Laura smiled tremulously back, then pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, which exacerbated his fury.
‘I’m listening, Laura.’ He went to her, tentatively placing an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t flinch this time. He felt relief flood through him. ‘I’m here for you,’ he assured her softly, ‘if you want me to be.’
She answered with a more fervent nod and breathed deeply, trying to hold the tears in, he guessed, his heart plummeting another inch. Carefully he eased away from her, giving her the space he sensed she might need, and seated himself opposite her.
She reached for her wine, her hand shaking as she lifted the glass to her lips, her teeth clinking against it as she tried to sip. Steve watched, feeling a combination of sympathy and impotence as she placed the glass back on the table, wiping away a drip that had spilled from it with her finger and then staring intently at it. Not seeing it, he guessed, her mind on whatever horrors she was struggling to communicate.
He didn’t speak, waiting patiently instead until she was ready.
‘He was abusive,’ she said eventually, her gaze dropping back to her glass, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I’m thinking you’ve probably gathered that.’
Steve nodded, as her gaze flicked back to his, and swallowed. Still he didn’t speak. She needed time to gather herself. An aggressive reaction from him wouldn’t help her do that.
‘He wasn’t at first. He was kind and attentive, and I … I was in love with him.’ She shrugged sadly and dropped her gaze again.
Falling quiet, she ran a finger around the rim of her glass, and then looked back at him. ‘I can’t believe I actually agreed to marry him. That I was so naïve when the signs were already there. He wanted to make all the decisions around the wedding – when, where, how many guests we had. I didn’t get much of a say in anything.’ She faltered, her eyes full of self-recrimination, which shook him.‘He really ramped up the abuse once the “honeymoon” was over,’ she went on, with a scornful laugh. ‘Psychological abuse turned to physical abuse. I suppose it was inevitable really.’
Inevitable? Jesus. Steve massaged his forehead, held fast to his temper.
‘He put a lock on the bedroom door,’ she continued after an interminably long pause. ‘On the outside.’
He locked her in? Shocked to the core, he snapped his horrified gaze back to her.
‘Told people things about me that weren’t true,’ she went on, her eyes fixed firmly down. ‘Lies to explain my bruises. He didn’t want people to like me, didn’t want me to go out and see people, or for people to see me – for obvious reasons.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘He was very logical, very cold and clinical. All the while telling me that it was my fault he was the way he was. That I deliberately provoked him. My going out provoked him. Flaunting myself at other men provoked him. Being slovenly provoked him – he liked everything in the house to be pristine and dust-free. He would run his fingers along the skirting boards and picture frames. Woe betide if I hadn’t cleaned properly.’
She wavered, reaching shakily for her glass, as Steve forced back the words that badly wanted to spill from his mouth. The man was vermin, a complete and utter cowardly bastard.
‘Of course he would tell me every morning before the punishment started how much he cared about me. That he loved me. Couldn’t bear to lose me.’ She laughed cynically again, a laugh that turned to a sob that caught in her throat.
Steve swallowed back a sharp knot in his own. Enough, he thought. She’d told him enough. His heart banging so violently he thought his chest might explode, he pushed his chair back. If he ever had anything to do with the man, he would be responsible for murder.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said, his tone firm as he crouched down beside her, gently taking hold of her hand. ‘You didn’t provoke him. The sick bastard who did this is to blame, not you.’
Laura nodded again, half-heartedly. ‘The tragedy is that his little boy witnessed it all,’ she went on, swiping away a tear. ‘I almost took him when I ran. I was so tempted.’ She locked her eyes on his, a turmoil of emotion therein, a flash of determination, but mostly humiliation and uncertainty. ‘I couldn’t, though, could I? I had no money, nowhere to go. He would have stopped at nothing to find me if I’d taken Liam too. Because he was his natural father – and a world-class convincing liar – I knew the police would believe him. I doubt I would have got far.’
‘I am so sorry, Laura.’ It was all he could offer. ‘You did nothing wrong, trust me. There is nothing wrong with you. Please don’t ever imagine there is. I wish you’d felt able to tell me.’
She swallowed. ‘I thought you would think I was weak.’
‘Weak?’ He studied her incredulously. ‘You found the courage to leave him. That’s possibly the bravest thing a person in your situation could do, knowing they had nowhere to go. You’re not weak, Laura. You’re a caring person. You probably gave him the benefit of the doubt in the first place because you are. Being caring is not weak. You’re strong.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘A survivor.’
She squeezed his hand back. ‘Will you tell Sarah? She’s obviously concerned for Ollie. You can’t blame her. I’d rather not go over it all again, though, you know …’
Steve did know: because she was embarrassed, because she thought she’d been weak, for fuck’s sake. Tugging in a breath, he composed himself. Then, ‘I’ll tell her,’ he assured her. Exactly what he would tell Sarah he didn’t elucidate, which would be to get her facts straight before making defamatory accusations, and to bloody well back off.
Thirty-One
Sarah
Watching TV but seeing nothing, Sarah leapt on her phone when it rang. Steve. Apprehension twisting inside her, she accepted the call.
‘He was abusive,’ he said without ceremony.
She buried a sigh. Laura had obviously spun him the same line as she had her. ‘I know,’ she answered, trying to hide her exasperation. ‘She told me she was in a controlling relationship, but she never mentioned she was married. She never once mentioned—’
‘He locked her in their fucking bedroom,’ Steve growled over her. ‘Punished her if there was a speck of dust in the house, if she so much as glanced in the direction of another man. Is that controlling enough, do you think, to justify her getting the hell out?’
Sarah was too shell-shocked to speak for a second. ‘What about the boy?’ she asked, a whirl of confused emotion running through her: bewilderment, shame, anger … for Laura.
‘She wanted to take him. She couldn’t though, realistically, could she? He wasn’t hers. He told you she was dangerous. He’s the dangerous fucker,’ Steve seethed, his language indicating how furious he was. ‘Can you imagine what he might have done if she had taken Liam and he’d caught up with her? What he would have told the police?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said weakly, feeling terrible, most definitely like the biggest bitch Laura had had the misfortune to meet. ‘Why didn’t she say …’ She stopped herself. She knew why Laura wouldn’t have admitted any of this. Because she would have been too embarrassed, ashamed probably that she’d allowed it to happen. If it were all true. A nagging little voice in her head reminded her they couldn’t know it was. That they had nothing but Laura’s word. But then wasn’t she herself doing now what many people did, which was precisely the reason women on the receiving end of such abuse didn’t say – because they wouldn’t be believed? Because the recriminations from their abuser when they spoke out might be so much worse. Christopher Jameson hadn’t struck her as a kind man. He hadn’t been aggressive towards her, but she had felt his aggression under the surface. She’d thought his anger had been justified, though she hadn’t known why.