Quickly I cleaned my face. My eyes were still swollen and my cheeks were pink, so I reapplied my makeup, then added a dab of perfume to my throat and wrists. The sweet familiar smell always calmed me. I looked at my phone. No messages, but I wasn’t really expecting one. My stomach rumbled and I realized I was starving. I couldn’t face going downstairs to the restaurant, so I rang room service and ordered wine and sandwiches.

It was strange to be alone in a hotel room, propped up on pillows, with only the television for company. The usual Friday-night programs were on, ones that I’d watch with Tom. He and I would have a drink and sometimes we’d chat, but often we’d watch in silence. It took a lot to make us laugh; if he was the wrong side of the bottle, I’d always let him go first. That night I couldn’t concentrate long enough to focus on anything. I kept thinking of the conversation I’d had with him that evening. I’d expected insults to be hurled at me, recriminations to be shouted, his face close to mine, his spittle showering my mouth. I thought I’d be made to feel bad, no matter what that took. The longer I held out, the harder he’d try. I used to cave in, but over the last year or two I’d started to retreat into myself, distancing myself from what he was saying, as though he was talking to someone else. He’d noticed, of course he had, and he’d ramped up his efforts. It wasn’t a game; it was more like war.

I’d anticipated having trouble getting out of the house, not because he was violent—he’d never touched me when we were arguing and would stay at least an inch away—but because he hated not to have the last word. It was wearing, to say the least. Sometimes he’d bring up an argument he’d lost years before and try to win it afresh. I’d thought that might happen tonight, too, and frowned. I’d been let off lightly. Why was that? I felt a pang of guilt as I thought of the messages he’d sent since I left the house. He wasn’t always horrible, I knew. He could be kind and generous, too. Those messages reminded me of the man he’d been when we first got together.

Just then I heard a noise in the corridor and leaned forward, straining my ears. I could hear the fire door that split the corridor slowly shut, and then a thud. I jumped to my feet and threw open the door.

A porter was pushing a drinks cart along to the next room. “Sorry!” he said. “That door’s a nuisance. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”