‘No way. She’s not a Karen. Karens are infamously divorcees who complain to the manager.’
He throws his hands up. ‘Fine, you win, Fray. What’s her name?’
‘Penelope or Ffion. At a push? Felicity.’
‘What?’ he exclaims in mock outrage. ‘Ffion! How the hell was I supposed to guess that?’
‘I think it’s safe to say I won.’
He narrows his eyes but he is smiling. ‘This time.’
After days spent bingeing our favourite Christmas films, Jack declared we would have a TV-free day which means I’ve had to spend an exhausting amount of energy engaging in conversation and trying to pretend I can stand to be around him.
‘Hot chocolate?’ he offers, getting to his feet. ‘Mulled wine?’
‘Mulled please.’
He peers into the saucepan on the stove. ‘Think we need some more star anise. There’s some in the utility. Back in a sec.’
And just like that, he is gone, leaving me all alone in the kitchen. I glance at the back door. My fingers drum against the wood. Seefer, sensing my tension, meows loudly. Jack’s jacket hangs on the back of his chair; inside the right pocket are the keys. I fight the urge to grab them and run. In three months, this is only my sixth time out of the basement and only the third time restraint-free. If I fuck up, he won’t bring me up to the main floor again.
I run my fingers over the little half-moon scars Jack’s nails left when he strangled me on the basement floor. A permanent, physical reminder of what he is capable of. Upon regaining consciousness after the attack, Jack begged for my forgiveness, spinning candyfloss promises that it would never happen again, but they soon dissolved when I croaked that no, he wasn’t forgiven.
He flew into another rage. ‘You’re addicted to misery. If you spent less time focusing on where you are and more time focusing on who you’re with, we could both be happy. You know me, you know what I want, what I’ve always wanted.’ He’s convinced all he needs to be happy is me. What Jack really craves is attention and unconditional love, the kind his father could never offer but lavished instead on Charlie. Jack needs not just to be the centre of someone’s world but the whole of it.
My recovery was slow and painful. In the weeks that followed, my breath rattled and rasped in my throat. I struggled to swallow or speak for days and when I did, my voice was hoarse, foreign, a fifty-a-day smoker. Even as Jack fussed around me, trying to nurse my injuries, I was painfully aware that one day he could kill me, even accidentally, and my only shot at survival is to give him what he wants: to be my whole world. He’d have to work for it, of course – giving into him too easily would raise suspicion. I’d gain his trust and once I did, I’d make my escape. I let him run Arnicare into my bruises and soothe oils into my half-moon scars. Let him think he’d done enough to win me over.
Then, one night seven weeks ago, I planted a seed and said, ‘I do miss cosying up together on that huge sofa with a good crime documentary.’ As if by magic, that seed grew and he believed this black dahlia was his because the following week he led me upstairs. I didn’t even care that he’d handcuffed us together, I only cared that in some small way, I’d won.
And I continued to win.
On trip two, we baked brownies together. He made sure to keep me away from anything sharp. He let me lick the batter off the spoon and I let him watch, then I giggled like I’d been caught doing something forbidden. He wanted me – I could see it – but he was happy that we had a truce and I was breaking off pieces of my love and letting him nibble on them.
Trip three, we read Of Mice and Men – his pick – on the living-room floor in a nest of squashy cushions and duvets. We read our favourite passages to each other, and I tried not to flinch when Lennie shook Curley’s wife to death, and we both got teary when George told him to stare at the flowers before shooting him in the back of the head. I cried because I know only one of us will survive this and one day, I’ll have to put Jack down too.
Trip four, I was taken upstairs without restraints and the urge to run was overwhelming, but I’m not stupid, the doors were locked, and it was a test. I suggested AcroYoga because I know Jack loves to show me how much stronger he is than me and it was a chance to exercise my acting ability. When he put his hands on me, I pushed down the memories of the attempted rape, pleased I successfully hid my hatred of him, even briefly hiding it from myself.
Trip five – 30th December – we had our Fake Christmas. He couldn’t risk disappearing at Real Christmas because his mother would be suspicious. He cooked. We ate. Afterwards, we sat on the sofa and watched It’s a Wonderful Life and he leaned in to kiss me. My body quivered with revulsion, which Jack mistook for desire. ‘I’m not ready,’ I blurted, and he stilled.
‘I thought …’
‘You know I—’ I hesitated, only for a fraction, but he didn’t notice. ‘—love you, Jack, but I want to wait.’ I smiled up at him from beneath my lashes. ‘We have all the time in the world.’
‘You’re right.’ He nodded. ‘I won’t make you.’
I’m not sure which of us he was trying to convince. ‘Besides, there’s more power in making someone change their mind than there is in taking what you want by force.’
Don’t I know it. I smiled and nodded and, swallowing my disgust, kissed his cheek.
Trip six is the first he’s ever left me alone, even for a second, and especially with the keys. My fingers are still drumming. I want to flee. I force myself to hold still because this is his ultimate test. It doesn’t take this long to find the star anise, I’m sure of it.
‘Here we go,’ says Jack brightly, stepping back into the kitchen. He wiggles the little bag of ingredients at me and moves over to the stove.
I drop my hand from my half-moon scars and give Seefer some fuss. She purrs and pushes her head into my palm. Maybe I should’ve grabbed Seefer and gone for it just now. Maybe it wasn’t a test. Then I look up and catch Jack staring at me with the biggest grin and I know it was and I passed with flying colours.
Now is my chance. The golden, glittering chance I’ve been building up to for months.
I get up and walk over to him, leaning against the kitchen counter in a way I know accentuates the curve of my hips, the tightness of my waist. ‘Jack Henry Westwood, would you please accompany me on a real date?’
Chapter Forty-Four
154 Days Missing