I played with the idea of telling Daan that I’d had a call from the nursing home, that my mother needed me, that I had to leave. But I knew he would rally, offer to come with me. Of course he would. Wouldn’t any considerate husband? He would want to drive me to Newcastle. But I wasn’t planning on going to Newcastle. There was no care home to visit, no sick mother. I wanted to go to my boys. I was stuck. I couldn’t do anything. If I did, I would undermine, I’d destroy everything that I’d so carefully constructed. I felt sick for the entire day. The delicious food, the vintage champagne stuck in my throat as I fought tears. Daan repeatedly asked if I was okay. “You are not yourself.”
“The early-morning drinking has gone to my head, I’m already fighting a hangover,” I muttered.
When I returned to my home with Mark and the boys on Boxing Day night, the house was gloomy. They arrived half an hour after me and made it a home. They’d had a great Christmas, apparently it was the same as ever. I wasn’t really missed.
And that was terrifying.
Are they missing me now?
I am beginning to wonder, even before I was brought to this room and locked up, made to shit in a bucket, was I trapped? Was I already being punished? Why can’t I tell who it is behind the door? Why can’t I distinguish between them? Haven’t I been paying attention? I thought they were so different, so distinct. Two completely separate lives. Two completely different men. I can’t deny it was a thrill discovering another man. His body. His brain. I was curious. With Mark I had been looking for a soul mate. I thought I’d found it. But now, I have to wonder, does such a thing even exist or is it made up by songwriters, novelists, filmmakers to comfort the masses? To give us something to search for? The truth is, Mark didn’t answer every aspect of my being; it’s maybe an impossible ask. I yearned to be carefree, but I never could be with Mark. Not entirely.
Because we’re the sort of people who are aware that things don’t always turn out well. I know this because my entire childhood proved it. He knows it because his wife died young. Daan offered me a rose garden of a life. His vast wealth and confidence （both earned and inherited） formed a protective bubble that was so deliciously tempting. With Mark I am always aware that in every garden there are stinging nettles, biting insects. There is a sadness to Mark, a seriousness. Even now, all these years later, he can’t quite allow himself to be completely joyful. I realized when I first met him that things were still raw, I thought it would wear off. I thought I’d make him happy. But I didn’t. As the years went by, I accepted that while Mark is indeed a lovely man, he is not a happy man, not entirely and he never will be; I can’t change that. He is slightly depressed. The world disappoints him. I wonder whether he thought the world was rosy when he first met Frances. Did she have that? Something else she beat me to. As the ultimate people pleaser, this hurts me; that I can’t make him entirely happy. Consequently, I can’t be entirely happy when I’m with Mark.
I married two men in an attempt not to be lonely, yet I have destroyed the intimacy between Mark and me, and I can never build intimacy with Daan. I am not who they think I am. I am just a version of her. They each have a version of me. The problem is not just that no one knows where I am. No one knows who I am.
I am lonelier than ever. My loneliness pulls me under. I close my eyes again. Allow my mind to shut down, my body to preserve energy. My sleep is broken. I keep jolting awake, scared by my dreams, horrified when I land in my reality. On the second or third time I wake up, I find there is a fresh bottle of iced tea. I glug it back gratefully. Fall back to sleep. The next time I wake is in the dead of night. The room is airless, the blackness drenches me, chokes me. Something is not right. Something else.
I sit up full of dread. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I realize that I’m wearing a hood of some kind. It’s been taped around my neck, a fraction too tightly. I’m choking. I panic and take a deep breath which draws the fabric into my nostrils, I start to pant, shallow breaths are safest. I can’t see anything but he’s here. I know he is here in the room with me.
“Darling?” I daren’t use a name. I don’t want to inflame him. But the endearment infuriates. He stamps down on my hand. Holds his foot there, grinds harder, I think I hear a bone snap. I scream in agony, pain shoots through my body. He lifts his foot. I try to roll into a ball. He kicks me once, twice. Swift, punishing. It’s controlled. One man is huge, the other compact, both are strong. The kicking winds me, hurts like hell but I know either man could have broken ribs if they wanted to. “Please, please no,” I beg. Another swift choppy kick lands on my shoulder this time, as though I am a dog that’s got underfoot. But kicking a dog is unequivocally cruel. I’ve always believed only sadists mistreat animals.
“Please, Mark, Daan, think. Stop,” I beg. But he strides out of the room, bangs the door behind him.
What was that? Dear God, what have I done? What have I driven them to? How could either man have done that to me? I have started this, but the response is madness. I thought I was waiting it out, being humiliated, forced to think about my actions. Maybe choose. Maybe lose both. I don’t know. Now I see this is far, far more. Am I going to survive this? Will he kill me? Could either man kill me? I start to frantically pick at the gaffer tape around my neck that secures the hood. I pull off the hood and gasp at the air, taking in big gulps, recognizing breathing freely is a luxury. Even breathing the air in this rancid room. I scrabble toward the door, momentarily forgetting the chain, until it yanks me back, causing the shoulder that has just been kicked to burn with pain. My right hand is throbbing, my ribs bruised. “Let me go. Please let me go,” I beg. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Okay? Is that what you needed to hear? Well, of course I’m fucking sorry.”
No response. There are different kinds of silence, of quiet. Sometimes it is peaceful. Like a child sleeping, their steady breathing a comfort. The silence between two strangers is awkward as they flail around looking for common ground, small talk—but the silence between two lovers, content in one another’s company, reading newspapers, perhaps, or completing a crossword, that can be a space of calm and reassurance. The silence between a disappointed husband and wife midrow is the worst. That is the silence I have spent my life avoiding. The silence that is tense, angry, threatening. And now there is that exact silence between us. He is that side of the door with his typewriter and anger, and I’m this, with my chain and empty uncertainty.
I scream. I let out one long, continuous scream. I howl, a wounded animal. Then I wait, but nothing happens, there is no reaction. No one comes, even though the scream is real and loud and still burns in my throat. Where is everybody? Why are the streets so silent? I can’t look out of the window but am beginning to wonder whether I’m a long way off the ground, away from traffic and life because the silence is eerie; London streets are never empty. It grows dark again and no one comes back.
I sit motionless. My eyes straining to focus through the darkness. It’s hopeless. Time passes and I lean back against the wall. Then lie on the floor. More time. I roll into a ball. More time. My eyes flutter. My hands throb. The only sound is my growling stomach.