When I was young, the dinner table was a battleground, my bad habits a small act of defiance. And now I was rebelling again, except the only person I was hurting was myself. I threw three tubs of ice cream into my trolley, kidding myself that they were for Jamie. I liked the different textures and sensations of sweet and sour so I threw in a twelve pack of salt and vinegar crisps as well. Sometimes they felt like jagged glass as I swallowed, barely chewing while my eyes roamed the table for more. The only semblance of self-control I held was against bingeing on alcohol. I had grown up around Mum’s drinking binges whenever Dad was away. I wouldn’t allow it. Not when I was looking after Jamie.
Blaming my mother was easier than taking responsibility myself. I held traces of her in my mind, her pretty scarves and long flowing dresses which hung beautifully on her thin frame. When I thought of my childhood, memories of her were scattered everywhere. Yet I struggled to reach the good ones that were buried deep inside: Mum attending the school play, coaxing the teachers into giving me the lead role; her eyes shining with tears as she sat beside Dad, watching me sing on stage. That had happened, hadn’t it? I hadn’t just made it up.
I scanned my items at the self-service checkout, vowing that this relapse would be a fleeting one. Something to take the pressure off while I got my life back on an even keel. I hummed as I scanned, anything to quieten the voice that would resurface later on.
Puberty happened to my body long before my mind caught up with it. I loved flicking through my mother’s magazines. I would stare at the images of emaciated models and ultra-thin pop stars worshipped by my peers. Each page, each image reinforced the answer that had been staring me in the face all along. I was not popular because I was not like them.
Diets were futile, leaving me with a growing sense of failure, making me despise myself even more. I just could not stick to them, preferring starchy foods and calorie-laden crisps and chocolate to fresh vegetables and fruit. That’s when I read an article about a celebrity who was a self-confessed bulimic. It stated that she kept her stick-like figure by throwing up after every meal. It felt like a revelation. I stared at the article in wonder, a smile touching my lips. I could eat whatever I wanted and would never put on a pound. Looking back, I can see how naive I was.
Shoving my fingers down my throat did not come naturally, but as I closed my eyes, I would imagine my favourite celebs doing the same thing. They must have found it difficult at first, I told myself while I purged. I learned how to mask the smells and always kept the bathroom spotlessly clean for when I gripped the porcelain bowl. I liked the feeling of emptiness, and it soon turned into an obsession. My reward was seeing the weight drop off my face, and hearing the approving voice of my mother in my mind.
At the beginning it was euphoric, watching my body change. For the first time in my life I had sculpted cheekbones, a smooth stomach, and I felt free. But my hair had lost its shine and the knuckles of my right hand were raw from grazing my throat. My menstrual cycle was erratic. I was cold and tired all the time, and I could not keep up with the demands I placed upon myself. I was a failure yet again and found comfort in food. I began to have cravings, telling myself that I deserved it, that I could rid myself of the calorific value later and flush it all away. If only it were as easy to flush away the emotional turmoil that went with it.
The guilt was soon forgotten when I was tucking into the forbidden food. Like an animal preparing for hibernation, I would pull out my secret stash. After the initial euphoria, all I was left with was loathing and self-hatred. The cycle would start all over again. It was a mental battle I could not win.
A shopping bag on each arm, I left the supermarket, thoughts of my husband filling my mind. His kind face, his soft smile. Talking to Alex had gone a long way to aiding my recovery. When we first met, he did not allow a day to pass without telling me how valued I was. He guided me into getting proper counselling, driving me there and picking me up. Slowly I began to recover and the strength of my self-destructive voices began to weaken. But now they were back, along with a man hell-bent on revenge. Something told me I was in for the fight of my life.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
ALEX
2017
It was a twenty-minute walk from my office in Colchester High Street to Emma’s shop on the outskirts of town. I had spent the whole time looking out for her, despite her texting to say she had gone shopping and would be taking the bus home in her own time. I had swiftly replied, texting that I would pick up Jamie on the way home. I didn’t tell her that I was finishing early for fear that she might ask for a lift. I could not bear to talk to her. Not yet. As the bell jangled over my head, Theresa met me at the shop door, turning the sign to Closed. ‘I got your text. Sorry about the short reply, I’ve been busy.’
‘Emma said you had a problem.’ I took in the tight, worried expression on her face. ‘Everything all right?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said, kicking off her heels.
‘I’m a five-hour car journey from all right,’ I said solemnly, following her as she padded through to the staffroom. I emitted a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t know where to start.’ The envelope containing the DNA results felt like it was going to burn a hole in my pocket. I knew I should be talking to Emma, but I was afraid of what I might say. My sadness had turned to anger and right now it felt like our confrontation could end up with me packing a bag and taking Jamie with me. I took a seat at the table in the kitchen room. ‘Sorry to bother you again so soon, I didn’t know who else to talk to.’
Standing on her toes, Theresa stretched above me to reach two glasses in the cupboard overhead. The smell of her perfume kissed my senses, a sweet and summery scent. I loosened my tie and opened the top button of my shirt. The room was sweltering, so different from our chilly bungalow.
‘You’re welcome here any time,’ Theresa said, pulling down a bottle of whisky from the shelf. She silenced my protests with a wave of her hand. ‘I know you’re driving, but one won’t do any harm.’ After topping up my whisky with water from the tap, she handed it to me.
‘I can’t,’ I said wearily, ‘but you go ahead.’
Ignoring my protests, she pushed the glass into my hand before taking a seat beside me. ‘Just one, you look like you need it. Best we don’t stay too long, eh? Emma’s not been herself today. We had an incident with a dress, and I found her talking to herself, virtually a puddle on the ground.’
I raised an eyebrow, trying to muster up some sympathy as Theresa recalled what had happened that day. Nothing surprised me any more. ‘Who do you think slashed it?’ I asked.
Theresa sighed, taking comfort in the contents of her glass. Given that she lived in a flat above the shop, she did not need to worry about driving home. ‘The thing is,’ she said, her lips narrowing, ‘the only person here this morning was Emma. Josh wasn’t working today. The scissors went missing this morning.’ She jerked her thumb back at the drawer behind her. ‘They’re kept in there. After Emma had left, I did a quick search of the shop, and I found them in her desk drawer on the shop floor.’ Silence fell as I absorbed her words.
‘You think whoever slashed the dress used the shop’s scissors to do it?’
Theresa nodded. ‘They hacked the material like they were in a hurry. I found some white satin fibres stuck between the scissor blades. We only really use them for removing tags. And what were they doing in her desk?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that, not me,’ I grunted, knocking back a mouthful of whisky. I was still numb from reading the DNA results; cut-up wedding dresses were the least of my worries.
‘Listen to me blabbering on. You said you needed to talk. What’s happened?’
My chin wobbled as I tried to speak and I was horrified to feel tears rising behind my eyes. I wished I could play the hard man, but the thought of my son not being mine produced pain like I’d never experienced. Soon I’d be picking him up, and I would be forced to confront the truth. My left hand dropped to my pocket, and I pulled the envelope out.
I felt a warm, comforting hand as Theresa rubbed my back. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’