I glided soundlessly to the fridge and opened the door. I had tried hard to fight the temptation as I starved myself that day. I had told myself that the pain of an empty stomach was good. It made me feel in control. But now the inviting glow of the open refrigerator was drawing me in, my eyes roaming the food I had bought earlier that day. Starchy cakes, sugary soft drinks and, stashed in the vegetable compartment, bars of chocolate, all ready for my midnight feast. No matter what happened today, I knew they would be waiting for me when I got home. ‘Just one slice,’ I whispered to myself, my mouth watering at the sight of the fresh cream cake. As if saying it aloud would make any difference. I was not in control any more. After starving myself, it was inevitable that a binge would follow. There was no point in trying to fight it. Closing the fridge with my elbow, I rested the large Black Forest gateau on the kitchen counter. My eyes widened, excitement growing at the thought of the sticky substance that was about to line my throat. I didn’t need a plate. There was no need for such pleasantries now. Taking a knife from the drawer, I cut myself a generous slab. The first mouthful was bliss. I closed my eyes as I succumbed to the delicious cherry sauce and cream melting in my mouth. I swallowed it back, quickly needing more. Texture was important for when it made its second showing. Dense sponge always made a satisfying thud as it hit the toilet bowl. I licked my fingers, my gaze on the cake. I barely paused for breath as I cut a larger wedge. Moaning in satisfaction, I turned the second slice over in my mouth. By the third slice, I didn’t bother with the knife, gorging with my fingers until it was all gone. I needed more. The McDonald’s Alex had brought home, the chocolate bars, I kept going until I’d polished off the lot. I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to. I washed it all down with a fizzy drink, belching to make room in my expanding stomach. At last, when it was all gone, I folded up the empty containers ready for the recycling bin. But my movements were sluggish and painful. I leaned across the counter, my head hung low. The skin around my stomach felt like a tight leather ball, over-inflated and ready to pop. A voice screamed in my head. What have you done, you disgusting pig? Look at the state of you, how can your husband bear to sleep in the same bed? I lurched to the toilet, ready for my next move. It would be painful because I had not done it in some time and no longer had the automatic reflex action, which meant I would have to shove my fingers down my throat. I knew how pathetic I must have looked but, strangely, I took comfort in the presence of my old friend. Bulimia felt like something I could rely on even in the toughest of times.
I did not hear Alex come into the kitchen and I certainly didn’t hear him standing outside the toilet door. After cleaning up the kitchen counter, I had chosen to use the bathroom next to the utility room at the back as it was the furthest away from our bedroom. It was only when I had flushed the toilet for the third time that I heard him shuffle outside the door. My heart plummeted. Despite my old trick of leaving the sink taps running, he would have heard me throw up. Once, twice, three times: I had kept going until every crumb of food had been expelled.
‘Emma?’ he whispered, tapping his nails on the door.
I wiped the dribble trailing down my chin. ‘What?’ My voice was scratchy and brittle as I clung on to the toilet bowl, my hair hanging limply around my face. The familiar emotions of self-loathing and disgust returned. I felt exhausted, as if I had been through nine rounds in the boxing ring.
‘Sweetheart, can you come out? I need to talk to you.’ Alex spoke softly, his words gentle and reassuring.
‘I’m on the loo. I’ll be out in a second.’ Guilt swept over me as I checked my watch. It was 1 a.m. We both had the next day off, but he must have been tired from work. What was he doing behind that door? Rolling his eyes? Wishing he’d never met me? Nobody asked him to follow me around. But the thought was fleeting. He monitored me because he cared. Now I needed to placate him, find a plausible excuse for my nocturnal behaviour. Would he believe me if I told him I was feeling ill? I doubted it. I had been lying about my illness since we met. It wasn’t that I was a stick insect. I fell in and out of bouts of starvation and binged in between. Months could pass before suspicion was aroused. But Alex was wise to my ways. He knew the trigger points. I opened our bathroom window to dissolve the acrid smell of undigested food. It flew back on its hinges as the full force of the growing storm took hold. I sucked in a breath, relieved to see the glass remain intact. As I brushed my teeth, I welcomed the biting chill, avoiding my reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror. Another wave of shame overtook me. Look at yourself, you little pig. My eyes flicked up and I saw my hair bunched in my mother’s fist as she forced me to stare at my reflection. My eleven-year-old face stared back at me, tear-streaked and puffy as she squeezed my plump cheeks with her spare hand. Chocolate stained my mouth: evidence of my sinful act. Her breath stinking of spirits, Mother’s slurred voice rebounded against the walls, her fingers squeezing harder as she called me a greedy pig. She had been right. Pink faced and sweating, I appeared just that.
Dropping my toothbrush in the sink, I recoiled from the memory. I rubbed my cheeks, still feeling the haunting imprint of her fingers on my skin. But as I glanced back up, I saw another image, a reflection from outside. Luke, bathed in moonlight as he looked through our bathroom window, his face as gaunt and pale as when I buried him. I wanted to scream but the sound locked in my throat, and I felt like I was going to choke. I was paralysed with fear. Suddenly my breath returned. ‘No!’ I yelled, spinning around to the open window. My heart beat wildly as I turned to face him, the corpse of the man I had killed. I blinked to clear my vision, standing rooted to the spot. There was nothing there. Nothing but the light of the moon shining and the howl of the wind filtering through rain-whipped trees. I jumped as Alex rapped on the door, his voice more insistent this time.
‘Emma, are you OK? Open up.’
‘I’m coming,’ I said firmly, taking a deep breath and pulling the bathroom window shut. Cruel in their bidding, my thoughts were quick to respond. There’s nobody there, you stupid fat cow. It tailed off into laughter that I had heard far too many times before. Hands shaking, I fumbled with the door handle. I had to do something. I couldn’t go on like this. It was time to tell my husband the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUKE
2002
She stood at the doorway, cautiously waiting for my acknowledgement. I kept my gaze on my desk as I pretended not to see her. Let her wait a few more seconds, show her who was in charge. The bell to signal the end of the school day had long since rung, and my after-school session with Emma had been approved by the head. She had noticed the positive change in Emma and kept a watchful eye on us both, but I had used the guise of extra tuition in order to gain her approval for our time alone.
Emma had looked hurt when I’d sent her away at lunchtime. I could not afford to have any suspicion cast.
With her shirt tails hanging out and her shoelaces undone, her appearance would have earned her a telling off from the head. But to me, she looked positively delicious. Her long dark hair was worn in a loose bun on top of her head, curly spirals falling loose at the side of her face. How someone could look both sultry and innocent at the same time was beyond me. I watched entranced as she played with the tips of her hair, sliding them through her parted lips. It was an odd habit sure to gain my attention. ‘Come in,’ I said, a ghost of a smile on my lips.
Closing the door behind her, she took a seat at a front-row desk, following my instructions to take out her latest work, as I took a seat beside her. It was all for show; art was the last thing on my mind. I kept up the pretence for a while, talking about the movement and flow of her latest piece. I had brought my class an unusual challenge: a finch that jumped from perch to perch in his cage. The task was to draw it while in mid-movement, and Emma had not done a bad job of capturing a likeness of the energetic bird. But she seemed to sense that she had not been summoned here for extra lessons. How could she not? The attraction between us was undeniable; I was slowly winning her round. I took a fresh sheet of paper and placed my palm over her hand, guiding the charcoal pencil over the page. I heard her breath quicken from the warmth of my touch.
‘Sir?’ she said, when I drew my hand away. ‘Why did you send me away at lunchtime? Have I done something wrong?’ She turned her dark liquid eyes upon me, and I was painfully aware of her leg touching mine.
I glanced up at the closed door, ensuring we were alone. ‘No, of course not,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s just that I don’t want people getting the wrong idea. People are beginning to notice how much time we’re spending together. I am your teacher, after all.’ In truth, the only person who had passed comment was her father. He may have expressed gratitude, but I had to remain on my guard.
‘But we’ve not done anything wrong,’ she said, heat rising from her collarbones to her cheeks. ‘Talking to you, it’s really helped. I’ve been eating better, looking after myself more. Where’s the harm in that?’
I risked another glance at the door before resting my hand on her back. For a few blissful seconds I left it there, teasingly pausing over the outline of her bra strap. She smelled like a punnet of fresh peaches on a warm summer’s day. I was intoxicated by her presence and the promise of what was to come. Rising from my chair, I allowed my knuckles to graze her cheekbone, unable to resist the temptation of touching her one more time.
‘I value our friendship too,’ I said. ‘But we have to be careful. Not everyone would understand. I need your discretion if we’re to spend time together.’