‘She’s twenty-six, lives on a riverboat, makes her own granola and wears those baggy trousers you see on elephant riders …’ Jack is clicking his fingers, trying to summon the word.
‘Hareem pants?’ I offer.
‘Yes! Hareem pants, she loves them, can’t get enough.’
‘Paired with wicker sandals?’
‘Absolutely. She doesn’t believe in monogamy, and she has one of those hamsa tattoos on her hip.’
‘Doesn’t know “hareem pants” but does know “hamsa”，’ I tease. ‘Interesting.’
He grins. ‘You’re stalling.’
‘Hmm. Okay, I’m going to say her name is … Sky?’
‘Bingo. I also would’ve accepted River and Rain. And Yasmin if I was feeling generous.’ He slides the plate of mince pies across the kitchen island towards me and I take one. It’s January and we are still working our way through the Christmas leftovers. ‘You go.’
Seefer jumps onto my lap and rotates a couple of times before she slumps herself down. I rub that sweet spot beneath her chin and she purrs loudly. Stroking her eases my anxiety, if only a little. ‘Okay, he’s in his fifties, wears those cheap check shirts from Burton’s and he’s always in the pub, every night, sitting at the corner of the bar. He’s red-faced and balding and he can make any innocuous conversation racist.’
‘Any?’
‘Any. It’s a skill his twenty-something children loathe.’
‘For example …’
‘Really?’
‘Just trying to get a feel for him.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Like, you’d say, “Nice weather we’re having,” and he’d answer, “Yeah, and they’re all out in it, aren’t they? Walk through town with your eyes closed and you’ll think you’re in bloody India.”’
Jack snorts. ‘What an arse. Okay, let’s see. My money’s on Andy or Steve.’
I nod. ‘I also would’ve accepted Dave. Ooh, I have another.’
‘Go for it.’
‘She doesn’t own a TV and she makes sure everyone knows it. She lives in a big country home and goes to book club but always googles the author’s interpretation first so she has the most insightful comments. She has two children, a boy and a girl – privately educated, of course – their hobbies include riding, piano and tennis, and she wouldn’t dream of feeding them anything that isn’t organic or steamed and she makes sure everyone on social media knows it. She uses the hashtag blessed. But … she’s bored of her work-away husband and even though she knows he’s fucking his secretary, she won’t leave because she will not fail this wonderful thing called life.’
‘You know this woman, Fray?’
‘Nope.’ I smile. ‘Just really good at the game.’
‘Her name’s Ada?’
For a second, my smile falters and I accidentally let a little of the hatred I have for him seep out, but I’m quick to recover. ‘Try again.’
‘Karen?’
‘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.