She puts her laptop back on the desk with trembling hands; she can’t afford to escape, ever. She picks up Venus and climbs slowly to her room. It’s early to go to bed, far earlier than usual, but she can do what she wants tonight, and she’s tired after the long drive, and very cold. She shivers as she passes Izzy’s empty room. Strange how chilly their house feels tonight, despite the radiators everywhere, the windows that are sealed against the outside air. By contrast, the unheated house today had been warm, as though heat was stored inside the walls and seeping into the rooms. She stretches out in the empty bed, her hand on the purring cat. Sleep comes after a while and in her dreams there is a garden, children playing on a lawn, Izzy among them, and a house that’s wide open to the sun.

Grace

Grace sits on her own in the dark flat, waiting for her family to come home from the party; they’re very late. The children will be exhausted and so is she. A little drama unfolded two hours ago; it began midway through her evening shift. She sips tea as the story spools back through her mind; she can still hear the voice which started it all off, that lazy, entitled, male voice.

‘Hey, you.’

Guests had been entering the hotel from the dark street, shaking out their umbrellas, blinking in the bright lights of the foyer. The evening shift was only half done. She’d looked past the man leaning over the counter, to the lit-up sheets of water slanting on to the pavements outside. Rain at long last, rain on her skin would feel good. When you’ve spent a childhood in Zimbabwe, rain always feels good.

‘Take my case to my room, will you?’ The man had a long jaw like a horse, and a huge frame. He looked strong enough to heft three cases.

‘Let me call the porter for you,’ she replied. ‘Sir.’

‘Get a move on then, honey pie.’ The mouth twitched irritably.

She was too tired to find an appropriate reply; she lifted the phone, made the call to the porter.

‘So where are you from, originally?’

Too tired for this.

‘I asked you a question.’ Anger feathered the voice, he leant further over the desk. She could smell alcohol on his breath and averted her face, feeling sick, her heart banging with fear. If she left, she could get another kind of job nearer home, one where angry men didn’t snarl in her face. There’d be less money but more time, much more time with the kids. The thought was irresistible, she smiled, she couldn’t help it.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Then more quietly, ‘Bitch.’