his fear of driving or got medication to help his anxiety. Maybe I would at some point, but right then he clearly just needed comfort.

“I haven’t told anyone that before,” he admitted. “Mum guessed, but I haven’t said those words out loud.”

The fact he’d chosen me to confide in gave me warm and fuzzy feelings.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“You trusted me first.”

I smiled. His turn of phrase reminded of the childish game of one-upmanship, except we were going out of our way to compliment each other.

Evidently, he realized how his words sounded too. When I looked over, he was trying to hide his mirth.

We shared a smile, then continued on our way.