Bev lowered her eyes. Avoid confrontation. She picked up the saucepan and crossed to the sink. There was just enough play in the chain to allow her an awkward reach to the taps. She half-filled the pan with water and returned to the stove. It was a gas hob, similar to the one she had at home, but she pretended to struggle with the ignition. Maybe he’d grow impatient and come over to light the gas himself then she could deck him with the frying pan.

‘What’s the problem?’ A mocking drawl from the other side of the room. ‘Are you too stupid to light the gas? Do I have to beat the instructions into you?’ The sarcasm darkened to threat as he tapped the taser against the breakfast bar.

Scrap that idea. Bev lit the gas under the pan and dropped the potatoes in. She poured a little oil into the frying pan and put it on a medium heat. Fear and incredulity were taking turns in her head. Why would anyone pick her if they were looking for the perfect wife? She hadn’t been that good a wife when she’d had a husband, and Tom at least had professed to like his women with a mind of their own. If her kidnapper had bothered to find out anything about her, he’d have learned pretty quickly she was never going to make housewife of the year. Well, if she was going to stay alive, she’d better start working at it. She stared at the bleeding meat, trying not to think how it got that way. Thank goodness she was a half-decent cook, according to her ex, her son and her friends.

When the potatoes came to the boil, she added the onions to the hot oil and stirred them around with the spoon. At least the frying onions killed the smell of piss that hung around her. But how in the name of God was she supposed to know how he liked his steak? There was a world of difference between blue and well done. She picked up the steak and turned to face him, shrugging a question at him.

He laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. ‘Medium rare,’ he said. ‘Good girl. The last one didn’t even ask. She turned my steak into shoe leather. Useless cow.’