So I let him enter me for the last time, willing myself not to cry. I let him push into me again and again, arching my back like I usually do, pressing into him and going through the familiar motions. I even make the same noises. The little sighs and gasps. Because I can play-act, too. I have to.

When it’s over, I lie with my back to him, tears flowing silently down my face. I wish I could shower every last molecule of him out of my body.

Except I can’t, can I? I’m carrying his baby. Our baby.

My baby. My little girl. I place my hand protectively on my tummy and tell myself to be strong for her sake. Under my bed is a canvas tote bag I packed earlier, with my purse, my old house keys, the meds I found in my rucksack, and a change of clothes. There are so many other things I’d like to take with me, but the most important thing is to get away. As fast as I can, unencumbered by possessions that will only slow me down.

As soon as I think it’s safe, I’ll get up and creep downstairs. Change into my jeans and jumper, grab my coat from the hook, and get the hell out of here as fast as I can.

50

All the time Catherine was here, Ross’s sleeping pattern was badly disrupted. He’d tossed and turned, sighed and fidgeted. Tonight, though, he falls asleep almost straightaway and is snoring within minutes. Even so, I want to be absolutely sure he’s in a really deep sleep before I venture downstairs.

I ease myself gently into a sitting position and pinch the flesh of my forearm with my fingernails, keep them embedded so that I don’t fall asleep while I’m waiting. I’ll have a nasty bruise in the morning.

Eventually, when I see the rapid movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids, I reach down to the side and slide out the tote bag from beneath the bed. Then I get up carefully and approach the bedroom door, my eyes not daring to leave the sleeping form of Ross, whose right shoulder is sticking out of the duvet. He’s turned away from the door, thank God. I’m glad I can’t see his face.

I depress the handle as quietly as I can and step into the darkness of the landing, my ears pricked for sound—a change in his breathing pattern, the squeak of the mattress. Nothing. I close the door softly.

This is it. I’m going. The next time I return, it’ll be with Mum and Dad, to get the rest of my things.