It is something I have talked about a lot with Imogen in recent weeks. She has given me an insight into Dominic’s childhood, the truth so different from the picture Dominic painted: two parallel tales joined only by the thread of his lies. I have learnt that everything he told me about his childhood was untrue. There was no tyranny, no abuse, no eradication of his childhood possessions. Just a perfectly normal childhood. Imogen has told me it wasn’t until Dominic was in his early twenties that his personality began to change. Having failed to achieve the level of academic success he thought he deserved at school and university, Dominic had become angry, resentful, contemptuous of the world around him, convinced he was being overlooked and undervalued. He’d become increasingly rigid in his outlook: distrustful of authority, disdainful of women. In his early thirties, he’d physically assaulted a woman on their first date, and when Imogen and John had urged him to seek professional help, he had cut them out of his life, accusing them of disloyalty. When Imogen had first seen me, she’d allowed herself to hope that things had got better, that Dominic had changed. But when she saw the bruises around my wrist, she had known to worry. She’d wanted to warn me, there and then, but she knew how manipulative Dominic could be, knew it would take time for me to believe what she had to say. She’d hoped that by getting close to my parents she would eventually earn our trust and would be able to tell me what Dominic was really like.
She has since apologised for some of her actions around that time, has acknowledged that some of her behaviour was irrational. Grief had knocked her sideways, made her do things she would never otherwise have done: follow me to the urban farm, turn up at my parents’ house. When I asked how she’d discovered my mobile number, she confessed to having used a reverse address site online, that she’d paid a service to find out my full name from where I lived, and then paid another website to discover my mobile number from my name. And then she’d verified it all by chatting with some of my neighbours, discovering that I went by the name Livvy, and that Dominic and I hadn’t been together long. It was all, apparently, disarmingly easy.
Now, once a week, Imogen comes to my parents’ house to spend time with Leo. And I am constantly watching him for any sign that he has inherited his father’s toxicity. But Leo is sweet, affectionate, empathetic. All I can do is love him, nurture him, show him a different way of being and hope it is enough.
I stop the buggy, crouch down beside my son, kiss the tip of his nose. ‘Are you okay, angel? You warm enough?’
He nods, grins, his tiny milk teeth like ivory pearls perched in his gums, and I know I have to believe that with love and kindness I can help make Leo a better man than his father. I can help make him a good man.
‘Won’t be long until we’re at the playground. What are you going to go on first? The swings or the slide? Or the roundabout?’
Leo kicks his legs, smiles, too many choices.
‘We can go on all of them, can’t we?’
My phone pings, and I pull it from my pocket, find a message from Mum.
Everything okay, darling? Remember to text and let me know what time you’ll be home for lunch. I’m making leek and potato soup. I love you xxx
I text back immediately, tell her I’m fine, promise to let her know when we’re on our way. Tell her I love her too.
It is rare for me to be away from the house for more than an hour without a text arriving from one of my parents. I just wanted to check . . . I had a quick thought . . . I know you’ll be home soon but . . . Seemingly innocuous messages that disclose their level of anxiety. It is only recently that I’ve started to understand the ripple effect of Dominic’s actions, his impact on so many people beyond Leo and me: my parents, Bea, my friends.
In last week’s therapy session, I asked Lena how I would ever be able to trust anyone new again, and she leant forward in her chair, spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘No one’s saying it’s going to be easy. It may take a long time. But when you have a support network as strong as yours, and the determination to overcome what you’ve been through, I’ve every confidence you’ll learn to love and trust new people again.’ I’m hoping to return to work in a few months’ time, just a couple of days a week at first. Christian has been so kind and accommodating, and even though my long-term memory is still fragile, I’m keen to get back, to begin re-establishing my career.
We reach the edge of the playground and I unlatch the gate, push the buggy through. I think about all those mornings in the park, waiting for Zahira and Elyas, not understanding why my need for a friend – for an ally – was so powerful.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open WhatsApp, tap out a quick message to Zahira.
Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Mum’s making enough food to feed an army （as usual）。 Dad’s already got the blow-up bed ready for Elyas. We’ll collect you from the station at 11. Bea’s got us tickets for the zoo so we’ll head straight there. Give Elyas a big kiss from me. Xx
As I put my phone back in my pocket, I feel a prickle at the back of my neck. My heart beats percussively in my chest and I tighten my grip on the handlebar of Leo’s pushchair. I try to breathe slowly, tell myself there’s nothing to worry about, it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. I remind myself that this happens a lot, this feeling of being watched, studied, observed from a distance. Lena has tried to reassure me it is only to be expected after all I have been through: moments of paranoia, anxiety, fear. ‘You know that if Dominic ever comes near you or Leo, you only have to phone the police and they will be there in a flash. Your case is logged with them. If your mobile number ever dials 999, they will prioritise your call.’ And yet I cannot help envisaging all the scenarios where the police would not be able to help: Dominic appearing suddenly, snatching Leo before I have a chance to stop him, the police arriving too late. Dominic taking my son with him, never to be seen again. It is a fear so real, so potent, that tears begin to prick my eyes, and I stretch out a hand, take hold of Leo’s, hold on to him tightly. A voice in my head tells me not to worry, Dominic is not here, he wouldn’t risk it with the restraining order in place and the magistrates’ hearing next week. I instruct myself not to look around, not to submit to my own worst fears. I rub a hand along the back of my neck, as if to brush away the sense of disquiet. But in the end, my apprehension wins, as it always does, and I whip my head around, scan the park, search for any sign of him. My eyes dart from one person to the next – elderly couples, women on bikes, men jogging, children playing – searching for a face I know too well and would be happy never to see again. But there is no one I recognise. Just my own anxiety, lurking in the shadows, refusing to believe he will ever let us be free.
‘Hello, you!’
I turn back, see Bea striding towards us. We hug before she bends down, unclips Leo from his buggy, picks him up and showers him with kisses.
I watch them together, my son and my sister, and tell myself to stop worrying. Bea will look out for me. I think of my mum back home making soup, my dad preparing the spare bedroom for Zahira and Elyas, and try to find the reassurance I need in these acts of familial love. I remember what Lena said to me at the end of one of our sessions recently: ‘Dominic has already stolen months of your life from you. It’s up to you now whether you let him steal your future.’