My reasoning was not hitting the right places. Unless people have had dealings with a psychopath, it’s so difficult for them to comprehend either of our motives.
‘I understand why you ask, Emma, but, to be fair, it’s because you’re still considering us as – how can I put it? – two normal people in a normal marriage. Stand outside your own box for a minute. You’re a psychologist. Come on. Sometimes it’s not what we see, or what we’re told, but what we don’t see, what we’re not told! People need to be more open to what defies the visual reality. I thought you of all people would understand, because, if you don’t, what chance do I have? I didn’t leave because I couldn’t!’ I was cross with her, which wasn’t fair. This was why it was best not to engage in these conversations, I thought.
From then on, I’d allow such questions to drift yonder. My chronicles were at the mercy of, not what people knew, but what they didn’t know. My truths were obscured, hidden by societal perceptions, which were discreetly manipulated by what they saw and heard. In the end, both you and I played our part in obfuscating the truth.
‘Look, Emma. I explain this to people I see as the Egg Timer Effect. Initially, the dominant partner appears attentive, charming, kind. As the glass and sand is, at the base of the egg timer, the relationship is full, rounded, complete; perfect. Some time on, at the correct point in the relationship – once the psychopath has sufficiently ensnared its prey, bewitched the prey’s allies – the egg timer is rotated. Furtively, gradually, the care mutates to control and ownership. The charm morphs to belittling and scorn. Changes ever so discreetly slither through bit by bit, until your world has dropped away entirely. From the outside, and this is where the psychopath excels, your timer looks exactly the same as it always has. Perfect.’
‘Crikey. You wouldn’t think it would be that easy, would you?’
‘Indiscreet criticisms tiptoed by. References to my deviations; my hair, my weight, my posture, my clothes, my make-up.’
She nodded along.
‘He’d say things like: “Are you really wearing that this evening?”
“That colour lipstick again; is the light working in the bathroom?”
“Perhaps you should try a new hairdresser. Or is it your diet?”
“Do you really think you should be eating such an amount?”’
‘Nice,’ she said.
‘Constant little pointers to my inadequacies: my cooking, my time management, my messiness. Snowballing reproaches towards those close to me; friends, family.’
‘Poor Eve.’
‘Knock after knock. Day on day. One week after the other. A slow torture, weakening the soul. Dividing and conquering. Isolating. Slowly leading you by the hand up the wobbly pathway to psychosis.’ I stopped to breathe. ‘Then, the classic – “Are you sure you’re mentally stable?”’
I think Emma got my point.
But to you, I failed. I didn’t fulfil your desires for me. I observed; I absorbed. I took your hand and walked so far. But I didn’t walk on to the end of the path. I took shelter, regathered and bided my time, learning the rules of your game. You hadn’t calculated for this; no one says no to you. No one.
It took patience. Heartache and forbearance.
Even so, the only possible outcome is that I will never be the same again.
*
Seven months pregnant, I sat, dumped in your golf clubhouse. Coaxed into being the chauffeur for the evening. Why did I go along with it? Because I was still walking along your path. Vulnerable with hormonal changes; being the dutiful wife. However, I learned valuable things this night. I situated myself in the corner; an antique wannabe fatigued chair took my weight. Beige in colour, anything but its pretentious aspirations. Where did they actually find this stuff?
I fetched my mobile from my handbag, but still no saviour text messages. No missed calls. Where was Sam? I glanced over to where you and your disciples were, propping up the dribbling, sticky bar. One man trying to outdo the other; you, as to be expected, holding pole position. Suddenly feeling wearily tired, I allowed my head to fall back against the headrest. Hoping it wasn’t previously occupied by a Brylcreem-wearing golfer.
Attempting to clear my mind, I practised the diaphragmatic breathing technique I’d learned on a course that week. In through the nose for seven, out through the nose for eleven. It was supposed to initiate my natural relaxation response; reset my system to baseline. But just as I’d negotiated the only quiet spot in the room, a rather loud crowd of men decided they too wanted to get up-close and personal in the corner. Not so much next to me as practically on top of me. I was evidently invisible. I attempted to super-focus on my heartbeat; to blur out their voices and induce calmness. But their non-dulcet tones superseded any such intentions.
‘My word, you were playing so well, Jonny boy! Game was practically over by the back nine.’ A rosy-cheeked Jonny smugly accepted the gushing praise. Had I been magically transported to a Jeeves and Wooster set without realising? Surely people didn’t genuinely speak in this manner? It sounded so uncomfortable too. A tray crammed to capacity with drinks chinked its way to their table, reminding me of how much I was gasping for a drink; clearly you had forgotten, and no way was I going to remind you of my existence in the room. Or push my way through the crowded bar.
Jonny rested his hand on the headrest of my chair, consenting to the offering of his free drink; desperately needing something to dilute the lashings of syrupy mutterings he was being showered in. If I could have been bothered, I’d have moved.
‘For Christ’s sake, I hate clubhouses,’ I muttered under my breath. Though I needn’t have worried; they were all far too self-indulged to hear me. It was every reason I’d refused to take up golf, these behaviours, and the appalling dress code. I checked my mobile again, in a desperate need to call a friend, ask for help. A horrible thought crossed my mind. Friends? I only had Sam left. It had been easier to let all the others go. In the end, I’m sure they, too, were waiting for me to release them from their friendship duties. Countless times I’d made excuses, stood them up, sent them home early from gatherings at home. Justified your abruptness; rudeness. It became such hard work to keep friends.
At the back of my mind, I still hoped this was just a phase with you. Perhaps you were simply feeling the pressures of work. Your hours had increased to something ridiculous; so many after-work dealings and meetings, sometimes into the early hours. Maybe you were stressed? Was I being unsupportive? But what about Joe? I was struggling to forgive you for what you did to Joe. Threatening him; not you personally – you contracted someone else to do it. I’ve never been able to grasp what went on; Joe barred my calls, though. He told Sam he didn’t want contact with me anymore; he’d apparently had a lucky escape. One of your disciples made an impromptu visit to his home, the evening we were in the Lake District. You laughed it off when I confronted you on the issue.
‘You’re better off without friends of his ilk; so weak. A loser’’, you informed me. A true friend would defend his right to be so!’
The following week I discovered I was pregnant.
I shifted in my seat, allowing for my discomfort at the memories.